A writer writes…

When I woke up during last night, from the window I could see the silhouette of the oak at the bottom of our neighbour’s garden. It loomed as a maze of branches, grey shadows between them. That image describes where I am this morning with my writing. Generally...

This writer is reading…

Several years ago I began writing a novel in which a woman driving her daughter to a party crashed the car. Her daughter was killed and she disabled. A friend recommended that I read *Louise Doughty’s Whatever¬†You Love. It was an emotional read,¬†beautifully...
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