A Writer's Diary

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Day 149
But in me in me in me – what’s in me that’s of me?
Day 148
Do all writers lie about how their writing happens?
Day 147
We hide ourselves.
Day 146
There were his patter songs, round corners on slippy floors. There was the haiku of his sleep beneath falling petals.
Day 145
Oh, Mossy, said Leigh. He just looks as if he’s asleep. And he did – except the fur on his forehead, close to his awkwardly folded left ear, was spread…
Day 144
A snowcat.
Day 143
‘He looks very healthy,’ the woman from the vet’s said, on the phone. But he’s dead.
Day 142
Let my heart’s blood turn the left-hand page red, then soak through until all the pages turn to stuck-together waves. Let my dead head fall on it, as a…
Day 141
Mouse walks as if his back legs were metal stilts. When he sits, it looks like he’s a normal-shaped cat sitting on a tabby pouf.
Inserted Page
Martin Amis gambled that it was far better to be mid-Atlantic, and heading Westwards, than parochial, and sinking into the English Channel.
Day 140
The saint could say, Just because I’m a hypocrite doesn’t make you any less a destroyer.
Day 139
I’ve been wondering whether we don’t need saints – climate saints, green saints.
© 2023 Toby Litt
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