Writing

Tricoloured pebbles, the sand stepping-stones of a shuffling huddle, or shifting land - a clinking crowd at ground.

Apparently the Valentines gift you buy for your other half depends on the stage your relationship is at.  If you've just met gifts may...

Editing can be a tricky process. In fact, I feel I've only grasped the concept of editing over the last couple of years. Before that, I used to pick, delicately at my writing. These days, I'm more of a hacker.

In festive tale: 'Rewriting Christmas', a cynical writer (Bill) battles with his publisher and self appointed publicist Teri. Teri cracks the whip from behind a polished facade of vanilla lipgloss, spicy perfume and empty air kisses.

He has a gold smile and a bell at his throat. He guards me as I write. He was a present from Japan – a place I have never been to, never will go to. I am no traveller, yet, I am drawn to delicate portrayals of Japanese life: a bridge, a hut, bright flowers.

Dead Nettle, the words have a rattle. Death should not belong to soft lilac, or even the green, wing-like leaves that dress you, coquettish weed.

She assumes her position at the sink, everything greasy from the day's befores. She scrubs at silver insides; the eternal circle from clean to unclean. The water pounds in and she thinks of the river; a rat's tail - just the tail, moving through rushes.

“Now.”The word signals the start of the rescue operation. Leonardo swoops on the foundation, measuring out the exact amount required for each cheek and for Martha's high forehead. He dots, blends and expands, taking the reddish hue from her skin, replacing it with a pale sheen: the mask of Ophelia.

Back Home Mumbles greets, with pop-to-shop chatter, the ping of welcome, the smell of new, Welsh crafted gifts and the slow-down of browse.Home is in the accent, in the dragon on...