On our last day together, my students gave me flowers. …
I read this amazing picture book the other day. …
If you like ghost stories, …
The other day, I went to town. I mean this in an actual as well as figurative sense.
Whenever I leave my beloved mountain village to go to the Big Smoke, I like to indulge myself just a little.
My favourite haunt is a famous book shop with a whole section devoted to books on writing. (It also has a great cafe with booths that feel as though you are in a private room.)
The last thing I need is another book on writing — I have about 50 already —but there’s no harm in drooling over them, surely.
Such as this one like a bumper colouring book only with writing prompts and exercises. Or
which is an appealing idea but I’m not sure I am committed enough. Then there’s
which opens with the idea that to write is a verb. It requires action. This makes sense.
To collect is another verb. I collect books about writing.
To browse is another verb. You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?
Collecting books about writing doesn’t make me a writer. It just makes me a collector.
If I want to be a writer, I must write.
Sigh. It’s so simple really.
By the way, I didn’t buy any of the above but it’s good to have a wish list prepared, in case anyone asks.
What writing books are on your wish list?
I’m thrilled that my poem Dad’s Night to Cook was recently published on Australian Children’s Poetry Website. This is one of my favourite websites and well worth a visit if you’d like to read poems by Dianne Bates, Bill Condon, Jenny Erlanger, Kate O’Neil and many more.
Perhaps you’d like to contribute.
Hope you have fun.
I feel like a bit of a fraud. …
I finished reading Hester and Harriet. It was one of those long weekend indulgences: I binge on books in the same way others binge on chocolate. …
At last, a story where older women take centre stage. Apart from Miss Marple, that is. …
I’ve just discovered another wonderful author. …
The Hawkesbury was a lovely river, wide and calm, the water dimply green, the cliffs golden in the sun and white birds roosting in the trees like so much washing. It was a sweet thing of a still morning, the river-oaks whispering and the land standing upside down in the water.
Sarah Thornhill, Kate Grenville.
In this sequel to The Secret River, Sarah is the youngest child of William Thornhill. As a girl, she is aware that a terrible secret underpins the apparent normality of her family life. It has something to do with her brother, Dick, cast out and unwilling to bear the family name. Sarah resolves to find out why. …