Last fall I took a writing workshop with Daniel Wallace, a man who knows a thing or two about bringing books to the big screen. The film rights to Wallace’s novel, “Big Fish”, was purchased by Columbia Pictures. Steven Spielberg sat on the project for a while but it was Tim Burton who eventually directed
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Last month I put on a pair of roller skates for the first time in twenty years. It’s this whole Yes Man thing I’m trying. I loved it. I mean, I still think skating backward is nothing short of sorcery. But I’m really geared up for my next trip to the rink. And I desperately
For some reason, every time I look at photos of Flynn and me from our EPIC ADVENTURE WEEKEND, I break out in BABOOSHKA and arabesque around the living room. “Babooshka…Babooshku…Babooshku…” See. Told you. Happy Birthday Bunny. I love you. B. xx p.s. A squirrel took this photo. I am dead serious.
When I think of everything there is to know and learn, I get so excited my stomach hurts. This evening Steph and I went for sushi but had profiteroles and petite fours instead. Then we watched The Hours and talked about Virginia Woolf and listened to the radio broadcast she did for the BBC in
There’s really no way to take a photo with Flynn and not look like a squat little frog with Hitler-Hair (I’m not doing it on purpose, I swear.) So here’s the thing: When feeling frog-like I’ve found it best to channel the Monty Python troupe and just act FaR TOo SilLY. With that in mind,
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts. The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds. The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit
I’m exhausted. And my brain’s just not working right for me today. It wont sit still. I also keep tasting salt. I worry it’s some kind of aura, because that’s what it usually is. Every neurological episode I’ve ever had (my brain’s way faulty) has been proceeded by the inexplicable and lingering taste of salt
“One who is always swimming in the sea loves dry land; one who for ever is plunged in prose passionately longs for poetry.” – Chekhov —— On Seeing The Elgin Marbles by John Keats My spirit is too weak; mortality Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagined pinnacle and steep Of godlike
One should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art. Oscar Wilde said it. I believe it. I would gladly, and I mean this, wear either of these lovely little crinoline contraptions any day of the week, had I the figure, and my sister to walk alongside me wearing hers. Of
I’m just gonna say it. I’m not a fan of country music. But folk revival and bluegrass are in my blood. When we were married in the North of England, The Euro managed to find a bluegrass band for the reception. Dueling banjos, Foggy Mountain Breakdown, a little bit of something from the O’Brother soundtrack.
This short has been getting a lot of play time around the house lately – since my sister-in-law urged every one to “Vote for Maybe One Day by Chris Cottam” because “It’s great. And he is my lovely friend.” Well, we did. And, it is. Beautiful. Really. Everything from the lighting to the writing. Especially