As writers today, we live in a world of self-promotion, where the lines between self-confidence and self-delusion seem to me to have blurred a bit too much for my liking. In the new cut-throat world of the independent artist we are expected to sell ourselves and do it with swagger. Our potential paymasters and collaborators like a bit of swagger. Continue reading
It’s the final of the 2014 World Cup today. (There’s an opening sentence that could turn away a few potential new readers.) For neutrals, the choice is between supporting Germany or Argentina. From the four teams in the semi-final, the options were Germany v Argentina; Germany v Netherlands; Brazil v Netherlands; and Brazil v Argentina.
Just prior to the semi-finals I had been mulling over who I would like to see in the final, and why. And here, I have to explain that there is childish grudgery and immature prejudice at play that I must admit to now, in advance, before things get ugly. Continue reading
I began my fascination with writers as a boy, particularly during the period when I lived in Borth, on the west coast of mid-Wales. For no reason that I can think of, I found photographs of authors at work thrilling. Invariably in black and white, theirs was a mysterious, magical world – where make believe began. An old desk. Usually a typewriter, but sometimes just paper and an elegant fountain pen. Perhaps a pipe. And in my favourite ones – a panama hat. Continue reading