I’m going over the conversation Olga is having with John now that he is her prisoner.
On the first run through, it seemed to make sense, but as we all know, when you read the conversation out loud, often it sounds terrible.
A question of, “Would I say that?”
Whilst snatching John off the street was a rather simple task, made easier by the fact that he was not expecting it, Olga is not sure whether it is a big act.
Working with Irina has made her wary of everyone and everything, even more so since Irina had left her charge, but she knows just how much Irina has evolved into the Zoe her son tried to keep on a leash, with spectacularly awful results.
Had she been training John to be like her?
Has Sebastian been training John to become a spy, or was he one already? After all, why is someone like John, if he is that reputed computer nerd type, doing with a girl like Irina?
Her preference would have to be someone strong, authoritative, masculine, like Alistair. The problem was that she hadn’t driven out all of the emotions in the time she spent with her.
So, sitting opposite each other, John and Olga try to do their individual assessments.
She finally admits that she doesn’t want to kill Irina, just rehabilitate her.
John, of course, is horrified at the thought of them brainwashing her, especially if they send her after him again.
It comes down to a single point. Will he do as she asks and invite her to come and get him?
What neither of them realises is that Irina already knows where they are, and any plans Olga might have will be useless.
I’m going over the conversation Olga is having with John now that he is her prisoner.
On the first run through, it seemed to make sense, but as we all know, when you read the conversation out loud, often it sounds terrible.
A question of, “Would I say that?”
Whilst snatching John off the street was a rather simple task, made easier by the fact that he was not expecting it, Olga is not sure whether it is a big act.
Working with Irina has made her wary of everyone and everything, even more so since Irina had left her charge, but she knows just how much Irina has evolved into the Zoe her son tried to keep on a leash, with spectacularly awful results.
Had she been training John to be like her?
Has Sebastian been training John to become a spy, or was he one already? After all, why is someone like John, if he is that reputed computer nerd type, doing with a girl like Irina?
Her preference would have to be someone strong, authoritative, masculine, like Alistair. The problem was that she hadn’t driven out all of the emotions in the time she spent with her.
So, sitting opposite each other, John and Olga try to do their individual assessments.
She finally admits that she doesn’t want to kill Irina, just rehabilitate her.
John, of course, is horrified at the thought of them brainwashing her, especially if they send her after him again.
It comes down to a single point. Will he do as she asks and invite her to come and get him?
What neither of them realises is that Irina already knows where they are, and any plans Olga might have will be useless.
The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.
My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.
Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.
So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.
So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.
I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.
And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.
There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’
Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.
But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.
One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.
It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.
I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.
Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.
The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.
Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?
But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.
The Delicate Art of Beta Reading: Who to Trust With Your First Draft (And How to Ask)
Congratulations. You did the impossible. You typed “The End.”
That rush of relief, accomplishment, and sheer terror is the signature cocktail of the first-draft writer. You have a manuscript—a beautiful, messy, wonderful secret—and now you need to expose it to the light.
But who do you trust with your raw, vulnerable creation?
Sending your draft out for feedback is like choosing a mechanic for a car that’s barely held together with duct tape and hope. You don’t need a cheerleader; you need an expert who knows how to spot engine failure. Asking the wrong people can lead to useless praise, crippling negativity, or advice that sends you spiralling down the wrong revision path.
Here is your professional guide on curating the perfect feedback team and asking them the right questions.
Tier 1: The Inner Circle (The Mechanics)
These are the people who will look at the bones of your story. They are not focused on typos or beautiful prose—they are hunting for structural integrity and inherent flaws.
1. The Critique Partner (CP)
Who they are: A fellow working writer. Ideally, someone who writes in your genre or a similar one, and who understands the difference between a first draft and a finished product.
Why you need them: CPs see the craft. They can identify a weak inciting incident, inconsistent character motivation, pacing problems, and major plot holes. They understand the mechanics of story development and won’t confuse their personal preferences with necessary improvements.
The Golden Rule: Choose someone with whom you have an established reciprocal relationship. Critique is a two-way street; you should be dedicated to giving them thoughtful, critical feedback as well.
2. The Professional (The Editor)
Who they are: Someone who understands the publishing industry, perhaps a developmental editor you respect, or a writing coach.
