Ten Types of Authors Who Can Go Fuck Themselves

Made I laugh

CLASH

So yesterday I was thinking about an upcoming piece I’ll be writing for LitReactor and chuckled at the amount of reactions I’ll surely get. You see, I’ve been doing the columnist thing for almost a decade. It all started back home with a monthly political column. By the time I stopped writing it in early 2016, I’d received four death threats. In any case, I tweeted this: “Everyone who’s gotten angry at one of my columns should hear the stuff I don’t even bother to pitch.” The result was almost immediate; a bunch of authors said they wanted to read it. I’m all about making my friends happy, so here we are. Thank the writing deities that we have crazy, brave venues like CLASH. Let’s get started, shall we? Here are ten types of authors who can go fuck themselves (God I’m good at making friends!):

1. Authors who hate…

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Piddocks – anything but boring

How interesting! What a great blog!

The Hazel Tree

Just recently we were pottering happily along a pebbly beach on the island of Lismore, and some of the stones that we were picking up looked like this:

piddock-art

Just one pebble with a hole in it you could probably accept as a happy stroke of luck – but there were many more!   Some had just one hole, beautifully drilled and smooth on the inside, just wide enough to put your little finger in;   others were perforated with a network of tiny tunnels, so that if you held one up you could see a thousand pinpoints of light. But how do these holes occur?   They are certainly not caused by the sea.   The culprit is a mollusc, and it is called a piddock.

WHAT ON EARTH ARE PIDDOCKS?

photo via Wikimedia photo via Wikimedia

Piddocks are bivalves, and their specially-adapted oval shells are edged with fine teeth which they use to excavate burrows…

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Knitting in Venice

As I walked down all the tiny streets and over bridges in central Venice I was bombarded by design and fashion. Most of it was luxurious. Some of it was fronted by men selling contraband right in front of Prada’s windows, calling to the tourists to buy their genuine look-a-like goods. At times I felt uncomfortable with this contrast between high-fashion couture set in air-conditioned shops and the men who stayed put on the streets in the sun until caught – which seemed to rarely happen.

I looked out for the original, small artisan seller. Paper, glass and jewellery makers were dotted about here and there. I recall my mother and her friends being very fond of Italian gold – it has a certain patina and weight that distinguishes it from all the others.

Then I found a yarn shop with  smiling knitters inside, despite 38C of heat every day…and like all yarn people, were extremely helpful. They told me their story and all about their yarns. We talked in a combination of English and Italian, enabling each other. We decided to stay in touch to share.

Dio benedice i maghi italiani!