I will be reading my story “Leftovers” as part of the Planet Scotland event this Sunday from 20:00-22:00 in Castle 1.
Hope to see you there.
Writers’ Bloc returns to the Edinburgh International Science Festival for The Culture Collider, an exploration of weird science and stranger arts. The show starts at 8pm on Sunday the 13th of April in the Red Lecture Theatre, Summerhall.
I will be reading a new story. Hope to see you there.
So I’m drifting on a sea of sadness and the only way I know how to get out of it is to shove this “too busy for [thing I like to do]” stupidity off the raft.
Last year I didn’t read many books or see many films, so this year I’m aiming to consume 50 of each. Throw your favourites at me in the comments.
And today I decided to add another goal onto that: I want 50 rejection letters for my writing. I’d rather get 50 acceptances, of course, but rejection means I’m submitting stories which means I’m writing stories which means I’m doing what I love. I’ll be tallying it up on my fiction page if you want to follow along.
Yesterday I finished the first draft of my story for Bloc’s show in the Edinburgh International Science Festival. As per usual, my first idea completely morphed into something else. It’s become a pattern: the first idea is the cocoon that turns into the butterfly. Or, in my case, the slipstream moth.
My Bloc pal Bram a/k/a Texture is always creating interesting, evocative stuff. He announced his new poetry video a few weeks ago but I just made the mental space to sit down and appreciate it. I was mesmerised. Tell me what you think. And please share it if you enjoy it.
About ten years ago, I became a zombie. I got better, of course, but it was a scary time for me. (Zombies can feel fear. It’s a revelation, I know.)
About ten years ago, I picked a scab and became a zombie. It was such an innocent, childish thing, that scab-picking, and as a result I contracted a massive staph infection that hung on for months and impacted every aspect of my life.
In fact, it might have been the trigger for my adult-onset celiac disease. It is impossible to know, but since my myriad problems surrounding gluten began shortly after the several courses of antibiotics I had to take to kill off the staph, it is a distinct possibility.
About ten years ago, when I became a zombie, I wrote a lot so I didn’t go insane. It’s one thing to have your body stolen and corrupted, and another entirely to lose your mind too. Something I wrote during that dark time was published this spring in Map Literary. It’s called “Your Hands” and here is an excerpt:
You know the dark continent on the outside of your left ankle. You know its terrain, terrain that must not be touched except with ointment and bandages, terrain that cannot stand to be covered by socks or shoes. You know what lives there, the unseen enemy you fight carefully, gingerly, engaging it in the shower with the high-pressure setting, holding the metal head in your better hand, aiming the boiling water and cringing as it hits.
If you enjoy it, please share it.