Slow cooker stories - by Harini Nagendra

This week's prompt: Describe the perfect writing retreat, real or imagined

I have a folder full of links to writing retreats saved on my computer. When I'm feeling low, bored, depressed, or have itchy feet, I open it up, and go to each link, reading about the venue, the writers in residence, and any blogs that I can find which describe the experience of being at the retreat. Photographs are a bonus. It always lifts my spirits.

I did spend three months at one absolutely wonderful fellowship in Berlin in 2005 - well before I wrote my first non-fiction book, but I credit my time there as being instrumental in getting me to take the very first step onto a long road that led to my writing my books on urban ecology and my fiction books on detection in 1920s Bangalore.

From March to May 2005, I was a Guest of the Rektor at the Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin - the Berlin Institute of Advanced Studies. I lived in a lovely, cozy apartment with a work office just a few feet from the main building. The rules were straightforward - on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Fellows had to eat lunch together in the main dining hall - on Thursdays, it was dinner. We had a gourmet chef to cook meals, language classes to help us practice Deustch, and I made some very good friends from multiple continents. But most of all, I spent time alone in my apartment, and I read.

I went to Berlin with the idea of working on a book on reforestation - a rather technical book. But every evening, at 6 pm, I took the bus from my apartment down the Kurfürstendamm, a spectacular boulevard that stretches across 3.5 km of Berlin, and is lined with gorgeous plane trees, exclusive boutique stores, and 'happening' coffee shops, disembarking at the very end. Then I took a long walk back to my apartment, 3.5 miles away - stopping for at a bakery for coffee and kuchen. Looking at the people, the shops, the trees, the nearby parks and lakes, and observing the way in which residents from East and West Berlin connected with nature around them - and how very different it was from Bangalore, San Diego, and Bloomington Indiana, cities I also knew well - sparked questions about how people in cities to live with, and experience nature - and what that means for the future of the world.

A couple of years later, I moved back to Bangalore, and became involved with movements to save trees and restore lakes. That's when I started to work on urban ecology. Looking back though, the seeds of my interest in the city as a focal point of study began on those long, solitary walks along the Kudamm. That's what led to my writing Nature in the City in 2016; and the process of conducting archival research for Nature in the City in turn sparked the idea for writing a mystery series set in historical Bangalore, beginning with The Bangalore Detectives Club, published in 2021. 

From 2005 to 2021, my books were inspired by ideas gathered from the embers of the city, spiced with the sights, sounds and fragrances of tree blossom and bird song, simmered in the slow cooker of time. And I think my books are the better for it.

Wiko was the perfect place, and Berlin, the perfect city for a retreat. And now that it's been 20 years, I need to look through that folder again - and find another retreat, to incubate ideas for my next series!          

 

A Great Place to Steal Ideas from James W. Ziskin

This week’s question asks us to describe the perfect writing retreat, real or imagined. 

Last night I dreamt I went to Wandsworth again. 

Wandsworth House is a writers retreat. Never mind that I’ve never been on a writers retreat or to any place called Wandsworth, I just wanted to use that great opening line, which I came up with all by myself. Really!

In my dream, the retreat was to be a creative weekend spent in a drafty old mansion on a desolate island off the Cornwall Coast. The house was accessible only via a diesel-belching launch piloted by a crusty old sea dog who squinted into the setting sun as if trying to remember where he’d left his hornpipe. There were nine other passengers on the boat—fellow writers, and, therefore, I hated them at first sight because, contrary to what writers say in public, writing IS indeed a zero-sum game and one scribbler’s smallest success is another one’s death. I knew them all by name and reputation, even if we hadn’t been introduced, and nobody said anything to anyone else for the entirety of the crossing. The mood was tense, fraught with seething resentment and ill-concealed jealousy. Charon’s skiff transported a merrier lot than ours. But the prickly silence didn’t stop us from giving each other the stink eye. Nor did it prevent us (well, me) from silently impugning the literary talents of the assembled, as well as the morals and pulchritude of their mothers.

We got our first look at Wandsworth as Popeye the Sailor—I think that was his name—moored the boat at the quay on the island. The house was perched high on a hill, like a weathered bit of driftwood, yearning to return to the sea. Or maybe it just looked like it was falling apart. Kind of hard to tell from a distance.

Three of the passengers—ghost writers, so I never got their names—decided they didn’t like the looks of the place and said they’d changed their minds and wanted to go back to the mainland with Popeye. But the old sailor cackled and told them his orders “was” to drop us off and leave us there till Monday when he’d return to collect us if we “was” still alive. (He mumbled that last bit under his breath, but I’m pretty sure that’s what he said.) 

So, with no other choice, we disembarked, climbed the mossy stone stairs of the quay to the shore where an estate car awaited. Not waiting for us, as things turned out. The car was just sitting there with four flat tires and a sheep dog sleeping in the back.

We trudged up the hill, each writer carrying a suitcase and a laptop, except for one hipster who actually had brought a portable typewriter. An old typewriter, too. Manual. Not even an IBM Selectric. What a poseur. And we found out later that he forgot to bring any paper along, so the weekend turned out to be a total bust for him.

