I was reading Martina's diary today (damn you Martina, for being so damned good with words!), and this sentance struck me as fabulous:

Victoria gets lost in this mist. It fills in all the sidewalks like pollyfilla.

She's so fucking good at writing fiction; I'm damned jealous, you better believe it. I try to craft words, but it never comes out quite like hers does, with apparent smooth ease.

Then again, I don't like writing fiction. I like writing fantasy. But there's more of a market for fiction, I think, so I'm really going nowhere with my writing.

But I like it. And that's what counts.

"Rosie, instead of phoning us when you're bored, why don't you write?"

"Yes, dad, but I phone you guys after I'm bored of writing."

"Hmm. That works, I guess."

.

Rosie.

Before&After