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I Am Not A Serial Killer – Recommendation

John Wayne Cleaver is dangerous, and he knows it.

He’s spent his life doing his best not to live up to his potential.

He’s obsessed with serial killers, but really doesn’t want to become one. So for his own sake, and the safety of those around him, he lives by rigid rules he’s written for himself, practicing normal life as if it were a private religion that could save him from damnation.

Dead bodies are normal to John. He likes them, actually. They don’t demand or expect the empathy he’s unable to offer. Perhaps that’s what gives him the objectivity to recognize that there’s something different about the body the police have just found behind the Wash-n-Dry Laundromat—and to appreciate what that difference means.

Now, for the first time, John has to confront a danger outside himself, a threat he can’t control, a menace to everything and everyone he would love, if only he could.

Dan Wells’ debut novel is the first volume of a trilogy that will keep you awake and then haunt your dreams.


Dan Wells is a thriller and science fiction writer. Born in Utah, he spent his early years reading and writing. He is he author of the Partials series (Partials, Isolation, Fragments, and Ruins), the John Cleaver series (I Am Not a Serial Killer, Mr. Monster, and I Don’t Want To Kill You), and a few others (The Hollow City, A Night of Blacker Darkness, etc). He was a Campbell nomine for best new writer, and has won a Hugo award for his work on the podcast Writing Excuses; the podcast is also a multiple winner of the Parsec Award.

 

July Updates

Hey all,

I realise I didn’t write my Wednesday Book Review yesterday. I apologise for that. Instead I have been working on revamping my personal website: Nthato Morakabi.com

Here are the updates I’ve made so far:

Book Reviews

While this blog has been going strong with book reviews (okay kinda strong), I’ve been neglecting to update my personal website and it’s book reviews. My last review on it was Tales from Alternate Earths, on October 27, 2016. It’s almost been a whole year. So during the course of this week I will be updating as necessary.

Author Spotlight

I’m still taking book review requests. I’ve been contacted by a few authors so you’ll be seeing more of those books in future reviews. This includes David Meredith’s second book Aaru, J.T Lawrence’s two books Why You Were Taken and The Memory of Water. I was quite pleased to see these books in our local chain bookstore Exclusive Books. Really exciting to see Janita and her books grow!

Author Spotlight is an opportunity to acknowledge the amazing authors out there whose books I had been privileged to read.

Gamecca – Independent Game Developer Interviews

It’s been two years now since I started doing interviews with both local and international Indie Game developers. I’ll be cataloging every interview, studio and game in a new section of my personal website. Not a gaming blog at all, just an opportunity to thank and show off the talented game devs out there.

Gamecca Indie Game Developer Interviews

I’ve also been contemplating a separate game blog. Who knows. Maybe one day.

Writing

You may have noticed I’ve been sort of consistent now with my Friday Fiction. I’ve also been writing on Wattpad under a different pseudonym entering various writing challenges. I’m not participating in Camp NaNo this month but I am working on a number of stories.

Seeing all my writer friends and acquaintances making a name for themselves has been an inspiration.

Nothing else major is happening so far. I guess only the future will reveal itself. Until then, let’s all continue to push the limits of our capabilities.


Remember you can sign up to my SPAM-free monthly Newsletter for all updates here: Nthato Morakabi.com.

Hypocritical

Hypocritical,

These thoughts critical,

To my growth, spiritual

Yet daily I lack the strength and conviction to remain biblical.

Yet Prayers,

On barred heavenly layers,

My heart joining nay-sayers,

I’m disease ridden, call the CDC, I’m just an NPC among real players.

*

Hypocritical,

These thoughts heretical,

I’m at a stage critical,

Falling within pyres and hell’s fires where grace is my only miracle.

Daily invocation,

Sins of a generation,

Lost. I’m in a state of desolation,

No hope just trying to grope the rope leading to salvation.

*

“For by grace you been saved,”

Yet by sin I am enslaved.

Actions so despicable.

I am… Hypocritical.

 

 

Everything Everything – Recommendation

My disease is as rare as it is famous. Basically, I’m allergic to the world. I don’t leave my house, have not left my house in seventeen years. The only people I ever see are my mom and my nurse, Carla.

But then one day, a moving truck arrives next door. I look out my window, and I see him. He’s tall, lean and wearing all black—black T-shirt, black jeans, black sneakers, and a black knit cap that covers his hair completely. He catches me looking and stares at me. I stare right back. His name is Olly.