When we finally reached Wandsworth House, we were greeted by a thin, gray butler who claimed he’d never met the master of the house, our host, Mr. Wandsworth. Not to fear, however, since the master of the house had left a 78-rpm record with detailed information about the weekend retreat. Alas, there was no gramophone in the house, so we had no idea of what we were supposed to do. The swag bag was a disappointment, too, with only one tube of generic exfoliating cream, a can of Mountain Dew, and a small bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. No cocaine at all! 

Oh, well. The host never showed. But the butler’s wife cooked us some great meals, no one got murdered, and I stole three great ideas from other writers at the retreat.

The end

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Ligyfkugc

Putting the world on pause

Describe the perfect writing retreat, real or imagined.

by Dietrich

My perfect writing retreat is a place where creativity can thrive, distractions are forgotten and stories can come alive. It is a sanctuary—whether real or imagined—away from notifications, obligations, and, most importantly, self-doubt. 

I picture a cozy cabin tucked into a forest, where sunlight filters through ancient trees to dapple a weathered desk. Or a cliffside cottage, where the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore syncs with the pulse of my thoughts. Perhaps it’s a desert oasis with endless horizons or a mountain lodge among snow-capped peaks. Any of these could spark the magic, but it really could be any place that inspires a pause from the clamor of the world.

For Mark Twain it was a hut on a farm in Elmira, New York, where he brought Huckleberry Finn to life. JK Rowling wrote her first Harry Potter novel in the quaint Elephant House cafe in Edinburgh, Scotland. Ian Fleming wrote the bulk of his James Bond novels on an estate in Jamaica. And Hemingway did some of his best work at his house in Key West, Florida. 

While escaping isn't always an option, I try to create the ‘retreat’ feeling at home. I transform a quiet corner, set boundaries and surround myself with inspiring objects: my vintage typewriter, bookshelves whispering encouragement, a cat curled nearby, a candle, and family photos. Without the need for an exotic escape, a dream space emerges, proving that perfect spot where the story can unfold.

Once I’m deep into writing a chapter, the outside world dissolves entirely. To reach that state, I ideally need a space that’s distraction-free yet rich with sensory details. My desk faces a window bathed in natural light, my chair is comfortable for those long hours, and a pen and notebook are always on hand to capture any fleeting thoughts. There is no clutter and no Wi-Fi, unless research demands it.

Ultimately, my perfect retreat is built on a balance: structure without rigidity, solitude without loneliness. I reserve the mornings for drafting and writing, that’s when I’m sharpest. The afternoons are for revising. Evenings are for reading by the warmth of a fireplace, letting other voices spark fresh ideas and inspiration for the next morning.

I'll Show Up

 

Terry here with our question of the week: Describe the perfect writing retreat, real or imagined. 

My perfect writing retreat has to be imagined because it doesn’t exist. Or rather, maybe it exists for some male writers, but very few women writers. 

First of all, the ideal retreat is one that I don’t have to do anything to make happen. I just show up with my computer and a bag packed with essential clothing and toiletries. It can be the mountains or the seashore. An island. A cabin in the woods. The important thing is that I didn’t have to arrange it. I just show up. 

Next, food appears at intervals. The kind of food I like. I don’t have to plan the menu. I don’t have to shop. I don’t have to cook. The food just shows up. And there’s wine. Good wine. 

I have the cabin (or room in a big house) to myself. It has a private bath with a bathtub. It has a desk with a comfortable chair. The bed is comfortable. And my cat Max is there. He has a bed where he can curl up on my desk. I want a view. Woods. Or water (lake or seashore). Or mountains. And birds. Some squirrels. I can even have a bear, as long as it stays outside. I can go for walks and at night I can see the stars. 

 If I feel like listening to music, it’s right there, easily available. And I don’t have to listen to anyone else’s music. 

I have my computer, but I’m unable to get any news of the outside world. Period. The computer is strictly for writing. I don’t get emails or news reports. I have a phone, but it’s strictly for emergencies. No one calls me to ask if I want to buy 1,000 pens or contribute to a worthy cause. I don’t want to know who died—or who didn’t die. I don’t want to know what fresh hell has been perpetuated. 

The writers at the retreat (a handful at most) gather in the evening to talk about what we’ve written—or haven’t written. To talk about our challenges, our successes. We talk about writing. Period. Okay, we can talk about our families and pets—but it’s kept to a minimum. We don’t talk about our health. There are no complaints about the retreat because everything is perfect. The plumbing works. The electricity works. The heating and cooling are perfect. 

But most important, the words come. I write, and write, and write. Uninterrupted. Nobody wants anything from me. Nobody asks me where something is when it’s right in front of them. Nobody demands that I stop what I’m doing to listen to a complaint. 

