Remember My Name and Other Stories

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I hope so.

And now, a new idea just occurred to me. How about…The Pest from the West? Unfortunately writing and flying commitments are currently syphoning off almost all my free time, so I am left with a one hour window whilst sitting on a flight between Edinburgh and London to share my thoughts. And to take Instagram worthy photos of early morning cemeteries.

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‘David Crosby: Remember My Name’ Review: A Stirring Rock-Nostalgia Doc – Variety

The joy of knowing this could keep me happy forever. Or pull your tail. Or both. These people can smell good news a mile off. Especially at 1. The last two points are not entirely unconnected. A selection of tea bags, a creased city guide, and a wall-mounted fan heater, do not a luxury hotel experience make. Never travel without my pillow. A breeze block in linen is not a substitute, are you hearing me Mercure hotels? Finding the funny and giving kids something to laugh at is more important now than ever. One hour of flying combined with an hour writing.

Details add interest, but too many, and your story becomes swamped; too few, and your story feels empty. Details can bring a story to life; they can add authenticity; used well, they can transport the reader onto the page, and beyond. I might not need it now; I might not need it next year. But the detail is there, waiting for its turn to be used.

I currently have no plans to write a story set in the medieval Scottish Borders historical fiction authors have nothing to worry about just yet , but on a day out last week to expand my acquaintance with Scotland, I found myself swamped with exciting snippets of history to hoover up and empty out later into my notebook. Melrose Abbey is a fantastic old ruin. It gains bonus points for having a sole surviving spiral stair to the top of a tower which offers dizzying views and close encounters with pained-looking gargoyles; it gains more for the absorbing details it shares about the life of its medieval retinue of Cistercian monks.

Likewise, people — ungallant, treasonous people — often wonder how the Queen deals with those prolonged visits and royal functions. Reader, follower, lover of fine historical detail, I give you the medieval, male, portable urinal:. And there were a lot of those. Eight trips to the hassock in all, beginning at 2am with matins , following which came lauds , prime , terce , sext , nones , vespers and compline , after which the monks would retire for the night. With that many devotions to attend, imagine how grateful they would be to have to hand a convenient, transportable, personal urinal.

Still, probably preferable to the communal latrines. Who would have thought a wee trip to the Borders would have turned up such an intriguing and interesting item? Writer Status: Impatient, nervous and a little bit stressed. Pretending not to be all of the above. Of course not. The aim is to get the whole draft completed as soon as I can. But of course, this writer still needs a break from the… er… stress of writing. My husband is currently assisting his parents with a house move from the family home of thirty-five years. There are inconsistencies aplenty, none of which would jar with a young reader.

We know too much. We can only lament the loss of innocence. This is a story about the evils of unconstrained capitalism and supposed progress. Yes, even a picture book can deal with the heavy-weight subjects.

Justin Davies. Writer. Welcome aboard. Please remember, your nearest story may be behind you.

This is also a story about the triumph of hope when all seems lost. It is a story about escape. From those that would destroy that which you have worked for. Escape from a world gone mad and bad. Escape from the disappointments and strain of life. Actually, it might be about escaping from life itself. Our friends end by building an ingenious stairway to the sky, which can only be a metaphor for the final journey. At least, in my mind he does.

Naturally, we can make of this story whatever we will. Thought upon thought. Plot upon plot. Names upon names. So many ideas — some good, most bad — that the weight of them threatened to bring the pin-board crashing down. And yet…. Carefully, almost forensically, I began lifting edges of post-its and scraps of paper, peering hopefully under layer upon layer, month upon month of hastily scrawled moments of inspiration.

A kind of foolscap archaeology; leafing through the recent past of my writing. Eventually, I found the name I was looking for. I also found other names. Character names; street names; house names. And plot ideas. And spanners to throw in the works. And motivations. I made it to the end of that chapter and then downed tools. Time for action. To order my thoughts I needed to bring order to the chaos in front of me.

A quick click here, a double-click there, and a double-quick delivery later, my new, super-sized, super-smart, and super-empty pin-board arrives. Down comes the old. Who knows what marvels lie beneath that 70s flock? And so to my new pin-board. Is this how great artists feel when presented with a blank canvas? Did Picasso have a moment of hesitation as he contemplated a new masterpiece?

I know did. How to order my post-its? Do I place my ideas horizontally, vertically, or inspirationally in a circle? I finally have a well-ordered, easy-on-the-eye and brain , useful pin-board. Ideas found with a single glance. Place names located with a flick of an eye. Plot twists remembered in seconds, not hours; remembered at all, in fact. Yes, my pin-board upgrade might have taken all afternoon to complete, and who knows what I might have written in those hours?

Search Home About Privacy. Are you ready? You might, for example, have chosen the following: 1: Handmaid. Share this: Twitter Facebook.

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  5. Entonces vivo, porque muero, cuando (Spanish Edition).
  6. Remember My Name and Other Stories – Stephen Connolly Writer!

Like this: Like Loading I felt intensely protective of Margot, and of the readers who identified with her, and, at the same time, I felt like an impostor. I felt as though if I were truthful about who I was, I would let everyone down.

Baby Remember My Name: An Anthology of New Queer Girl Writing

So what was it like to have a story go viral? A torrent of unvarnished, unpolished opinion was delivered directly to my eyes and my brain. The story was not autobiographical, but it was, nonetheless, personal—everything I write is personal—and here were all these strangers dissecting it, dismissing it, judging it, fighting about it, joking about it, and moving on. I want people to read my stories—of course I do. But knowing, in that immediate and unmediated way, what people thought about my writing felt. To be faced with all those people thinking and talking about me was like standing alone, at the center of a stadium, while thousands of people screamed at me at the top of their lungs.

Not for me, at me. I guess some people might find this exhilarating. I did not. For people with low-level social anxiety, a common piece of conventional wisdom is that you should stop worrying so much about what other people think, because no one is actually thinking about you. Almost everyone we encounter thinks about us. Bad hair, they think, as they pass us on the street. Annoying voice.

Nice legs. Gummy smile. Stained shirt. She looks like my third-grade teacher. Why is she taking so long to order her coffee? I hate her stupid face. The problem is not that other people think about us but that their thoughts are so flattening, so reductive in comparison to our own complicated view of ourselves. Here I am, having this irreducible and mysterious set of human experiences, and all you think when you encounter me is, Her hair is weird.

The writer discusses “Cat Person,” her short story in this week’s issue of the magazine.

Many horror stories revolve around this theme: if we could eavesdrop on all the quick, dismissive thoughts that other people were having about us, we would go insane. We are simply not meant to see ourselves as others see us. You can think, Dumb, or Boring, or Great, or, She looks like a bitch in her author photo, or, What the fuck did I just read? My role in the process is over. But, more than that, I want people to read it. I hope they like it. Another piece of conventional wisdom is that what other people think about us is none of our business.

Remember My Name and Other Stories Remember My Name and Other Stories
Remember My Name and Other Stories Remember My Name and Other Stories
Remember My Name and Other Stories Remember My Name and Other Stories
Remember My Name and Other Stories Remember My Name and Other Stories
Remember My Name and Other Stories Remember My Name and Other Stories
Remember My Name and Other Stories Remember My Name and Other Stories
Remember My Name and Other Stories Remember My Name and Other Stories
Remember My Name and Other Stories Remember My Name and Other Stories

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