Dialogue in its purest form is a means of communication, whether written or spoken. In literature, it’s the technique that depicts two or more characters engaged in a conversation. We use Dialogue in writing, the same way we use speech in real life, to show ourselves or characters. Telling a
When I try and describe the function of language, I’m reminded, by the younger me who dreamt of attending Hogwarts, by the words of the late great Albus Dumbledore. ‘Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.’ I intend to cause
Wildebeest roam free in peace As cheetahs feel dust beneath their feet Buffalo stampede, leopards sleep in trees Lions seek the breeze more than they eat Zebras dance together with giraffes Roads carved out as elephants advance The silence of crickets whistling in grass It’s music to your ears
So, this year I’ve posted 68 poems, which is more than expected looking back considering I post them under the category Poem of the Week. However, when I first started blogging, I posted far more poetry than any other content. Now, I like to talk about writing, specifically my writing.
Today marks three years since I started writing my novel. Well, it’s three years since I began tracking my progress. Well, today marks the day I first acknowledged the writing process. I actually started thinking about it sometime in November after a drink with a friend. And although I still
I hate the repetitive melodies of tolling bells and lacklustre lyrics of Christmas songs. I hate tinsel, dangling from plastic trees and draped across the ceiling like Poundland chandeliers. I hate Christmas films, Brussel sprouts, and I’ll never understand the significance of holly. And if one more shoves a piece
If finding a poorly crafted, cheesy pop song An irritating rash as the world sings along Set to a background of tacky shiny tinsel Draped across the ceiling, shining superficial As fake plastic trees, illuminate the corner Wrapped up debt spilling out from its borders As a distant stranger’s thoughts
We writers are a strange bunch indeed. It’s in the job description, to have an imagination more varied than anyone considers normal. Bedside’s who wants to be normal. It’s a dull life where nothing really happens. We need that little voice of insanity to pull us from the drool of