I once read a lofty, male writer describe his writing day. He got up early and went to his office, a cabin in the woods behind his house. He wrote for several hours there and then he went back and had lunch and went for a walk. And then he returned to his office for a couple more hours. Then went back to the house for dinner, sometimes with friends. A lovely life. And I thought, “Right, and who exactly makes that happen? Who is behind the scenes making sure that the kids are fed and dressed and taken to school? Who shops for groceries and cooks the food? Who makes you a sandwich when you want your lunch? Who invites your friends for a lovely dinner party? Who makes sure you are undisturbed by such mundane problems as whether the disposal doesn’t work, or the kids have a doctor’s appointment, or the school wants something. Who keeps it all running seamlessly while you tap out your words? Who listens when the words aren’t going well?” 

All I want is one idyllic week. And I want the words to spring onto the page. 

Oddly enough, I had one such writers retreat many years ago. It was all arranged. All I had to do was pay for it. Except for the fact that my cat wasn’t there, and we never saw a bear, I’ve pretty much described the way it was.
I don’t know how the writer who arranged it managed to find such a perfect spot with a wonderful blend of writers, and a chef who made beautiful meals. But she did. I made long-term friends there, and have fond memories of the retreat. I'd like to do it again. 

Someone make it happen, please. 

Retreat to Vermont - by Matthew Greene

Describe the perfect writing retreat, real or imagined.

"Perfect" is such a tricky word. And I happen to have the unenviable habit of letting the "perfect" be the enemy of the "good." So, of course, when I read this prompt, I started imagining exotic getaways with ideal creative circumstances. A trip on the Orient Express, perhaps. Or a private island with no cell reception and ample snacks.

But then I remembered last weekend.

As it happens, I've just gotten back from a little DIY writer's retreat I've taken myself on more than once. With a couple deadlines looming, it seemed as good a time as any to escape to beautiful Brattleboro, Vermont.

It may not be the most exciting locale, and the bragging rights of arranging the retreat myself are basically nil. But I think I've perfected the formula for a thoroughly productive creative reset just a few hours outside New York City. It brings together three elements I find essential for a beleaguered writer like myself: a train ride, a small town, and great place to stay.

THE TRAIN:

Brattleboro is situated on the Amtrak Vermonter line, about six hours from New York. This gives me ample time to read, to journal, and to get to work as the gorgeous scenery passes me by. I sit on the left hand side of the train on the way up and the right on the return to catch the waterfront views. Autumn leaves enhance the experience even more, but I've taken the trip at various times of the year and always enjoyed myself. The trip to Brattleboro is a perfect chance to sip a coffee and strategize for the retreat, and the train back is timed just right for a celebratory prosecco to toast to all you're sure to accomplish.

THE TOWN:

If you're looking for a bucolic little town where lumberjacks and hippies feel equally welcome, look no further. I won't pretend I'm an expert on a place I've only passed through a few times, but I can vouch for the charming Main Street within walking distance from the train station, lined with cafes, bars, and eateries where you can post up with a laptop or notebook and write to your heart's content. There's also a public library to wile away the creative hours, a multitude of outdoor spaces if the weather is nice, and a kick-ass co-op to stock up on snacks. Special shoutout to "The Bomb" sandwich at Echo and the Maple Latte at Mocha Joe's.

THE HOTEL:

And my favorite part of this little getaway...the Latchis Hotel! Within spitting distance of the train (gross), this historic hotel features original fixtures and furniture, with a record player in every room and a vinyl lending library full of music to get the creative juices flowing. Even better, the hotel is built beside the Latchis Theatre, an old-fashioned movie palace still in operation. Nothing inspires me more than a good movie, and there's nothing quite like catching a flick in the beautifully preserved main auditorium. The Latchis Hotel and Theatre are both run by a nonprofit organization devoted to maintaining the building's unique history and—I like to think—inspiring writers like us.

This post is starting to sound like a travel brochure, but I promise I'm writing from the heart. Every time I head up to Brattleboro, I find myself inspired by the scenery, the history, and the fascinating folks I meet along the way. Last weekend I finished an outline of one project, polished off several pages of another, and got inspired with a few fresh new ideas. 

Needless to say, I think I earned the prosecco on the way home. And I hope you do too!

'My Heart at Evening': Love at First Sight by Poppy Gee

 My mum used to mark a J in the inside cover of library books with a soft pencil, to show that my dad had already read them. Dru Ann Love's record of what she reads evolved into an award-winning, guest-infested daily blog. Where do you sit when it comes to reading notes? Do you keep a record, write reviews, make annotations in the margins . . .?

I like writing reviews of books and I like posting them on Instagram, with a beautiful photo of the book. As I hit ‘post’, it feels like I’m throwing a bouquet of freshly picked flowers into the air, one which the book’s author will catch with joy.

A few years ago, I stopped saying ‘review’ and started saying ‘recommendation’. I’m not analysing, I’m simply saying, I found a book you might like. I don’t write negative reviews. That’s not my job. I think it’s easy to write negative stuff, it’s harder to explain why the work resonates with you, where it sits in the literary canon, and what is shows us about the human condition, or the world we live in. I often research the subgenre if it’s unfamiliar to me. It helps me understand the author’s intent, and achievement.

