Nanowriwon’t, or how my life conspires to prevent me from writing…

Okay, it’s morning. I’m awake, perky, eager for the writing demons to take over my head and heart and fingertips and maybe even help me type without the need for constant correction. It works best if I don’t look at what I’m typing, so I can’t see the wiggly red lines under everything. Why, oh…

Solitude, flavoured by wine

What is it about solitude that is so enhanced by a glass of red wine, a slice of melted cheese, some really good bread, dipped lightly in olive oil and vinegar? Something about the savouriness of the repast, simple though it is, moves aloneness from loneliness to solitude. The slight shock of the wine on…