Just put the recycling out far too late and looked around. All the houses were dark and the wind was warm and thrashing through the trees, and I realised that, for some ungodly reason, the lamppost I was standing under was the only one on the street still lit.

It says alot about my school experience when I find my 9-5 work days much less stressful simply because there’s no work to take back home. Like I can leave it at the door. When I go home I can actually relax. There’s a boundary.

School was a pervasive, rotting thing that soaked into every single moment of my life and dampened and darkened all the other things I was trying to do. I couldn’t escape it, I couldn’t escape the people in it or the incredibly toxic environment some of my teachers created. School is designed to follow you home and if you don’t like it? Then it means you don’t have a safe place.



when you’ve almost finished the chapter

and then you realise the pacing is wrong


AND ALL THE CLEVER, FIDDLY BITS THAT LOCKED THE SCENES TOGETHER HAVE TO GO NOW. you have to cut the scenes out and leave those bits trailing behind just so you can switch something around and it’s awful.

(Reblogged from saberquill)

{ London winter }

(Source: englishsnow)

(Reblogged from ethelreds)

So there’s this thing called the ‘Folio Society’ which basically means ‘we like fancy-looking books’ and my Grandpa was a member. His study is filled with books, mostly crumbling language dictionaries, but also this long line of beautiful, coloured slip-back novels.

And my Grannie wants to send them away, because most of them are Anthony Trollop who…is kind of depressing and not someone anyone in this family would read. Even Grandpa didn’t read them, she said.

So I found a second-hand book website that bought and sold Folio books (because these aren’t the type you get in actual bookstores- fancy books remember?) and they seem really good and they send them to collectors who will take very good care of them.

So I spent this Sunday sitting in my Grandpa’s study, gently taking down each of his books and cradling it so as not to hurt the spine, and writing out the titles and dates and illustrators in a neat list. I sat at my Grandpa’s desk, in his chair. He’d left his glasses behind. The room smelt like him, kind of like wood and the smell that caught in his jumper. And as I was writing, I opened an apparently unread book and I found his bookmark, red leather that he got back in ‘87, sitting there, waiting patiently for him to come back and finish reading.

Way of Kings Liveblog: Chapters 29-31

This time of Way of Kings: pieces start to move at Kaladin’s end, while Shallan…draws things. Evillllll things. Just like Gaz’s eyes and Tien’s rocks. I may be flailing around for a decent villain here, the Parshendi aren’t that interesting.

Read More

when you’ve almost finished the chapter

and then you realise the pacing is wrong


Bing Wright

Broken Mirror / Evening Sky , 2012

(Reblogged from snowingblackout)



people who slip into proper grammar when they’re upset are fucking terrifying

I get like this..

(Source: syosama)

(Reblogged from sweaterjoly)

So I’m  working in the library and the rainstorm outside gets so violent it flies horizontally through the windows.

You have not lived until you’ve seen three over 90 year old men simultaneously caper around the room croaking ‘save the books! save the books!’ at each other.