Below is a book rec I wrote recently. As I say in my piece, it was love at first sight… everything I learned about the book intrigued and seduced me. And when I finally read it, I was utterly enamoured. The writing is elegant, the author poetically describes the lavish miserable decadence of the Tasmanian wilderness, and challenges long held assumptions about Tasmanian history and people. At it’s core is a dark mystery, a cold case that will never be resolved.

From my Instagram, 4 October 2025:

Book rec: Very occasionally you find yourself falling in love with a book that you haven’t read. Its a rare phenomenon but it happens. Right now I’m in the delightful state of love at first sight for My Heart At Evening by Konrad Muller.

The romance began when I saw on Instagram the author doing events at Tasmanian bookshops. I was intrigued. A debut novel, set in Tasmania, with that exquisitely enchanting title…

And then I discovered that the novel is about Henry Hellyer, an architect who took his own life in 1832 at Highfield House, Stanley. That hooked me because earlier this year I visited Highfield house. In an upstairs bedroom, overlooking the ocean, I read Henry’s suicide note and the witness statements provided after his death. The statements were lavishly and strangely worded and read like the people had colluded. There were inconsistent details in other reports. I asked the house manager if she thought he took his own life and, to my surprise, she admitted that she personally didn’t believe he did. It seemed perhaps Henry Hellyer’s mysterious death was Tasmania’s first documented anti-gay crime. I was intrigued. This book is about that man.

I bought my copy at Petrachs in Launceston yesterday. It’s one of the most divinely produced books I’ve ever held. The cover is thick, and the spine feels seamless. Inside the cover is indigo to match the blue gentian flower on the cover. The blurb is short: two enigmatic, poetic observations.

Those blurbs! To die for! ‘A glossy black cockatoo of a book…’

Everything about this book feels otherworldly. Even the publisher sounds intriguing, like a character in a curious old novel:

‘Based in Lutruwita/Tasmania, Evercreech Editions publishes the boldest, strangest, and most necessary voices we can find. We value deep thought and burning intensity; work that is formally striking, emotionally resonant, and politically alive. Emerging writers, overlooked classics, and essential works in translation—if it is stunning and urgent we want to print it.’

It was so satisfying I returned to Petrachs this morning to buy a second copy for my sister.

Five stars (count them), by Catriona

My mum used to mark a J in the inside cover of library books with a soft pencil, to show that my dad had already read them. Dru Ann Love's record of what she reads evolved into an award-winning, guest-infested daily blog. Where do you sit when it comes to reading notes? Do you keep a record, write reviews, make annotations in the margins . . .?

Dru's Book Musings, by the way. 

I keep a record of what I read, here on my blog. I have no memory of why I started except that it was a round-up of my Chrtistmas and New Year holiday reading from 2019-2020 and maybe I didn't want to let go of curling up on a couch with a stack of books and turn, instead, to face the coming year. Which, as I say, was 2020. So here's what I read that Christmas:

A NEARLY PERFECT CHRISTMAS, Nina Stibbe

OPEN THE CAGE, MURPHY, Paul O'Grady

MY NAME IS WHY, Lemn Sissay

THE LADY IN THE LAKE, Laura Lippman

THE DUTCH HOUSE, Ann Patchett

CHRISTMAS ON CORONATION STREET, Maggie O'Sullivan

THE SALT PATH, Raynor Winn

THE INSTITUTE, Stephen King

THE STONE CIRCLE, Elly Griffiths

THE DARK ANGEL, Elly Griffiths

That's pretty typical Yuletide pile: a couple I'd managed to save - Stephen King and Elly Griffiths, a couple of seasonal treats, a celebrity biography - Paul O'Grady, A then adored and now disgraced memoirist ...

And I've been doing it for nearly six years (doesn't feel like that, given the wibble-wobble of pandemic time). One benefit is that it keeps me checking in on my website and stops me forgetting to post events. Like this one!

more info (not much) here

Also, it means I've always got a photo handy for Friday Reads on Facebook and Bluesky. It's amazing how many books look great against my tomato-red kitchen bunkers, including the Library of Congress's groundbreaking crime classic THE CONJURE-MAN DIES, by Rudolph Fisher (highly recommend (when the Library of Congress is open for business again)):

Order links here

But there are limits, and CRIME INK: ICONIC, John Copenhaver and Salem West's dazzling anthology of short stories inspired by Queer icons was an assault on the eyeballs:

Order links here

I know I should probably migrate to GoodReads with all this, or double it up so I've got stuff on GoodReads too, but . . . ( three dots are not an argument, I know.)

And since I've started beating myself up, why don't I write reviews? I love getting reviews (not that I read them) because all hail the algorithm, right? So I should definitely write some. Guess what? 

. . . 

