The writer next door

Last week, browsing the bookstands at Southbank (yes, again. I have an addiction), I picked up two books by Lillian Beckwith. There are a few names that leap out at me when I’m running my eye over a shelf, and hers is one of them.

Growing up, Lillian Beckwith was our next-door neighbour.  We didn’t know her as Lillian Beckwith. We knew her as Mrs Comber. When we first moved in, my dad mentioned that she was an author, and as a kid who liked to write, that caught my imagination. I honestly can’t remember, looking back, if I wanted to be a writer before we met the Combers, or if knowing them is what made me want to work with words. Continue reading

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This is not a miserable diatribe, but it was close

Oh, hi, I didn’t see you there… no, no, don’t mind me. I’m just noting a few things down. I mean, I fully intended to just send you to other people’s writing this weekend, and not do a complete entry, but that’s a cop out, really, isn’t it? So here, have some of the stuff that’s on my mind. Why the hell not. Continue reading

Stomp

Another Sunday already. We’ve reached that time of year that involves a lot of blankets and wearing gloves to type.  All the running in the world isn’t going to increase my circulation to the point of warmth now we’ve hit November. On the upside, I don’t really need to paint my nails because they’re almost permanently an attractive violet-blue sort of colour. Continue reading