Maybe we can’t predict the future, but we can predict some things. For example, I am certainly going to fall in love with Olly. It’s almost certainly going to be a disaster.


I recently went to watch the movie version of this book and to my surprise and delight, I sincerely enjoyed it. Hoping to capture that magic with this book too.


Nicola Yoon grew up in Jamaica (the island) and Brooklyn (part of Long Island). She currently resides in Los Angeles, CA with her husband and daughter, both of whom she loves beyond all reason. Everything, Everything is her first novel.

Apartment 12B

 

It was a week later that Apartment 12B swayed. Guttural whispers fell against the wooden door padlocked with a series of golden chain locks and a single metal bar as thick as a baseball bat. An ewer from St. Peter’s Basilica rattled across the floor, splattering holy water over the wooden panels, only for the liquid to evaporate in dark tendrils.

Beyond the apartment, harsh pebbles of rain lashed the transom window. The horizontal venetian blinds quivered against the glass, filling the dim room with incessant tapping.  Within the stark room stood a beige second-hand couch, bought from the ancient auburn head owner of Elise’s Pawn Shoppe on the corner of Marshall and Green. A rickety mahogany table, from the same place, angled away from the couch. Dirty coffee cups left stained rings on the wood where a heavy, leather bound King James lay haphazardly open to Matthew 3. Verse two highlighted with the red squiggly circles of madness.

“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.”

*

Elise Chambers was an aberrant old hag originating from one of the obscure Scandinavian countries. A refugee turned citizen, she’d set up Elise’s Pawn Shoppe in August 1972 with the help of her now departed husband Nathaniel Chambers. While many had found her flaming auburn hair puzzling, the beauty and presence she radiated left all who met her charmed.

Many who entered the establishment were both surprised and pleased by the quality and value of the items she sold at bargain prices. In fact, rumours once circulated that her husband was merely an accountant by day and an infamous antique embezzler by night. Though these rumours fell away quickly and replaced with darker, ominous whispers. Those that Elise Chambers was secretly a witch. Now in her old age, the constant stoop to her gait and the odd mumblings she spewed every once in a while, seemed to substantiate this ancient rumour.

Josiah Coleman had moved from Lower Parkhurst to Langdon following a prospective job offer. Previously a store clerk at Jay Jay’s department store, a new branch in Langdon promised the possibility of promotion to General Manager.

His long-time girlfriend and hopeful fiancé, Alyssa Walker, followed him to Langdon with devoted attachment.

Green Street hummed with quiet foot traffic and an odd car every few minutes. Garden Court, Waverley Heights, and Sunset Pines rose up along the street in brick and glass and painted walls.

Josiah and Alyssa entered Kamilah Court’s recently paved walkway hand in hand.  Giggles flitted between them like high school lovers in the early stages of their relationship. A selection of vehicles were parked in the lot, particularly a blood red Land Rover with Hamilton Real Estate painted on its sides. They’d been together three years that warm March morning, four in another six months where Josiah hoped to propose. The bricked building rose eight storeys high. Railed balconies stuck out at every odd window like stubs of grated tongues.

They entered the wooden double doors with budding excitement, taking in the drab white painted walls and plain single seater leather seats. There was nothing unique about the place yet the prospect of starting anew sparked something in them.

Esther Washington, their real estate agent, met them at the hallway with a wide smile. She was a tall glass of water. A rich, thick afro glistened under the fluorescent lighting. Her tight fitting bright red dress suit fit her snugly like a second skin.

“Mr. Coleman?”

“Josiah, please.” His voice seemed clogged in his throat. Then, remembering the woman clinging to him, “And this is uh Alyssa.”

Esther Washington shook both their hands then gestured towards the front desk. A bald, portly man looked up at them from the top of his wireframe glasses. They reflected an ongoing game of solitaire.

“Looking good today Esther.” His eyes barely passed over the couple. They drank in the real estate agent with a hint of desire.

“Thanks Joey. We heading up to 12B, that okay?”

“No problemo. Remember the elevator is broken. Gonna have ter take the stairs.”

She sighed irritably.

“We’ll be a’right.”

He nodded at her slowly and turned back to his game.

“That’s Joey. He’s one of the security guards in the building. Anything you need he can help you get. And sorry about the long walk.”

Josiah nodded slowly. Alyssa held on to Josiah’s arm tighter. She didn’t like the way he looked at Esther.

They stepped through the door into a cool aquamarine spiralling staircase. Alyssa gazed up through the oblong coiling stairs that reminded her of the Fibonacci spiral, only in the shape of a square. It ended in looked like a sunroof as she could see the blue of the sky from beyond. She turned to Josiah to tell him and found that he was staring at Esther as she climbed the stairs. Her hips swaying with each step.