I do write jacket blurbs and I will boost like Billy-oh when a friend has a new book out. A couple of recents are Cindy Brown's stellar, Portland-set mystery ECHOES OF THE LOST. I wrote: a rattling good page-turner, for a start, but it's also an absorbing character study and a brilliant depiction of a setting and community not often - if ever - found in crime fiction. Unflinching and compassionate, Cindy Brown brings Portland's unhoused citizens sizzling onto the page, showing both their individual humanity and the rich structure of their society. I was as charmed by the background to this excellent novel as I was by the twists and zings of the story itself.

pre-order links here

And for a complete change, There's Amanda Block's wonderful adventure story, THE HAUNTING OF HERO'S BAY. I wrote: The kindly spirit of Daphne du Maurier is definitely watching over this terrific West Country novel: there are smugglers and shipwrecks, secrets and legends, clues hidden in artworks - and in hidey holes. Plus a quirky village full of irresistible characters, not one but two halting and tremulous love stories, and a protagonist whose plight and pluck are equally compelling. The Haunting of Hero's Bay was pretty much the perfect read. I loved it.

Pre-order links here

Thank God for the unwritten rule that if you don't write a blurb, it's because you "didn't get to it in time". I love telling people a fabulous book is fabulous, but I'd hate to find myself having to write things like "Fans will be delighted" or "If you loved Gone Girl, you'll like this." 

As to the other half of this question - making marks in books? I make notes in my own first editions, to cut down passages for reading out at the launch party (see above, Dec 4, Davis, CA) but that's it. I use a bookmark, I don't crack the spine if I can help it (but reading a heavy hardback one-handed in a hot bath, with a glass in the other, sometimes causes a bit of trauma), and I have used the endpapers for emergency story ideas, but overall my library will be in pretty good shape when my coil's been shuffled off and my house is being cleared. 

Although, as one of my nephews once said - about the number of signed books I've got: "It's going to take ages to check these when you're dead, Auntie Catriona. We're not going to be able to just hoy them into a skip." (Lob them into a dumpster) He doesn't foresee being laid low by grief, does he?

Cx

  

Keeping Track by Eric beetner

 My mum used to mark a J in the inside cover of library books with a soft pencil, to show that my dad had already read them. Dru Ann Love's record of what she reads evolved into an award-winning, guest-infested daily blog. Where do you sit when it comes to reading notes? Do you keep a record, write reviews, make annotations in the margins . . .?

I have, in the past, kept a running record of books I read that year. I don't know why I stopped, because it is actually a very helpful tool to have around, especially when awards nomination season rolls around. I need to get back to that.

I don't feel the need to write down what I read for others, but I also value a good Amazon review since I know it impacts how books get seen on that platform. Also, mostly because I read small, indie press books that need the attention. I certainly only will write a positive review. If a book wasn't for me, then best to say nothing since it is proven time and time again that my tastes run far away from the mainstream. Writing enthusiastically about books I truly enjoyed is a pleasure and I think a valuable part of the reading community. If you want to have discussions about books, want to share the things you love, then you should absolutely be out there reviewing, hyping, praising and otherwise shouting from the rooftops about a good book.

For example, I recently finished What About The Bodies by Ken Jaworowski and it was easily in my top 3 of the year. I constantly struggle with shelf space in my office and this one immediately made the shelf, whereas I am getting close to another book purge and I've got my eye on a few who might not make the cut. But What About The Bodies is shelf-worthy. 

As for any Ex Libris on my bookshelves – no. I don't make a big habit out of lending my books out so I don't need to brand them. I do keep a stack of doubles in my closet. If I'm out at a Goodwill or used bookstore and spot a book I have read and loved, I will snap it up and add it to the pile of books I like to have at the ready in case anyone I know needs a book recommendation. Often if we have guests over I'll offer up a book as a parting gift, and if I pull it from this pile I know it's a banger. Many, if not most, of my signed books are personalized to me so that will stand in for any sort of "property of..." or "From the library of..."

As to notes in the margins, well, I'm not a psychopath so, no, I don't write in my books. I'm the type of reader who prefers not to crack a spine if I don't need to. I don't dog-ear pages or curl paperback covers in my fist while reading. I grew up civilized. I might like a line or a particular turn-of-phrase, but it would never cross my mind to underline it or, I shudder to even type it, get out a highlighter. 

And it has nothing to do with the resale value of a book. I just think the book is presented as it was written. It gains nothing by me adding to the page. 

Even when I kept lists, it happened far away from the actual book. But this will jump-start me into making lists again. It's not much to keep a file on my computer and add to it when I finish a book. I'm amazed at how many books fall right out of my head the minute I close the cover. I guess that's not a ringing endorsement of the books, but life moves on, I go right into reading something new, there are so many new distractions for us these days. 

To summarize:

I endorse reading lists, writing reviews, posting about books you like on social media.

I abhor marking up books with your own thoughts or notes. It's the one thing that separates us from the animals.

In The Margins

In the Margins: Notes on the Art of Active Reading

My mum used to mark a J in the inside cover of library books with a soft pencil, to show that my dad had already read them. Dru Ann Love’s record of what she reads evolved into an award-winning, guest-infested daily blog. Where do you sit when it comes to reading notes? Do you keep a record, write reviews, make annotations in the margins . . .?

 

I’ve abandoned the idea of keeping a list of the books I’ve read. But I do leave traces —marks, asterisks, double-underlines in the margins. I suppose I fall into the “active reader” camp, which for me involves the hand, the eye, and a slowed-down mind.