Why you need them: While you might not hire a full developmental editor for your first draft, getting a manuscript evaluation from a professional can save you months of wasted revision time. They offer an objective, market-aware perspective that no friend or spouse can provide.
Tier 2: The Broader Circle (The Target Audience)
Once the structure is sound, you need to know if the book is enjoyable and if it hits the right notes for the people who will actually buy it. This is where you broaden your scope.
3. The Avid Reader
Who they are: Someone who reads 5-10 books per month, specifically in your genre. If you wrote a space opera, they must be a space opera fan. If you wrote gritty domestic suspense, they must devour psychological thrillers.
Why you need them: They represent your market. They are looking purely for the reading experience.
Do the tropes feel fresh?
Is the world immersive?
Did the ending satisfy me as a fan of this type of story?
This group provides essential data on market viability and reader expectations. They don’t care about your comma splices—they care about the emotional arc and the page-turning factor.
4. The “Non-Genre” Neutral Reader
Who they are: A highly literate individual who enjoys good stories but doesn’t necessarily specialise in your genre.
Why you need them: This reader tests the universality of your story. If your narrative relies too heavily on niche terminology or genre conventions, the neutral reader will get lost. If they love the characters, even if they never read Sci-Fi, you know you have something special. Just be careful: if they hate your book, make sure it’s not just because they inherently dislike the genre itself.
The Feedback Blacklist: Who to Avoid Asking
The biggest pitfall for first-time sharers is asking the wrong people—those whose feedback is either too gentle or entirely irrelevant.
Person
Why You Should Avoid Them
Your Spouse/Parents
They love you, not necessarily your draft. They will offer useless kindness that doesn’t help you improve.
People Who Hate Your Genre
They will critique the genre conventions (e.g., “Why did it have dragons?”) rather than your execution (e.g., “The dragons felt unnecessary to the plot.”).
The Overly Critical Coworker
If their feedback is designed to make them feel superior or crush your spirit, it serves no purpose. Seek constructive criticism, not malicious dissection.
Someone Who Doesn’t Read
They won’t understand pacing, structure, or reader expectation. Their notes will likely focus on surface-level issues easily fixed later.
The Secret Ingredient: How to Ask (The Feedback Toolkit)
Sending an email that says, “Tell me what you think,” is a recipe for vague, unhelpful responses. You need to give your readers a job description.
Before sending the manuscript, do three things:
1. Set the Stage (Manage Expectations)
Remind your reader that this is a first draft. It is messy. There are typos. The pacing might be terrible in Act II. This preemptive honesty frees them from trying to be polite about the obvious flaws and allows them to focus on the big picture.
2. Provide Targeted Questions
This is the most critical step. Instead of asking for a general opinion, give them 3–5 specific tasks related to your known weaknesses.
Examples of Targeted Questions:
“Did the protagonist’s actions in Chapter 12 feel consistent with their personality in Chapter 4?” (Testing character arc/consistency)
“Where exactly did you feel the tension drop? (Please mark the page number.)” (Testing pacing)
“Was the antagonist’s motivation clear and compelling, or did they feel like a cliché villain?” (Testing antagonist development)
“As a fan of [Genre], did the opening chapter hook you effectively?” (Testing the entry point/voice)
3. Offer Clear Instructions
Use a common format (Word Doc with Tracked Changes enabled, or Google Docs with Comments). Set a reasonable deadline (4–6 weeks for a novel-length work) and stick to it. If they miss the deadline, move on. Your writing schedule is paramount.
The Final Filter
Once the feedback starts rolling in, the work is not over. Your last, and most important, job is to be the Chief Executive Officer of Your Novel.
Not all feedback is created equal. If one reader hates a scene, but five others loved it, ignore the outlier. If three different people flag the same exact problem (e.g., “The middle section dragged”), you have identified a factual flaw that needs fixing.
Your first draft is an experiment. Feedback is the data. Learn to read the data dispassionately, apply what helps the story, and toss the rest with confidence. Now, take a deep breath, hit ‘send,’ and prepare for the rewrite.
The Well Never Runs Dry: Why You Should Write Even When You’re Empty
There is a pervasive myth in the creative world: the idea that writing is a faucet that must be turned off the moment the water stops flowing. We are told to wait for the “muse,” to respect the “dry spell,” and to stop pushing when the well runs dry.
