On my way to buy a morning paper #72

Sixteen pristine, two-thirds finished dog-ends

on the path beside the railings round the pub

from which I straightaway concoct

a late-night, muttered, intense and distressed conversation.

Chapter 15

In between Mantel and McIlvanney
I'm trying to write a conversation
using my voice.

Satisfaction

Turning the tumble of too-fleeting words in my head
to eight hundred words on the screen -
and all before breakfast -
means the rest of the day should be good.

New writer

Oh the joy -the sheer unadulterated heart- and gut- and brain-lifting joy - to open a book by a new writer and know, within the first couple of (very short) paragraphs, that this is going to be a good one.

[Karen Campbell - Len Wanner's incisive inteview of her, one of many he did with Scottish crime writers, in 'Dead Sharp', led me to think I would like her writing ... so not too much writing from me today ...]

Influence

Awaiting Amazon’s delivery

of the next Mark Billingham

I begin A.L. Kennedy's 'Paradise';

immediately feel altered impact

and glad I resisted Pride and Predj.

Decision time

A need, next week, to write, not type, sets me to wondering what’s best.

I like the fine convenience of propelling pencils
but words too quickly smudge to illegible.
Asked my daughter, who recommends fine-liner felt tips,
remember that roller balls can be so smooth,
and that biros are best not the cheapest 
and realise I need to go to Staples.

Not a silver lining, but a red?

Last night’s spilled wine, imperfectly wiped,

a pattern of alarm on the carpet

and an illustrated tale