Tapping into a broken neck

Writing

Sensing a sniff of being partly back into the swing-a-ling ding of things. On the tip of a forty minute morning's rush, the spark delivers just under three hundred words for a review of The Hanging Man. Looking down the barrel of a deadline never feels quite right.

Destination: The Brag #161, featuring a cover story on The Presets. Nothing remains on return.

Sweaty palms from last night's walk away from the Yo-Yo Championships in Newtown evident. Fingerprints all over the edge, white lines on red ink. Nothing to do with snatching the copy away from the group reading just a few lines before the train leaves the station.

Soon Van - Tuesday, 30 May 2006 - 12:36

Thoughts...

« Name

« email*

« website*

*Optional and not kept. Read the privacy policy for more.

Previous entries on Writing

• Worship the pagan gods ye fool!
• Death has a sense of selfish humour
• Executing pain in black sands of silence
• The Hills Have Eyes of Frank Hurley
• Returning to the game with Nothing in hand
• Rubbing the face against a sawn plank of wood

Latest from Writing

• Dodging a Duck at the Seymour
• Worship the pagan gods ye fool!
• Death has a sense of selfish humour
• Executing pain in black sands of silence
• The Hills Have Eyes of Frank Hurley
• Returning to the game with Nothing in hand

Order Soon Van

Creativity starves insanity