But here is the professional truth: If you wait for inspiration, you will eventually stop writing altogether.
Professionalism isn’t about waiting for a lightning strike of genius; it’s about showing up to the page when you have absolutely nothing to say. If you struggle with the “Empty Page Syndrome,” here is why you should never stop writing—and how to keep going when the ideas have seemingly evaporated.
1. Writing is a Muscle, Not a Mood
Think of your writing ability like a muscle in the gym. If you only lift weights when you feel “inspired” to be strong, you will never see progress. The days you don’t want to be there are the days that build your endurance.
When you force yourself to write through a period of low inspiration, you aren’t necessarily aiming for a masterpiece. You are building the cognitive stamina required to sustain a career. By showing up, you prove to your brain that writing is a non-negotiable habit, like brushing your teeth or sleeping.
2. The “Bad” Writing is the Foundation
When you force yourself to write without ideas, the result is often messy, clunky, and uninspired. That’s okay. In fact, it’s necessary.
Professional writers understand that you cannot edit a blank page. By writing “bad” words, you are clearing the mental pipes. Often, the act of putting down a terrible sentence acts as a catalyst for a better thought. You have to move the cursor to find the gold. If you stop writing the moment you feel stuck, you never reach the breakthrough that lies just three paragraphs deeper.
3. Ideas are a Result, Not a Prerequisite
We often think: I need an idea to start writing. The reality is: Writing creates the idea.
When you sit down to write, you are engaging in a process of discovery. Your brain doesn’t store ideas in a neat little organized file cabinet; it generates them through the friction of the keyboard. If you sit and wait for the perfect prompt, you will wait forever. If you start typing “I don’t know what to write about today,” you have already started the process of thinking. That movement inevitably leads somewhere.
4. How to Keep Writing When You’re Empty
If you’re staring at a blinking cursor and feeling that familiar drought, try these three strategies:
The “Brain Dump” Method: Don’t worry about structure or audience. Open a document and write down every annoyance, thought, or observation from your morning. It doesn’t have to be a published piece; it just has to be words on a page.
The “Retrospective” Approach: If you can’t invent something new, refine something old. Go back to an old draft, a failed paragraph, or a notebook scrap from six months ago. Editing is writing. It counts.
The Constraint Hack: Creativity loves a cage. If you don’t know what to write, give yourself a strict limit. Write 200 words about the colour red. Write a paragraph explaining your favourite meal to an alien. Arbitrary constraints force your brain out of its rut.
The Bottom Line
The difference between an amateur and a professional is often just the ability to endure the days when the spark is gone. You don’t need a brilliant idea to be a writer; you just need to be a person who writes.
So, don’t stop. Keep writing through the silence, the boredom, and the “bad” drafts. The well isn’t dry—it’s just waiting for you to pick up the bucket.
The Well Never Runs Dry: Why You Should Write Even When You’re Empty
There is a pervasive myth in the creative world: the idea that writing is a faucet that must be turned off the moment the water stops flowing. We are told to wait for the “muse,” to respect the “dry spell,” and to stop pushing when the well runs dry.
But here is the professional truth: If you wait for inspiration, you will eventually stop writing altogether.
Professionalism isn’t about waiting for a lightning strike of genius; it’s about showing up to the page when you have absolutely nothing to say. If you struggle with the “Empty Page Syndrome,” here is why you should never stop writing—and how to keep going when the ideas have seemingly evaporated.
1. Writing is a Muscle, Not a Mood
Think of your writing ability like a muscle in the gym. If you only lift weights when you feel “inspired” to be strong, you will never see progress. The days you don’t want to be there are the days that build your endurance.
When you force yourself to write through a period of low inspiration, you aren’t necessarily aiming for a masterpiece. You are building the cognitive stamina required to sustain a career. By showing up, you prove to your brain that writing is a non-negotiable habit, like brushing your teeth or sleeping.
2. The “Bad” Writing is the Foundation
When you force yourself to write without ideas, the result is often messy, clunky, and uninspired. That’s okay. In fact, it’s necessary.
