There comes a time during every Harry Potter movie marathon when you realise that you wish you were like a particular character. For me, this character is Luna Lovegood. She is a total mystic child of the moon, and I wish I had her lightness, self-assurance and insight.
There is an epidemic in our beautiful little country. New Zealand, despite its idyllic status, has one of the highest youth suicide rates in the OECD. Last year, 668 Kiwis from our small population took their own lives.
Has anyone else just started NaNoWriMo? I can’t help but wonder if the main reason behind this activity is simply to prove that writers are insane by trying to write 50,000 words in the month of November. Despite this obvious madness, writers still seem to be doing this in droves.
What is great is that for the first time in my life I’m considered a “rebel”. Who would have thought that writing boring old non-fiction would ever be considered a rebellious activity? Continue reading
I am in search of a miracle. I always have been. Perhaps you are too? Even in some quiet way, like an awareness of a long-forgotten wish, hanging off you in wisps during those quiet moments.
What is the miracle I seek? There are many. But the first is that you will join me on this journey of words and at the end you will find your own miracles.
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Some days in life are awesome – things flow smoothly and you are on your game. Other days it quickly becomes apparent that you should have stayed in bed.
I’m having a stay-in-bed day today. My mother calls them “non-days”.
What is so bad about today? Well, I think a mouse has died in the wall by my bed, I have a relentless case of the hiccups, my brain has the mental capacity of a jar of peanut butter, and I actually have no idea what day of the week it is.
Every writer knows that writing is an act of choice. There is a moment during the mundanity of the morning, when you glimpse a movement out the corner of your eye, and you know that the fairies have arrived. Despite any plans that you had for your day, you must write the words they give you, lest they drive you nuts, or worse, go away and take with them that feeling of magic that writing from that place brings.
I have discovered the true purpose of my cat: to bring me the world of nature when I am unable to go outside myself. Whether it be the smell of fresh soil on her paws, a layer of early morning fog on her fur, or a cicada in her mouth, she seeks to share with me her excitement about the joys of the garden
It is a dark and stormy morning (sorry Snoopy). It is days like these that I like to write. There is something cosy about letting your imagination go while the raindrops run down the windowpane and the house creaks in the wind. My hot chocolate and I feel so safe here, despite the surrounding whirlwind of clouds and ideas.
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Every Monday I wind the pendulum clock in the lounge. Perhaps my husband’s grandmother used to do the same thing – six turns of the key. Often our lives continue like this – regular, filled with casual rituals, and a mundane safety.
My mother asked me today if I would like a life-size polystyrene giraffe — she has one in her basement. How do you answer a question like that?
