No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Author's Note: This novel covers the 2016 national and international political scene from the perspective of the North East of England, using these events a backdrop for a young man's coming of age and initiation into the world of politics.
Whenever I sit down to write something new, there’s always a voice in my head warning me that I need to be mature and sensible, otherwise no-one’s going to think that I’m an adult or, even worse, a real writer.
The basal rosette of the flower is heavily wrinkled and the leaves have a dentate margin. The slender stem bears the delicate flower--a heterostylous hermaphrodite. My specimen is a pin flower waiting to be fertilized by a thrum flower. I glue it to the page.
The room was flash Las Vegas. Almost a Trumpian conception of what is “class.” A misunderstanding of subtlety and context. Trying hard to downplay the glitz of its location, there were low-key accents of earth tone and a touch of pastel here and there. Perhaps a nod to the implied garishness of the place itself. Then there were the artifacts of gold, which had no real explanation other than it was perhaps designed to give the room an air of luxury. Ashtrays, statues, lamps, tables, all trimmed with gold.
At times I find it difficult to write about these things because it seems so close yet at the same time far away and surreal. I plod on in search of character and plot that blend seamlessly to tell stories of plain truth that come with the destructive and dangerous behavior of my characters.
I threw a house-warming party. It was a mild evening and I opened the windows in the sitting room. A smell of pepperoni wafted up from the pizza place a few doors down. About a dozen people came. I invited Simon, but he was ghosting me.