The alley was lit up by the street lights at either end, wide and empty, save for a solitary busker. I found her, upon exiting the pub, already in the midst of performing aloud to no one in particular. With just a hat on the ground in front of her she sang, with a voice that felt too old for her form as if it had been aged by hard living, the single most stirring rendition of Cab Calloway’s Minnie the Moocher that I’ve ever heard.
Writing is simple. First you have to make sure you have plenty of paper… sharp pencils… typewriter ribbon. Then put your belly up to the desk… roll a sheet of paper into the typewriter… and stare at it until beads of blood appear on your forehead. – Jeff MacNelly This blog is officially on hiatus [...]
When all you know of a man is his writing, whether technical editorial or literary, you begin to think of that man as his authorial voice. That’s the only material you have out of which to construct the image.
I am a galley slave to pen and ink.– Honore de Balzac Everlasting grey, the cloak and mantle of god laid out forever in all directions. Long since the sun set the clouds swallowed up the moon’s light and cast an eerie shadow. Rays of frosted moonlight trickled down through every crack and crevice of [...]
The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.–Ecclesiastes Chapter 1, Verse 9 I am suffering now from the bane of all writers. A diabolical psychological condition that can render a man’s career [...]