Professional writers understand that you cannot edit a blank page. By writing “bad” words, you are clearing the mental pipes. Often, the act of putting down a terrible sentence acts as a catalyst for a better thought. You have to move the cursor to find the gold. If you stop writing the moment you feel stuck, you never reach the breakthrough that lies just three paragraphs deeper.
3. Ideas are a Result, Not a Prerequisite
We often think: I need an idea to start writing. The reality is: Writing creates the idea.
When you sit down to write, you are engaging in a process of discovery. Your brain doesn’t store ideas in a neat little organized file cabinet; it generates them through the friction of the keyboard. If you sit and wait for the perfect prompt, you will wait forever. If you start typing “I don’t know what to write about today,” you have already started the process of thinking. That movement inevitably leads somewhere.
4. How to Keep Writing When You’re Empty
If you’re staring at a blinking cursor and feeling that familiar drought, try these three strategies:
The “Brain Dump” Method: Don’t worry about structure or audience. Open a document and write down every annoyance, thought, or observation from your morning. It doesn’t have to be a published piece; it just has to be words on a page.
The “Retrospective” Approach: If you can’t invent something new, refine something old. Go back to an old draft, a failed paragraph, or a notebook scrap from six months ago. Editing is writing. It counts.
The Constraint Hack: Creativity loves a cage. If you don’t know what to write, give yourself a strict limit. Write 200 words about the colour red. Write a paragraph explaining your favourite meal to an alien. Arbitrary constraints force your brain out of its rut.
The Bottom Line
The difference between an amateur and a professional is often just the ability to endure the days when the spark is gone. You don’t need a brilliant idea to be a writer; you just need to be a person who writes.
So, don’t stop. Keep writing through the silence, the boredom, and the “bad” drafts. The well isn’t dry—it’s just waiting for you to pick up the bucket.
The Epic Dream & The First Word: Conquering Your Biggest Writing Projects (One Step at a Time)
Picture this: You’ve got an incredible idea brewing – a sprawling fantasy epic, a gritty crime trilogy, a non-fiction deep dive into a complex subject that demands multiple volumes. Your imagination soars, your fingers itch… and then, a tidal wave of overwhelm crashes over you.
The sheer scale of it. The endless pages, the character arcs, the world-building, the research, the plot twists across three (or more!) books… it feels less like a project and more like a mountain range you’re expected to scale in a single bound. It’s daunting, terrifying even. The dream of “a three-book series” can quickly paralyse you before you’ve even written a single chapter of the first.
But here’s the quiet wisdom that veteran writers (and anyone who’s ever tackled a seemingly insurmountable task) learn: No one climbs Everest in a single leap. They take one step, then another, then another.
The secret isn’t to think about writing a three-book series; it’s to write this sentence. Then this paragraph. Then this scene. Then this chapter.
Eating the Elephant, One Bite at a Time
Our brains, wonderful as they are, struggle with “massive.” They crave manageable chunks. When you stare at the blank page with “Book One” echoing in your mind, your brain screams, “Impossible!” But when you tell it, “Today, we’re just outlining Chapter 3,” or “Let’s focus on nailing this one dialogue exchange,” suddenly, it feels achievable.
This isn’t just about managing the external task; it’s about managing your internal self-talk. Breaking down an overwhelming project into small, actionable pieces transforms it from an insurmountable beast into a series of achievable tasks.
A book series? Break it into individual books.
A single book? Break it into acts, then chapters.
A chapter? Break it into scenes.
A scene? Break it into beats, key actions, or dialogue exchanges.
A page? Break it into paragraphs.
You get the idea. Each small victory builds momentum, chipping away at that intimidating mountain until, suddenly, you’re at the summit, looking back at the path you’ve forged.
The Power of the First Step
And this is where that timeless piece of wisdom rings so profoundly true: “The secret of getting ahead is getting started.” (Attributed to Mark Twain, and eternally valid).
It’s not about the perfect first sentence, or having the entire plot mapped out in glorious detail. It’s about showing up. It’s about putting anything down. That blank page, that empty document, is the biggest hurdle. Once there’s something on it, no matter how rough, how imperfect, how far from your grand vision, you’ve begun. You’ve broken the spell of inaction.
Think of it:
You can’t edit a blank page.
You can’t refine a scene that doesn’t exist.
You can’t finish a series you haven’t started.
