Until relatively recent history no one knew that across the Tigress and written on tablets of baked clay buried within a mound in Nineveh, in what is modern-day Iraq, lay the oldest written piece of literature on Earth.
My first memories belong to the surreal landscape of childhood. Cushioned in tenderness, they flicker a blurred reel of mango trees, mud pies and mosquito screens. Occasionally, through the fuzz, concrete moments come into focus. For me, the first of those is the imprint of a rainy afternoon in a library. Inside this memory, I …
If you type ‘Do writers have spirit animals?’ into Google the first two words will lead one into predictable territory
I’m neither the first writer to think about dreams nor the first thinker to write about them but access is critical to creativity.