Fox on a Boat

" Somewhere in a parallel universe, I have written a blog post about my amazing evening with Tom Hardy ." Today was fairly typical. I woke up early, spent the next thirty minutes grumbling about the noise downstairs and yelling at my cat to stop going in and out of my room and pushing the door wide open each time, only to get up 5 minutes after everyone had left and the house was silent. Not all of us have the luxury of deep sleep and staying in bed all day. Got dressed. Fed cat. Dragged myself to the station. And so the day crawled along. Sometime later, I had a little time to read the newspaper, and delightfully discovered that there was a film première tonight, Tom Hardy would be there, and if I cut out the ad and took it along, I could enter the VIP fan lounge! (Or something like that.) See, I'd already met Tom Hardy at the Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy première, and soon after decided I quite liked him. This was confirmed when I watched TTSS, and again after watching Inc...

There's the sky above, the ground underneath, and in between? A million thoughts swimming around. Yet, even with all of that, I can't think of what to write about. I tend to over-think, I analyse, philosophise.. When I say analyse, I don't mean mathematically, scientifically.. A lot of the time it's much more about emotions and reactions, meanings and relationships and everything that links them.. Consequently it can be rather tiring, and not necessarily conclusive. Questions with no real answers. Sometimes it's not even questions I ask myself, I just think, it's a little difficult to explain, I don't necessarily do it knowingly. With all these millions of fluttering thoughts and ideas generated constantly, combined with my love for writing, I often feel I want to get things down on paper. Or a computer screen. The funny thing is I sometimes have that insatiable desire to write, it's almost physical, but then I sit down to write and I just have no i...

Edward Thomas was born on the 3rd of March 1878 in Brixton, Lambeth and was an Anglo-Welsh writer of prose, turning to poetry only in 1914 after being encouraged to do so by Robert Frost, whom he met in 1913, and was to become very close to. So close, in fact, that he would become, in Thomas's eyes, the "saviour" he had once prophesied would help him: "I feel sure that my salvation depends on a person, and that person cannot be Helen [his wife] because she has come to resemble me too much." Edward Thomas reviewed books and was a respected biographer and literary critic, often reviewing up to 15 books every week, and spending many hours a day writing to earn enough to feed his family. He thought that poetry was the highest form of literature, and wrote his first five poems between the 3rd and 7th of December 1914, writing a total of 140 poems in just two years. In the summer months, as the war began, Thomas began to think of more than just poetry. As he walked...

I am not a writer. Let me explain. I've always loved writing, but I'm not a *writer*, I had fantasies as a kid that I would write a book. No less. In fact I told everyone I'd be an author when I grew up. It is well known that growing up also involves killing dreams. I am not a writer, and do not have a novel in me, I simply do not have a story to tell. I wanted to be wrong, I really did. This November I set out to do Na-No-Wri-Mo: National Novel Writing Month. It sounds rather simple: write 50,000 words in a month. New material, do not continue on a previous novel. I did not have a previous novel to be working on anyway, so I did start fresh. Well I am 36,000 words in and this novel is complete literary trash, no kidding. I have a sort of plot, rather vague and boring, the subplots are mundane if not nonexistent, I add lots of unnecessary description to feel as if my novel is growing, but quite honestly, it's just not. It's bits of writing here in there, hardly any ...