The act of starting generates its own energy. It creates a tiny gravitational pull that helps you take the next step, and the next. That first word, that first paragraph, that first outline sketch – it’s the anchor that stops you from drifting in the sea of “what ifs” and pulls you towards “what is.”
Your Action Plan for Tackling Giants:
Deconstruct Your Dream: Don’t just see “Book One.” See “Book One, Part 1, Chapter 1, Scene 1, Character X enters the room.”
Set Micro-Goals: Instead of “write a book,” try “Today, I’ll write 250 words” or “I’ll outline the next three scenes” or “I’ll spend 15 minutes brainstorming character names.”
Embrace Imperfection: Your first draft is meant to be bad. Get it done, then make it good. Don’t let the fear of not being perfect stop you from being prolific.
Celebrate Small Wins: Finished a chapter? High five yourself! Outlined a whole book? Treat yourself to a nice coffee. These small acknowledgments reinforce positive habits.
So, if you’re standing at the foot of your own literary Everest, feeling the chill of overwhelm, remember these two powerful truths: Break it down, and just start. Your masterpiece isn’t waiting for perfection; it’s waiting for your first word.
The Alchemy of Creation: Is Frank Zappa Right About the Business of Art?
“Art is making something out of nothing and selling it.”
When Frank Zappa—the iconoclastic guitarist, composer, and cultural provocateur—uttered those words, he wasn’t just being cynical. He was being surgical. To the romantic, art is a divine spark, an ethereal communion with the muse. To Zappa, it was a mechanical process of materialising an idea and navigating the marketplace.
But is he right? Does this definition capture the soul of creativity, or does it strip away the magic? Let’s pull apart Zappa’s assertion and see what remains.
The “Something Out of Nothing” Paradox
At first glance, the idea of making “something out of nothing” sounds like a biological impossibility. Every artist draws from a vast, internal library of influences, memories, traumas, and aesthetics. We are all bricoleurs—we take the scraps of our experiences and stitch them into new tapestries.
However, Zappa’s quote highlights the courage of the blank canvas.
Before an artist sits down to compose, paint, or write, that specific arrangement of notes, colors, or words did not exist. The artist is the zero-point, the lightning rod that pulls a chaotic, unformed feeling from the ether and anchors it into physical reality. That process—the translation of abstract thought into a tangible object—is the fundamental “miracle” of art.
The “Selling It” Reality Check
This is the part that makes many artists uncomfortable. We like to pretend that art exists in a vacuum, purely for the sake of expression. If that were true, artists wouldn’t bother with galleries, streaming platforms, or bookstores.
Zappa was a famously savvy businessman who understood the architecture of the music industry better than almost anyone. By saying art is about “selling it,” he was acknowledging that art is a form of communication.
Selling isn’t just about money; it’s about exchange. When you sell a piece of art, you are asking someone else to place value on your perspective. You are saying, “I have made this thing out of nothing, and I believe it is significant enough to become a part of your life.”
The transaction is the final step of the creative cycle. Without the audience (the buyer/the observer), the “something” remains in a box in your basement. Bringing it to the world, putting a price tag on it, and finding a home for it is an act of completion.
The Cynicism vs. The Pragmatism
Is there a danger in viewing art this way? Yes. If you focus too much on selling, you start creating art designed to be sold rather than art designed to be true. This leads to the commercial sludge—the derivative sounds and mass-produced aesthetics that Zappa spent his entire career railing against.
But if you view the process through Zappa’s lens, it becomes incredibly empowering. It demystifies the artistic struggle:
The Blank Page is just a starting point.
The Output is your product.
The Marketplace is the arena where you prove your worth.
The Verdict
Frank Zappa’s definition is perhaps the most honest perspective an artist can adopt. It removes the pretension and the “tortured genius” mythology that causes so many creators to freeze up.
If art is simply taking nothing and making something, there is no pressure for it to be perfect immediately. If art is about selling, it encourages you to take your work seriously enough to share it with others.
So, go ahead and be the magician who pulls an idea out of thin air. Just don’t forget that the magic only becomes real when someone else sees it, holds it, and decides it matters.
What do you think? Is Zappa’s definition too clinical, or is it the perspective every creator needs to hear? Let me know in the comments below.