    In school, I used to underline passages in literature not just to remember them, but to understand how they worked. It was like poking around inside a clock. I’d mark rhetorical structures — anaphora, antithesis, parallelism — and try to see how an author used them to build rhythm or turn an argument. Charles Dickens was a favorite for this. No one piles on a clause quite like Dickens.

    Active reading, to me, is a bit like what medieval monks did with marginalia: an ongoing conversation with the text. It’s different from the rainbow flood of highlighting I saw in high school or at university, which felt more like panic-prepping for an exam than engaging with a writer. When you mark deliberately — with pencil, pen, or even typed notes — you’re practicing discernment. You’re tuning your ear to cadence, your eye to structure, and your mind to nuance.

    These days, many readers do their marking digitally — and I get it. Kindle lets you highlight passages, even shows you what other people have highlighted. (A sort of group annotation, or maybe a literary popularity contest?) But it can feel like walking into a museum and seeing stickers next to the paintings: “Everyone liked this brushstroke.” Helpful, sure. But also, weirdly disembodied. A Kindle highlight disappears into the cloud; a pencil mark on the page feels like a footprint. Your footprint.

    Plus, have you ever tried flipping back through a Kindle to find that one quote you meant to remember? It’s like trying to hitchhike through fog.

    When I was studying Latin, I learned to scan a sentence and find the verb first. Everything radiated from that one word. I started noticing how authors arranged their ideas — where they placed the temporal phrase, how subject and object shifted around the sentence. Romance languages taught me that English’s S-V-O structure wasn’t a universal. That opened up a whole new layer of pattern recognition in my reading life.

    One trick I still use: I’ll take a sentence I love and write it out by hand. Or type it. Something about the tactile act lets you feel the sentence differently — its rhythm, balance, weight. Try it with Faulkner, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald and you’ll know what I mean. Faulkner gallops, Hemingway jabs, Fitzgerald sways.

    And then there’s James Baldwin. Baldwin doesn’t just write — he preaches, in the most literary and lyrical sense. You can hear his father’s pulpit in his cadence, but also poetry, jazz, and fire. Here’s a sentence from The Fire Next Time:

    “Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.”

    That line stopped me the first time I read it. It’s deceptively simple — but look closer:

• There’s assonance in live without / live within — a mirrored, almost incantatory rhythm.
• The parallel structure of we fear we cannot... and we know we cannot... tightens the line and heightens contrast — a classic rhetorical move.
• And then the antithesis of without vs within — it’s not just poetic, it’s philosophical. Baldwin turns a sentence into a paradox you feel in your chest.

    Copying out that line by hand taught me something about restraint and repetition — how Baldwin’s power often comes from what’s left unsaid. His sentences don’t shout. They resonate.

    So while I may not jot a J in the front cover of a library book like some wise mothers do (a system I secretly admire), I do leave behind a field of light pencil lines — artifacts of a mind at work, or maybe just at play.

    For me, that’s the joy of reading: not just absorbing the story, but developing a relationship with language itself.

Difficult to write, impossible to read - by Harini Nagendra

Handwritten or typed? Some writers, even today, will hand write a first draft. Some have 3rd grade penmanship from the atrophy our handwriting has suffered. Do you still handwrite any part of your writing process or are you all type, all the time? 

I'll let you in on a little secret - I am, and always have been, short on patience. A recipe like biriyani, that calls for slow roasting of thinly sliced onions for twenty minutes? Not for me. Caramel custard? Again no... it takes patience to get the caramel just right, and I don't have any.

Is it any wonder that I never developed the art of copperplate handwriting as a child? When I was in kindergarten, we were given ruled notebooks with rows of colored lines in which we were supposed to practice cursive writing. I never got the hang of it - except for one assignment, when I was about 5 years old, and painstakingly wrote out each three letter word (think bat, cat, rat) in lightest pencil, and went over it again with a darker pencil once I was satisfied. That was when we had a new teacher whom I absolutely adored - she even came home, to my birthday party, and I was so thrilled. But alas - she only came home to tell my parents she was leaving - she'd been teaching for a few weeks, but then became engaged, and left to get married. I was so disappointed - but there usually is a silver lining, and mine was that once my teacher left, I didn't need to sweat over my handwriting exercises ever again. I reverted to my usual untidy scrawl.

I never learnt how to type. I tried teaching myself to use all fingers on both hands, using typing software (in the early days of gamification, during the early '90s) but it never 'took'. Instead, when I had to type out my Masters thesis, I started banging on the computer keyboard using two index fingers - and that's how I type, even today. I never looked back, at least not for my academic writing - my typing is at least legible. I used to hand write poems (mostly nonsensical limericks) for a long while - but these days I've become lazy enough that I type them out too.

Writing a whole draft by hand? I have nothing but admiration for the writers of old, who did just that (unless they were men who dictated their books to their long-suffering secretaries or wives). I suppose I could try using transcription software, and dictating a book to my computer - but I don't think I could get that it to work.

