So You Want to Be a Playwright?

I’ve been trying to curb my  frenetic writing to get some order to what I do. The result has been that I’ve finished translating and doing a first edit of my children’s theatre play. I’m not sure I’m happy with the result but it’s now been sent for an initial assessment. The first hurdle toward the play being produced has been cleared.

While I prepared for the edit, I started reading So You Want to Be a Playwright? by Tim Fountain. It’s been really helpful and I can recommend reading it if you are planning to or are writing a play. Without overloading with details and writing exercises, it goes through Fountains own process from starting to write until finished production. There are lots of handy advice and you can absolutely have it next to you as you work through different stages of the play.

So now I try to get back to my short-story. I still debate whether I will go straight for self-publishing or whether I should try all the literary magasines and online writer’s sites to see if anyone is interested. I find the process of sending out your material to be very time consuming, not that self-publishing is not, but at least I’m in control of what’s happening. Maybe any of my fellow writers have another view on this?

Back to writing…


When We’ve Become Strangers

Street art. Picture taken in Pisa.

It saddens me to think

that one day you

will grow in to the man

you’re supposed to be.

You will become

that awesome person

I have glimpsed you

have the potential for.

But by that time,

I will no longer be around

to witness your bloom.

Someone else will

get to marry you

and have your children.

Someone else will

cheer you on in your

musical endeavours

or whatever else you chose

to direct your talents to.

By then, you will be

someone I used to know,

while I,


will have reached

my full potential and

live happily wherever

it is I am meant to end up.

Tracing a Red Line – flash fiction

She hated the scar that ran in a red straight line between her breasts. No matter what she wore, the scar was still as red against her otherwise olive toned skin. Every time she saw it, she felt the fear of that day; how she had had to fight the urge of uncontrollable anxiety. The hospital with its unfamiliar smells and sounds that only increased her discomfort. Hospitals can still bring out a fear bordering on panic.

He loved to run his finger long the scar, so blessed that she was still alive and a part of his life.