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Over the two weeks, I didn’t watch any of the tennis. A yearly sport that I grew up watching and enjoyed most of my life, now it seemed all the...

'We are happy here, Sarah, aren't we, just the two of us. I don't know what I'd do without you.' 'Yes, Mum, you mustn't worry about anything.' No,...

It’s Bastille Day. All across France, sausages sizzle on supermarket grills, fireworks crack like toy guns in the evening sky, and municipal...

Having had a go at writing a few things in the last couple of months, I have come to the conclusion that I can only think in scenes . Completely disjointed scenes pop into my head, and play themselves out in colour and in great detail, like an excerpt from a film. I have no idea what happened before, or what will happen after, and no context. But there it is in my head, self-contained and very real. So I write it as best I can, and polish it up as best I can, and there I have it – a story bead. I will have to write more, related, beads which I can then string together into a necklace called a proper story. But of course this means writing the string, and this is where I feel I come unstuck. I don't find it at all natural, or easy, to have a whole story line in my head before I start. Of course, I could go along with the 'see where my characters take me' way of doing things, but then you run the risk of inconsistency, because something you want your characters to do further down the line contradicts what they did earlier. (Consistency is really important to me, I get grouchy with authors who are sloppy about it, and when someone's made you grouchy they've lost your attention.) Anyway, here's my latest bead. No idea what came before, or what will come after, although there are some hints (I hope). Perhaps not all has gone well with Mr Branston...

When Dad got Leukemia, he put up a fight. He took chemo but lost his battle 12 years ago tonight. After months of taking chemotherapy, he died. He...

An Expression Of Celtic Dreaming By Paul McCann Within our subconsious mind there are these escape hatches on the mystical pathway , That is where we...

[Continuing the hymn-for-Sundays series] Estrangement, distance, alienation, suspiciousness between each nation; in family, and friendships’ strain:...

The Busker’s Fairytale By Paul McCann The crowd walked along through Buskers Lane like a passing parade . I stood there like before them, a man with...