Writing stop 30-09-2017

Today I drove west from Bridge of Cally, through some small villages including the world famous Dull, then found myself not lost, but not quite sure where I was — but when it looks like this, who cares.

I didn’t get much written, but it was a spectacular place to stop and have a cuppa and catch my breath for a half-hour.

Onward to Oban tomorrow, and a lunch of UK’s best fish & chips.

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Author: A.J.

I have written as far back as I can recall. Until 2011, that writing was just for me, or as rambling letters to friends and travelogues to the family. I never thought about why, or if others did similarly, and the thought of publishing never entered my head. Since I left England in 1979, I have been collecting experiences, people, and places. From the blood-soaked streets of Kampala, the polluted dust bowls of the Sahara, or the pristine ice floes of the Antarctic, I have gathered and filed them away. Some have recently squeezed through the bars of insecurity and are now at large in the pages of my first three novels. Others await their future fates.

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