Twelvemonth

Barton Hartshorn On Writing, On Writing and Music

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, twelvemonth is an archaic noun meaning “a year”. As any writer or musician will tell you, the relevance of things happening around you increases the further you immerse yourself in your work, until every song you hear or snippet of dialogue appears to have a direct link to your project.

Piano theme one

Barton Hartshorn On Writing, On Writing and Music

The first theme has landed. Still not sure what final form it will take or what arrangement will accompany it but here it is in its raw form. Very easy to play. In fact if anyone would like to revisit their piano study years and post a clip of themselves playing this theme they’ll be rewarded with a download copy …

Reflections on Losing My Mind

Louisa Leontiades On Writing, On Writing-General

People often wonder why I write so much. I’ve been called selfish, vain and self-obssessed. I over think things. That people don’t know me, don’t care to find out why and denigrate me according to their own judgements is something I’ve had to learn to live with. Because for me writing is the way I remember my life and my purpose. I write because otherwise I would forget who I am.

Value Beyond Gold

Louisa Leontiades On Writing-General

Authors write. They also plot. Plan. Dream. Re-order. Edit. Craft. Most suffer rejection, time and again. Sometimes, just sometimes, they receive encouragement that their stories may be well received. That their life and work as an author is not wasted. Today was one of those days. Seventeen pages of signed and initialed legal jargon mean I feel as Neil Armstrong might have felt when he stepped out of Apollo 11.

The Blog is Dead, Long live the blog

Louisa Leontiades On Writing, On Writing-General

I believe it’s a measure of self-esteem to believe what you produce is worthwhile; but it’s a whole other level to demand money for it when so much writing out there is free. Yet last year I stopped writing for Huffington Post because they exploited millions of bloggers for their own gain. I don’t believe in exploiting others, so why would I let myself be exploited?

Anaïs and I

Louisa Leontiades On Writing, On Writing-General

Anaïs was a memoirist, like me. Who was all kinds of fucked up, like me. Who followed love and personal growth as if it were a extremist religion, like me. Who was riddled with self-doubt, was dedicated to the confusion of her psyche and who wrote about her deliberations compulsively, like me.