Great advice for those, like me, who are easily distracted
Most writers experience procrastination. It’s so easy to get caught up in all the other things you need/want to do, which leads to putting writing to the side. However, I’ve found that a great way to stop that from happening is to go out and write instead. Here’s why;
No home distractions
Yesterday I tidied and cleaned my home, caught up on some television I’d been wanting to watch, did the laundry…and of course these things are important. But the point is, when you’re at home, you’ll always see the housework that needs doing or the TV you could be watching. Being out, in any good place to write, takes away these other options.
It feels like a treat
Taking yourself to a cosy coffee shop and enjoying a hot drink and a slice of cake is a treat. If you look at it like that it becomes a…
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Another storm forecast. The third today. Sunset was another forty-three hours away so we could expect a few more before the day was out. Hopefully we would be able to get outside and rig the anti-icing screens before dark. Although only a curious form of purple twilight, not truly dark, it wasn’t safe working outside once the sun had gone down. The natives seemed to gather strength at these times and always wanted to make a scene. Their parties were not for me sadly. I preferred to sit in my chamber watching re-runs of old sports games on my telekran. Anyway there was actually some work to do tonight. My discovery on the Carmillion plain today deserved a couple of extra hours. The only difficulty was how to get the news back home during one of the sparse communicator periods. That was when I got what I would call my flash of inspiration. Just like one of those bolts lighting up the mustard-yellow, methane-cloud filled sky. I will lodge a full report in my next telecast.
Sam looked at the trees lining the highway. Varieties that he and his fellow prisoners had uprooted many years before. He knew tears would flow with every mile they covered, with each new memory. Memories of a life passed and lives lost amidst tears, both wasted and wasteful. Tears mixed with sweat-diluted blood. In the blazing, tropical, midday sun, moisture was precious, the guards watching every move, seldom and reluctantly offering water to drink. They had laid the track yard by yard but now he was perversely pleased to see their death railway transformed into the main highway through Burma
Lines across the road,
armed with buckets and torches
to save a species
A good looking girl from Tredare
was employed in the signal box there
while drivers waited at the crossing
they would watch her adjusting her stockings
and if the train was delayed no-one cared.
Fragrant beauty forms
swirling, pastel shaded clouds.
Butterflies in prayer.
As the vote was lost
by such a narrow margin,
Five young gunslingers from Tooting
fed up with the hollering and hooting
so with nothing to lose
but their necks in a noose
should either fight their way out or die shooting
When the cancer struck,
only way to save his speech,
a plastic voicebox.
her by the hand
he led her into the stream,
the crowd began to chant the psalms.