And so, I type away with two fingers. I don't think I could ever dare to attempt hand-writing a complete draft of a novel, or even a short story. It's not just my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad handwriting that gets in my way. A computer is essential to my process. Without the ability to cut and paste, move sections around, rewrite bits and pieces, connect threads and reshape storylines - my left hand using the Ctrl X, Ctrl V keys while I type with my right (yes, I'm dating myself with this reference) - without being able to highlight words and phrases to look up when I'm editing so I don't accidently introduce anachronisms into my historical novel, or incorrectly describe a sari or a piece of jewelry - I don't know how I would ever get to the end of my book.    

Besides, it would take too long, and I told you - I don't have the patience.       

Handwriting and the Singularity from James W. Ziskin

Handwritten or typed? Some writers, even today, will hand write a first draft. Some have 3d grade penmanship from the atrophy our handwriting has suffered. Do you still handwrite any part of your writing process or are you all type, all the time? 

I intended to write this week’s post by hand to prove a point, but it was going to take me five times longer to do it that way. So, in the end, I took the easy way out and decided to type it on a keyboard instead. And I’ll tell you why.

First of all, I would have had to use a physical dictionary if I’d wanted to check my spelling, which is impekable, but still. And, of course, I’d probably already have had a cramp in my hand if I’d been doing this the old-fashioned way.

Some people think writing by hand makes the experience more personal and somehow more virtuous than using a computer or a voice-to-text app. Pshaw! Those are the same folks who believe walking to the furniture store to carry that new queen-size sofa bed back home on their backs is preferable to borrowing a friend’s pick-up truck for the job. Or maybe just order it online using a keyboard.

While it’s true that some technological advances feel more like slippery steps closer to the singularity, typewriters and keyboards ain’t one of them. They’re not going to take over the world and subjugate us all with their tapping and clicking. Okay, we might break a fingernail, but that’s about it.

Here are a few benefits keyboards afford us:

1. Thanks to keyboards, we can erase our errors without leaving a trace. No one needs to know we’re clumsy typists. But you can’t erase pen ink, and who among us hasn’t torn a perfectly fine sheet of paper in a fit of pencil-erasing zeal?
2. Bad penmanship is a scourge of the past. We no longer need to strain our eyes and patience trying to read our own chicken scratchings. (Except on a grocery list.)
3. Spelling errors are (mostly) under control, thanks to the myriad technologies that we access via keyboards.
4. Keyboards also free us from the drudgery of alphabetical order. QWERTY is much more efficient than ABCDE, isn’t it? (AZERTY, si vous êtes français.)
5. And who can forget that pianos became much easier to play once they added keyboards. I upgraded my spinet last year and no longer need to whack away with eighty-eight handheld, felt-tipped hammers.

Let’s be honest. We rarely need handwriting these days. We can scan documents with our phones, dictate speech-to-text, and listen to text-to-speech. We can ask our digital assistants (future overlords) for all manner of assistance, including writing. And, of course, we can even create fonts that mimic our own handwriting. Smudged ink will go the way of the dinosaurs.

But don’t fret. Handwriting will always have its place for signing documents. Oh, wait. There are digital signatures now. Damn!

Perhaps when the singularity comes, a robot will forge our signature and sell our house out from under us. In that case, we won’t need that queen-size sofa bed.

570

Sldkghhslkhn

The pen is mightier

Handwritten or typed? Some writers, even today, will hand write a first draft. Some have 3rd grade penmanship from the atrophy our handwriting has suffered. Do you still hand write any part of your writing process or are you all type, all the time?

by Dietrich

Let’s face it: a final manuscript must be typed. What editor or publisher would touch a handwritten draft, no matter how neatly penned? That said, there’s something special about handwriting those early brainstorming notes or even an entire first draft, something that transcends mere nostalgia. 

No question, handwriting is slow, but that’s precisely its strength. The deliberate pace forces me to linger, letting ideas simmer and take shape. The rhythmic scratch of the pen allows me to pause, reflect, and refine as I write. For me, this slowness unlocks creativity. And a plain notebook becomes a quiet sanctuary, free from the distraction of incoming emails, pop-up ads and social media. No “quick Twitter checks” that spiral into an hour-long doom-scroll. In a world of constant digital noise, that’s no small thing.

There’s also evidence to back this up. Studies suggest handwriting can improve retention of conceptual information compared to typing. When I jot down ideas by hand, they do seem to stick with me longer. Am I alone in this?

But let’s not romanticize handwriting too much. When it’s time for the second draft, the keyboard is king. Typing is fast, fluid, and efficient, letting thoughts pour onto the screen almost as quickly as they form. It’s perfect for capturing a rapid-fire burst of ideas or restructuring a scene with a few clicks. Cut, copy, paste—try doing that with a pen. Anyone else nostalgic for the days of Wite-Out?

Using a computer makes revisions a breeze. I can reorganize entire chapters, tweak dialogue, delete that paragraph I thought was brilliant at 2 a.m. but now reads like crap. And let’s not forget backups—cloud storage and external drives keep the work safer than a notebook.