She followed quietly though her thoughts were anything but quiet.

*

Following the quick look around the apartment, and Josiah and Alyssa establishing that it might be more expensive than anticipated, Josiah surprisingly agreed to the price anyway. Esther promised to bring the papers the next day and suggested the couple look at Elise’s Pawn Shoppe for cheap but aesthetic furnishing for the place.

So it was an hour later, walking down towards the end of Green Street that Alyssa raised her concern,

“I thought we couldn’t afford the place.” It was a statement not a question.

“Yeah but its real close to work and there’s a kindergarten too where you can find work.” He did his little playful grin but the look on Alyssa’s face told him it was time for that.

“Taken a real shine to Esther huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Josiah brushed the comment off. Bad idea.

“Right.” And that was it. But anyone knows that when a woman raises that kind of concern and then brushes it off, it’s not over. Not even close.

 

The pawn shop was a homely little place directly on the corner of Green and Marshall, looking out towards a quiet intersection. Surprisingly there were no hawkers on the street, not that either of them noticed. The large front windows revealed an array of lamps, vases and gleaming vanity sets. While the furniture looked old, they carried an air of newness to them. Like they had been freshly cleaned not moments before.

They entered the store with a jingle from a hanging bell. Immediately they were struck with a waft of nostalgia. Josiah remembered Granny Dorothy’s living room. Of floor polish and freshly washed linen. Of Granny Dorothy knitting a sweater as she sunk into her floral armchair. Alyssa remembered the lime kitchen walls of Mewa Betty as she cleaned counter tops with rigorous flaps of her arm while Sunday lunch cooked in what seemed like an endless series of pots. Of the underlying aroma of something archaic obscured by wafts of fresh pine.

“Ah a budding couple on the cusps of mov’n in togeda yas?” Elise Chambers hobbled from seemingly out of nowhere and approached the parted couple.

“Ah yes.” Josiah replied. He scratched his head out of nervous habit. Alyssa cast an annoyed glance at him.

“Seems like ders trouble in paradise ‘dou.”

Alyssa, in her quiet fury, left the two and moved to a different section. She noticed a glass ewer that was apparently from St. Peter’s Basilica, filled with holy water blessed by the pope himself.

“Just a little squabble.” Josiah eventually replied, “We were recommended here by Esther Washington…”

“Ah yes. Tall woman shaped like a coke bottle yes yes she recommend people all da time. I know what you need.”

Josiah followed the old woman through the shop.

Elise led him past a section of brass instruments gleaming like the sun itself. Music systems both ancient and modern, with speakers and amplifiers lined together on triple layered metal shelves. Near the back end of the store was the furniture section and immediately a beige, polyester couch stood out to Josiah.

“How much for this?” He asked, turning to face her. For a moment he saw Elise as a young woman with fiery red hair and smouldering grey-blue eyes,

“How much would it be worth to you?” Her voice slithered across the back of his head. Warm as an embrace. Refreshing as a breeze.

“Alyssa Walker for Esther Washington.” He breathed.

Her lips curled up into a mischievous smile as she approached him slowly. A sultry tigress about to devour her prey. Josiah’s heart pulsated suddenly and wholly. Heat spreading across his forehead. She pushed him backwards against the couch and he was falling. Falling. Falling. He’d already forgotten the price he’d been willing to pay.

*

It was a week later that Apartment 12B swayed. Guttural whispers fell against the locked wooden door.

Josiah Coleman gripped the couch. Droplets of sweat cascaded down his large furrowed brows, staining the soft polyester seats. His eyes, almost black as coal, stared at the ceiling unseeing. The white boards fluctuating in and out of focus with the wavering apartment. His thick lips mumbled scripture into the air, quivering

“The voice of one crying in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord; make His paths straight.”

But heaven was deafened to his words and only the rasping whispers beyond the wooden portal heard his words. And replied.

-God can’t hear you now-

-Repentance is futile-

-The roaring lion seeks to devour you-

-The serpent awaits-

“No!”

Josiah bolted upright and grabbed the holy tome from the table, a page tearing out between his trembling hands. And another. And another. They fluttered about him like gargantuan moths.

From across the room, the body of Alyssa Walker gawped at the door. Abyssal apertures gaped where her eyes and mouth should have been. A ragged breath crawled from her throat as a bulbous black insect ruptured its way out of the pink of her tongue in obsidian bubbles. The wings beat once.

