Imagine a sponge. It goes through these wet and dry cycles. If you let the sponge stay wet and never dry it, it becomes mouldy. If you never let the sponge get wet, it’s useless. Writing is all about cycling your inner sponge. It needs to get sopping wet, ready for you to squeeze (write) out everything you can. This squeezing (writing) is where the sponge becomes dry. You then stop squeezing (writing) and go about wetting the sponge again (living life) so it’s ready for the next squeeze.

Firstly, the Rules

If you’ve not seen the building before, you aren’t allow to search it up on the web. You must try and find it only through the photos! Google after!

The Western Pavilion: Found!

I stumbled upon this building as Lianne and I were walking from the shop where I bought my first ever mango. The building, much like the mango, is delicious. It is much like the Royal Pavilion with its Onion Dome, only, unlike its elder sister, it has a single dome. This dome is what I spotted...

Supine on the comfy rococo chaise longue, Satori rested his head and closed his eyes. His robes flowed freely.

‘So,’ his therapist, a Doctor Kurutta said, her voice soft and trusting, ‘you think you’re a Zen monk?’

Satori rose sharply, slapped the coffee table which sat between them, and yelled, ‘But I am a Zen monk!’

HO HO HO, Motherfuckers!

Nick woke from a heady dream of elfs and candy canes and something called a ‘snow-ball-in-the-bauble.’ He snapped on a magic-lamp and the bedroom filled with a glittery light. He stared long and hard at his fluffy red coat—lazily draped over his Big Boy Armchair—but resolved to not put it on; he wanted to feel the cold of the Lapland on his skin today. He kissed his sleeping wife and slunked out from bed, naked as a jay-bird, snapping his fingers, and therefore the lamp, back off.
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‘Tell me what punch means?’

‘Punch?’

‘Uh huh,’ Sachiko says, drawing long and hard on her velvet-silk-synthetic cigarette. ‘Tell me.’
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Satori was giggling 🤭 with the koi fish 🐠 when Kenshō, his wise and enlightened master, threw a stone—or what Satori perceived as a stone—into the pond. The fish 🐠 swam away most probably angry 😡.

He drinks from the well of Infinte Wisdom,
his cup no larger than his hand.
Sip, sip, sip, he goes, exploring this new and unfathomable land.

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That shit is nitrous oxide for whatever the fuck assigns meaning and squeezes thoughts to your conscious mind.
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‘Kensho!’ barked Satori. ‘What are you doing?’

Kensho opened one eye and peered at his friend. ‘Are you stupid?’

‘Your back isn’t straight, your palms are open and up, and I know you aren’t focusing on your breath because when you do I can hear it in your nostrils.’

Kensho shrugged. ‘I am lost in thought.’

‘That’s no good.’

‘No.’
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When does the writing shift from fun to work? Pretty much as soon as I start writing. Sometimes, if I’m not sleep-deprived, the writing is good and comes with little resistance. But more often than not there is a struggle.
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I have just reached 50,000 words for the 3rd draft of The Intermediates! I’ve written this book thrice! But have never gotten this far before. I can officially call it a novel now. It’s still not done! I think It might clock in around 60,000. I thought I’d document this.

I sometimes hate what I write. Then I remember that when someone reads it for the first time they are experiencing it for the first time too. You’ve experienced it for the one thousandth time. That original idea or concept; that funny line; the scene that brought you to tears. All of that is fresh for your first time reader. I think it’s important to remember that.

I’ve found that when I sit down to write I like to have a target. It helps me focus. When I’ve got to get to work I usually only have two or three hours and I tend to accept whatever I get written in that time as my day’s worth of writing. On my days away from work it’s much different. I’ve got the time to spend five or more hours on writing. If the objective were just write until you are bored or write until you can no longer afford the time, I find I lose motivation.
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I’ve recently been rereading some of my old stories, some of which are over two years old. Back then I rarely edited. The thing that strikes me the most is how often I forgot to ‘place the reader firmly on the ground.’
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