Writers dreaming

A few nights ago I had a dream about a staff, a stile and a horrid dark dank dungeon. There was a woman in the dungeon and I knew she was going to torture me. When she poured liquid on my face, I accepted my fate: that I was doomed. The only way out of […]

The open road

I awoke this morning with an image in my mind of a grey motorway opening up before me, never ending; of driving into this nothingness, of silence, emptiness, freedom. I was reminded of The Hours by Michael Cunningham: of his mother-character, Mrs Brown, who takes off one afternoon in her car, leaving her toddler with […]