Chain locks quietly slid across their respective golden tracks and rattled against the door frame. The metal bar screeched its way open and the door burst open with the fury of a hurricane. Josiah leapt to his feet facing the door.

“Time to pay the price Josiah Coleman.” Esther Washington entered the apartment with a grin. Her dark afro writhed as though it were made of bugs threatening to crawl down her face. The face that shimmered with Elise Chamber’s features.

“Please!” Josiah wheezed. Warmth quickly radiated into glacial surges of fear filling his head, chest and back. A warmth trickled down his pant leg.

“It is already done.”

Alyssa groaned from behind and Josiah spun around to face the woman he loved. The gaping holes in her face were quickly teeming with more of the bugs, wings oscillating to life with the growing swarm covering her body. She quivered to life and rose on her heels like a puppet pulled forward. Arms outstretched. She coughed and hacked and heaved, her body bending forward at an impossible 90 degrees.

A wet, slithering sound filled the room as one last hack coughed up Alyssa’s writhing black heart. It squelched on the floor and burst into a thousands of black shiny bugs that immediately rushed at Josiah. He shrieked. He ran straight into Elise/Esther who burst apart like scattered flies. When he turned back she was in her normal form. But her head was on backwards.

“Dear God!” Josiah screamed.

He didn’t notice the metal railing until the top half of his body was already leaning over. He was falling. The spiral stairs grew smaller with each passing second.

Like a cubical Fibonacci sequence.

Eleanor and Park – Review

Title: Eleanor and Park

Author: Rainbow Rowell

Genre: Young Adult Romance

Book procurement: Received a copy from the author for an honest review. Currently available on Amazon.

Synopsis:

Two misfits.
One extraordinary love.

Eleanor… Red hair, wrong clothes. Standing behind him until he turns his head. Lying beside him until he wakes up. Making everyone else seem drabber and flatter and never good enough…Eleanor.

Park… He knows she’ll love a song before he plays it for her. He laughs at her jokes before she ever gets to the punch line. There’s a place on his chest, just below his throat, that makes her want to keep promises…Park.

Set over the course of one school year, this is the story of two star-crossed sixteen-year-olds—smart enough to know that first love almost never lasts, but brave and desperate enough to try.

Review:

First Thoughts

Oh man, this book makes me want to fall in love and experience all the gushy, mushy feelings of finding that one person who just gets you on a whole different level.

Every time I listen to Joy Division – Love Will Tear Us Apart – this book and its characters come to mind and my chest just fills up with incredible warmth. That’s how much I loved this book.

Writing

It is written with so much passion and realism and heartfelt emotion, I could imagine Eleanor and Park and Tina and Beeby and DeNice and Steven as real people. Tangible. As though I could go to that location and meet them in person.

Not only that, but to be able to experience the emotions of the characters without it feeling forced or cliche or anything of the sort – well that’s real talent. That’s what books are supposed to do. Suspended disbelief literally had my heart aflutter for a while.

It’s more than just a story about a girl in a difficult life and world experiencing the joy’s of meeting someone who takes her breath away. It’s more than just a story about a guy who meets a girl who just completes a hole he didn’t know he had. It’s not just another typical boy meets girl/girl meets boy kind of story. It’s richer. It’s stronger. It’s real.

Final Thoughts

It’s just an amazing book and I can’t fault it. I went through the ups and downs. I wanted to slap a few characters. I wanted to hug a few characters. I was completely enthralled by Rainbow Rowell’s writing style.

As a fan of horror and sci-fi, this romance was a breath of fresh air. With the right hint of humour, geeky knowledge trivia and music I actually listen to. Fantastic book. Fantastic read.

Rating: An amazing 5 out of 5

The Dead Tell No Tales

Like leaves, green in morning spring,

Decayed flesh rises from watery ring,

The early bird catching the worm,

Maggots in eyes wriggle and squirm.

*

The dead tell no tales,

The Devil in the details,

Slashed throats tell no lies,

The Saint in the widow’s cries.

*

As darkness descends, it stalks the night,

Stars illuminating the victims plight,

Winter’s cold breath with gleaming steel,

Plunging through skin with religious zeal.


Been discovering and reading interesting horrors from authors Ramsey Campbell and Tom Piccirilli among others. Have you read something that inspired your writing?

 

Battle Royale – Recommendation

Koushun Takami’s notorious high-octane thriller is based on an irresistible premise: a class of junior high school students is taken to a deserted island where, as part of a ruthless authoritarian program, they are provided arms and forced to kill one another until only one survivor is left standing.

