"You’ve got to look for little things that connect you. Use an archive of your own experiences to inform a story."
The little silver box lay dormant. It's static quite static and no microcosm leapt from its concave surface.
I almost expect Barbie to walk in and join her.
The Zombie culture is everywhere and it's not making me happy.
That, in essence, is what lies at the very base of writing. Beyond the courage, caution, vision, precision, truth, kindness and sometimes the pink-faced grappling…To truly believe the words on your page.
It is still an odd thing to go into an area just because it is disadvantaged when you would not necessarily do the same thing with a wealthy suburb.
They will very likely ask if it is real. The answer, "Yup. This is bonafide red straight from my grandad".
I have been told that it is often the 2nd paragraph that really gets a story going, the first being a buffer zone that, if cut out, you will arrive at where you really want to start your story.
Here's something normal, going on a taxi. I'm not referring to a cab with the driver's number on it. I'm talking about a classic combi - a plain white one that stops on the corner and you hop in. As a white South African, taking a taxi has become something of a taboo. This doesn't mean … Continue reading Just take a taxi
The idea of looking in the mirror begins the piece and is brought round again at the end, which, just like the piece, reflects the world and the ginger life back at you.
It’s the idea that having longer hair makes you more feminine and pretty but that is just someone’s standards.
Apartheid and its ramifications has followed us into our twenties, democracy and mine.
You shriek at the sound of other's misusing you but you did it first.
"Praying ain't about asking for your own way. It's all about talking things over with God, just like you and me are talking things over. In the end, you have to be trusting the Lord to do what's best."
As a woman, being under scrutiny and receiving inappropriate treatment is no rarity but I was shocked.
I have been affected by these stories and the great, understated things they have to share.
Her blue pant suit and sunglasses seemed to be a part of her, almost like she had been born wearing them and chucking spread sheets into folders.
She tapped a few more words into the story she was working on, her chipped and faded fingertips working furiously.
The glass shattered and struck their faces, cutting shreds of flowery linen and cracking vases.
She wouldn’t even look around the room but had her head forward and pen moving across the pages like a lie detector pin, up and down, a frantic doodle of letters and scruffy notes.
That was a difficult one because he had never felt soft in his life but here he was, trying to find a place to put his pride but not knowing there was nowhere to stash it like junk food on leg day (just under his work jacket).
Fresh-faced at the mirror, Melanie ate her KFC through the mist from her shower.
Her hair would be greying now but it would be the same person I shared laughs with on the couch.
Her kind face telling Pen the verses of her faith.
This little girl with flaming locks who had been around about 100 years, was her golden ticket.
He splashed Keryn back and, grabbing the water gun on the deck, Mitch fired with all his might, leaving Keryn a spluttering figure by the steps.
It was breaking point and she would have to wriggle and muster all she could to get back - for the pieces to move together.
His little red face focused on her older, wrinkled one.
It would sit in the crook of her arm and she would hum a hymn as her eyes drooped.
She heard the telltale skid of Vans on linoleum. She saw the quaffed hair and cut-off jean shorts.