The Alchemy of Creation: Is Frank Zappa Right About the Business of Art?
“Art is making something out of nothing and selling it.”
When Frank Zappa—the iconoclastic guitarist, composer, and cultural provocateur—uttered those words, he wasn’t just being cynical. He was being surgical. To the romantic, art is a divine spark, an ethereal communion with the muse. To Zappa, it was a mechanical process of materialising an idea and navigating the marketplace.
But is he right? Does this definition capture the soul of creativity, or does it strip away the magic? Let’s pull apart Zappa’s assertion and see what remains.
The “Something Out of Nothing” Paradox
At first glance, the idea of making “something out of nothing” sounds like a biological impossibility. Every artist draws from a vast, internal library of influences, memories, traumas, and aesthetics. We are all bricoleurs—we take the scraps of our experiences and stitch them into new tapestries.
However, Zappa’s quote highlights the courage of the blank canvas.
Before an artist sits down to compose, paint, or write, that specific arrangement of notes, colors, or words did not exist. The artist is the zero-point, the lightning rod that pulls a chaotic, unformed feeling from the ether and anchors it into physical reality. That process—the translation of abstract thought into a tangible object—is the fundamental “miracle” of art.
The “Selling It” Reality Check
This is the part that makes many artists uncomfortable. We like to pretend that art exists in a vacuum, purely for the sake of expression. If that were true, artists wouldn’t bother with galleries, streaming platforms, or bookstores.
Zappa was a famously savvy businessman who understood the architecture of the music industry better than almost anyone. By saying art is about “selling it,” he was acknowledging that art is a form of communication.
Selling isn’t just about money; it’s about exchange. When you sell a piece of art, you are asking someone else to place value on your perspective. You are saying, “I have made this thing out of nothing, and I believe it is significant enough to become a part of your life.”
The transaction is the final step of the creative cycle. Without the audience (the buyer/the observer), the “something” remains in a box in your basement. Bringing it to the world, putting a price tag on it, and finding a home for it is an act of completion.
The Cynicism vs. The Pragmatism
Is there a danger in viewing art this way? Yes. If you focus too much on selling, you start creating art designed to be sold rather than art designed to be true. This leads to the commercial sludge—the derivative sounds and mass-produced aesthetics that Zappa spent his entire career railing against.
But if you view the process through Zappa’s lens, it becomes incredibly empowering. It demystifies the artistic struggle:
The Blank Page is just a starting point.
The Output is your product.
The Marketplace is the arena where you prove your worth.
The Verdict
Frank Zappa’s definition is perhaps the most honest perspective an artist can adopt. It removes the pretension and the “tortured genius” mythology that causes so many creators to freeze up.
If art is simply taking nothing and making something, there is no pressure for it to be perfect immediately. If art is about selling, it encourages you to take your work seriously enough to share it with others.
So, go ahead and be the magician who pulls an idea out of thin air. Just don’t forget that the magic only becomes real when someone else sees it, holds it, and decides it matters.
What do you think? Is Zappa’s definition too clinical, or is it the perspective every creator needs to hear? Let me know in the comments below.
These donuts are whole with jam injected into them and are delicious. You cannot stop at one, which is why you get five.
There are like the donuts I used to get from the Dandenong market when I was a child. Back then, nearly 60 years ago, I used to go every Tuesday to get fruit and vegetables, and sometimes clothes, because there were other stalls selling useful household items.
Back then we used to get donuts, and for a long time, I had never managed to get back when the market was open to relive those childhood memories.
This trip we do.
The Dandenong Market had changed considerably since the last time I remember it. The building where my eldest son used to play basketball has been turned over to meat, fish, and food stalls.
It has spread to be about ten times the size it used to be, making it seem like a difficult task to find the donut van, but we entered by the right entrance and there it was.
And the donuts?
They were exactly as I remembered.
While we’re in the area we also make a trip to the Springvale market. When I lived in Victoria there was no such market, this had only been around since the immigrant Vietnamese have made their home in Springvale, and in places, it reminds you of similar markets in Singapore, Hong Kong, or China.
It was a fascinating half-hour of wandering around almost feeling like you are somewhere in South East Asia.
With markets like these who would really need a supermarket? And a bonus? The street food.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 