Criticized as violent exploitation when first published in Japan – where it then proceeded to become a runaway bestseller – Battle Royale is a Lord of the Flies for the 21st century, a potent allegory of what it means to be young and (barely) alive in a dog-eat-dog world.

Made into a controversial hit movie of the same name, Battle Royale is already a contemporary Japanese pulp classic, now available for the first time in the English language.


Koushun Takami (高見 広春 Takami Kōshun) is the author of the novel Battle Royale, originally published in Japanese, and later translated into English by Yuji Oniki and published by Viz Media and, later, in an expanded edition by Haika Soru, a division of Viz Media.

Takami was born in Amagasaki, Hyōgo Prefecture near Osaka and grew up in the Kagawa Prefecture of Shikoku. After graduating from Osaka University with a degree in literature, he dropped out of Nihon University’s liberal arts correspondence course program. From 1991 to 1996, he worked for the news company Shikoku Shimbun, reporting on various fields including politics, police reports, and economics.

The novel Battle Royale was completed after Takami left the news company. It was rejected in the final round of the literary competition for which it was intended, owing to its controversial content. It went on to become a bestseller when finally released in 1999 and, a year later, was made into a manga and a feature film.

He is currently working on a second novel.


Vicky (booksandstrips) or I think it was Jen (fictionalJenn) recommended this movie and then said it was actually based on a book, which I found and want to read. The movie was fascinating!

Any movies which were initially books are you interested in watching? Have you read the books?

Apartment

 

 

The weekend crept by too slowly. Wednesday was the hardest as the real estate agent called to inform me the tenants had moved out of the apartment on 7th Street. I was free to move in when I was ready. As a young man of twenty four, I was ready for a life of independence.

Warren from sales walked up to my desk Thursday afternoon with that lanky sluggish gait, like a two-legged giraffe.

“You ready for the weekend sesh bro?” He asked. A toothy smile stretched across his long face.

“Weekend sesh? What weekend sesh?”

“Dude it’s my party on Friday right through to Sunday. Did you forget already?”

I had.

“Uhhh gee. I don’t know. I’m supposed to move in to my new place on Saturday.”

“It’s cool bro, we’ll party up Friday and then Saturday I’ll help you move. Don’t ditch me.” He pleaded with slumped shoulders.

I shrugged.

“Can I let you know?”

“No you can’t… you always say that before a no.”

“Ugh… fine.” He grinned madly,

“Sweet! Don’t ditch me bro.”

“Yeah yeah.” I smiled. While I wasn’t close with Warren, we got along better than most of the people at the company. I’d known him for almost two years now and had partied often enough with him. I was sure it would be great.

It was.

*

Friday after work I decided to take some of the lighter stuff to the apartment. It was a one bedroom bachelor flat with a sitting room and kitchenette. White tiles throughout the place. There were two wide windows, one in the sitting room and the other in my bedroom. Both looked out into apartments across the road and a quiet street below.

I set up the coffee table and a beanbag. In the kitchen I put in the cutlery and crockery. The bedroom I left last to see how much space I had for the bed and my computer. I looked around pleased with this new step into adulthood before changing into party clothes and heading out to Warren’s place.

Warren’s party was lit. There were perhaps thirty people in total. Booze was flowing and his ping-pong table had been set up for beer pong. Music blared through the house, his parent’s house. Girls and guys were dancing everywhere. We partied hard until 2AM.

It was lit.

*

I woke up Saturday morning with a soft pounding across the left side of my head. Everything felt sluggish, like I was moving through water. My phone bleeped with a message. It was the real estate agent asking if I needed help with the move. I replied with a no then decided to check my phone gallery.

I swiped through the memories. A quiet chuckle every few moments from the craziness of it. Then I stopped.

A tremble swept through my hand.

The next couple of images were not of the party but of my apartment. Specifically of me in my apartment. Most were blurry but there were a few clear images. For a moment I wondered who had taken them. Then it hit me. I had been alone the entire time.

I rushed to Warren’s bedroom to wake him up. He lay on top of the bed as though he’d passed out in the middle of undressing.

“Warren. Warren!” I shook him hard. His eyes blinked open slowly and he mumbled something before passing out again. By now a weight was pressing against my chest. I hurried out to find my keys and let myself out of the house.

I sped my way to the apartment.

*

The apartment was as bare as I had left it. Morning sunlight lit a patch on the floor from the window. I had yet to put up curtains.