The sweet spot lies in blending both worlds. I love marking up a printed second draft by hand, circling awkward phrases and scribbling notes in the margins. Reading the draft aloud, pacing the room with pages in hand, helps me catch clunky dialogue or pacing issues that might slip by on a screen. It’s a tactile way to reconnect with the work.

Ultimately, it’s about what fuels the creativity. I don’t always write my first draft by hand, sometimes the keyboard calls from the start. But staying open to both methods keeps my process fresh and flexible. One day, I might be sprawled on the couch with a pen and notebook, lost in the flow of ink. The next, I’m hammering out a scene at my desk, the keyboard keeping pace with my thoughts.

I'm Typing as Fast as I Can

 

Terry here, with the question of the week: 

Handwritten or typed? Some writers, even today, will hand write a first draft. Some have 3d grade penmanship from the atrophy our handwriting has suffered. Do you still handwrite any part of your writing process or are you all type, all the time? 

 When I worked full-time in the tech world, I’d sneak out into my car every day at lunch and write. Handwrite, on yellow pads. Snippets of stories. Beginnings of books. Anything that struck my fancy. I know now what I was doing was learning my craft. By hand. 

 Eventually I settled down and wrote a few books. By hand. I’d transcribe them to the computer, which was a great way to do a first edit. Moving from handwriting to print made me see things in a different way. 

 I don’t remember how or why I transitioned to writing my first drafts on the computer, but now I wouldn’t think of writing a first draft by hand. Maybe not for the reason you’d think. In 2016 I had shoulder surgery that went bad. The radial nerve in my right arm (dominant hand) was damaged and for months I couldn’t use the hand at all. It was totally limp and unusable. In fact, I wrote my fifth book, The Necessary Murder of Nonie Blake entirely typing with my left hand. There’s no way I could have handwritten it with my left hand. Thankfully, I’m a good typist and my left hand did the job. And by the way, the book won a critic’s award—for which I credit my left hand. 

As for that 3rd grade penmanship, when my right hand gets tired, I write almost illegibly. And my left hand, as good as it was at typing, has never really done well with handwriting. 

But even if my right hand hadn’t suffered trauma, I would not have continued writing first drafts by hand. I type fast, and my typing keeps up with my brain. 

There was some claim several years ago that writing directly to a computer made writing “too easy” and that writers didn’t take the time to think things through before they typed thei first drafts. But honestly, I never thought things through (is this a confession?) in first draft. I always just plowed ahead. It’s in the editing process that I look critically at what I’ve written. 

I’m honestly often surprised at how well my brain has organized my thinking while I’m pounding out words. For example, in my next book, The Curious Poisoning of Jewel Barnes, which comes out December 2, I began to panic at 70,000 words. I had no idea what had actually happened. I didn’t know who poisoned Jewel Barnes or why. Yeah, cutting it pretty close. 

But somehow, in the panic stage, I realized what had to have happened. Not only that, but I also realized that my little brain had been busy organizing the story behind my back (or inside my head, or whatever) so that it all fit together. Sure, there were edits to be done, but the storyline was there. 

 I’m curious to know if others write by hand. Not me, baby! 

Let It Snow by Poppy Gee

Have you ever themed a book or a story around a holiday or a specific time of year? What do you think about writing something aimed at a certain holiday or event? Are you limiting your audience or taking advantage of the season like a singer releasing a Christmas album or a TV show doing a Halloween themed episode?

Nope, but I would love to. I love Christmas movies: I am here for the faux-nostalgia, the magic and hope, the love and redemption, romance and beautiful decorations, the transparent pretence of the idea of a perfect family Christmas. Plots often include a storyline about someone trying to get home for Christmas, and it shamelessly tugs at my heart strings. 

I have a big pile of Christmas picture books we bring out in December. I like reading them as much as my kids do. Many of these are books I was given as a child. For Australian children, Christmas is a wonderful fantasy of white wonderland. All the books I was given as a child featured children living in the northern hemisphere, hanging woolly stockings on the ends of their beds, blazing fires, falling snow, mistletoe and holly, and Santa’s sleigh landing on snowcapped roofs.

In reality, December in Australia is mosquito nets and ceiling fans, balmy evenings and sun-kissed days, and Christmas trees that die of heatstroke days before 25 December. My grandmother would serve a hot roast lunch followed by plum pudding, which we’d eat in the heat of midday, before heading to the beach. These days, we favour a cold seafood oriented lunch. But we love a Christmas-in-July party!

One of my favourite new picture books is Julia Donaldson's Stick Man. It’s about a stick who lives happily with his wife and three children. Right before Christmas, he gets separated and goes on a perilous journey, facing dangers like being a dog's fetch toy, thrown in a river, and being used to make a swan's nest. Eventually, he helps Santa Claus who brings him home for Christmas. It’s heart-wrenching and heart-warming.

I especially like the stories about Santa and his toy making workshop, and his summertime commitments of training the reindeer. As a child, I was obsessed with the logistics of Santa’s gift-giving operation. Like visions of sugarplums, these images dance in my head!

Once day I will write my Christmas novel. And it might be sooner than later. I think that now more than ever, this world needs stories about hope, magic and kindness.