Pete Hartley: sometime dramaturg, perennial scribbler
The Talents of Mr McGarrigle There's the unique; then there's the resplendently unique; and then there's the regeneratively unique. The latter kind of uniqueness is one that continuously reforms itself without losing the integrity of its unparalleled state. The Talents, a work of literature by Carl McGarrigle, is one such creation. Here's the elevator pitch … Continue reading Tick-Wok
Bracken rules the carrion roost. He’ll hide any cadaver. He’ll launder immoral earnings. He’ll raise an army. He’ll muster rebels. He’ll occupy territory.
Blog 101. After four years of blogging and one hundred posts, which scribblings were the most popular with readers and which were ignored? Which compositions were the most satisfying to share and which were the most uncomfortable to reveal?
Twelve tips to kick-start creativity and keep it flowing.
Ten years of self-publishing. Was is worth it? The carpentry of writing and sitting next to candle makers at markets.
Father and son discuss nature, nurture and the curse of creativity. Is storytelling in the blood? Plus where the weirdest ideas come from, where Guinea Pigs should never go, and the meerkats of the mind.
The most popular uneasywords of 2019 Another year of blogging done. Here, in reverse order, are the most popular uneasywords posts of 2019: At number 9 is a post from November 2018 explaining how the paintings of Jack Vettriano inspired a musical theatre show: Swinging with the Singing Butler. Number 8 is also … Continue reading Nine from ‘Nineteen
A ghost story for Christmas The bike growled as if in warning as he released his grip on the throttle. He braked gently expecting ice on the high moorland road. Freezing fog that night, the weatherman had said, and fog there was, and Mike was too wise to doubt the other part of the prophesy. … Continue reading Pillion
When my wife had a significant birthday several years ago, my gift to her was a DNA test. I’m an incorrigible romantic. Seriously, it was what she most wanted. Almost a decade later, she returned the favour and bought me one. It turns out we are related. We’ve got the same mother.
(Extracted from Will at the Tower) Will rubbed the ache from his eyes. He could remember nothing of the night. The mattress beneath him was coarse and sank sharp shards into his naked back. The sunlight seared across the ceiling rebounding off the lime wash. There were no familiar scents in the air, but the … Continue reading Sigh no more
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