I pulled out my phone to see the images again, checking the vantage of each of them. Many of the images were from the apartment door and I figured someone had maybe found my phone and took the pictures. Someone trying to freak me out. A neighbour who doesn’t want a new tenant. Some weirdo pulling a prank. Relief was threatening to take over only the other images were of me in the bedroom.

I moved through the entire place, checking the walls for holes or cameras or something. Anything to make sense of the craziness. Nothing. I checked my phone again with panic easing in. There was a new image.

And another.

And another.

Goosebumps broke across my skin. My pounding headache seemed to blare harder as I fought the tremble sweeping through me.

“Who is here!?”

My voice was strong. Confident. The opposite of how I felt. I sped through the apartment, checking everything and everywhere.

“Who is here!” I screamed this time. No reply.

It’s nothing, I told my self, attempting to control my breathing. I looked at my phone with trembling hands. Hoping I was imaging it all. Hoping it was a prank of some sort and a camera crew would pop out of the ceiling and tell me, “You’ve been pranked!” or something.

A new image appeared in the gallery. The photo was of my back exactly where I stood. My shoulders immediately tingled with cold static that crawled down my spine. Whatever it was, was behind me. I wanted to look back. Had to look back. Had to face whatever it was but every part of me was frozen with fear.

That was when a hand grabbed my shoulder with an icy grip, and a cold breath blew against my ear,

“You’re mine now.”


Has anything freaky ever happened to you? Any “true life” ghost stories to share? I would love to know.

You’re Definitely a Writer

I always thought being a writer meant spending the day working on books and short stories. Maybe editing, occasionally writing blog posts about your upcoming work and of course the usual social media thing.

Well I’m a writer by profession… a Technical Writer. I write those help documents and blog posts you see on websites that help you figure out how a program or system works. Like the support page on Mail chimp or an online FAQ.

This opened up my world; there’s a whole world open to writers.

My Writing Styles

I write for perhaps 12-13 hours a day, 9 of which are at work, the other 3-4 is spent on personal work or writing for Gamecca. While fatigue may seep in I found it doesn’t happen often. The reason is simple; I don’t write in the same style all day.

Technical Writing:

As you might imagine, Technical writing focuses on a very stringent, grammatically strong, rules based writing. Of using active voice instead of passive. Writing in a professional yet relatable tone. Keeping sentences short and concise. Ensuring vocabulary is not superfluous and confusing. Being consistent in style, tone, and perspective. Writing a logical progression of thought with a intro, body and conclusion format.

Game Journalist Writing:

As enjoyable and illustrious as this may sound, it’s not always fun and games (puns hehe). It’s still a great experience don’t get me wrong. Specifically I write game previews, book reviews, and conduct interviews with independent game developers. It’s a combination of technical writing and my own style and voice.

With previews, I look at upcoming games and write a condensed 250-350 word impression of it. Asking questions like: What is the game about? What view do I have on it? Is there a history to the game or developer? What interesting thing is there to say about the game? Answering these can be easy when the developer has a whole spiel of info. Other times I’m trying to siphon 250 words out of a 25 word brief and that’s never easy.

Interviews are so much easier but longer to compile.

Book Reviews

I do book reviews because its fun. The reading itself can be an enjoyable experience but trying to contain those emotions and thoughts into a concise, fair review? It can be quite a challenge. My book reviews tend to be more about my experience of the book. I think less about the structure of writing compared to when I do technical writing.

Fictional Writing

When I delve into my stories, my mind is so focused on what I’m writing I sometimes neglect that basics of writing. Things like punctuation and structure and superfluous descriptions and  grammar and whatever rules I would normally abide to. It’s a freedom of the rules while also using them as guidelines. Its about tone and style and perspective. About characters and story. Not that I neglect all the rules, but I occasionally break them for the sake of story.

Writing in General

Of course there is so much more to say on all these things. Each one I’ve highlighted can be broken down and explored separately to explain the thought processes they need.

There’s also all types of writing out there, subsections in both fiction and non-fiction. We could all be writers and be writing in completely different categories. The journalist vs the fantasy writer. The mystery writer vs narrative nonfiction writer. The self-help book writer vs the Sci-fi writer.

Suffice to say writing is not just a little box. Just because you’re not writing fiction doesn’t mean you’re not a writer. This gives me comfort. Knowing that the 9 hours I spend at work writing technical documents still counts as writing. As improvement that cascades across all other types of writing I do.

I’ve seen improvement in my writing already and that gives me hope.

Nthato Morakabi

Author | Blogger | Artist | Geek

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