Ginge Reads

Photo by Danielle MacInnes  on Unsplash For someone starting out in the writing world, whether that be for publication or just for fun, one of the biggest challenges has always been finding what to write about. After all, that special idea or incredible plot twist must be worth taking time over. In fact, there is a huge difference between wanting to write and knowing what to write, which is often the downfall to many an aspiring writer. The simple answer? KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN . Writers are ultimately observers: the littlest, most insignificant things can inspire a story or prompt questions, and only after asking those questions and digging a little deeper can you discover your muse. Of course, oftentimes an idea will spring out from nowhere (such as J.K. Rowling’s experience sitting on a train and dreaming up Harry Potter ), but these little pieces of the everyday will remain essential in crafting a believable world within your story. Whether Sci-Fi or Romance, Adventure or H

Photo by Jonathan Cooper on Unsplash Female writers have arguably always been somewhat on the back-foot in the literary world, whether that be with writing and publishing, or simply with the reviews that inevitably follow. Yet for a society that claims inclusivity and gender equality, there still remains a shocking amount of unrest in this field.  A recent study (2018), by sociologist Dana Beth Weinberg and mathematician Adam Kapelner of Queens College-CUNY, has revealed that books by female authors are on average priced at nearly half (45% less) than that of those written by men. While it is little surprising to see segregation by genre and the different values placed on each genre, this figure is truly staggering. Research shows that there is also a huge lack of female writers in the professional fields of physics, computer science, maths and surgery, which is largely expected to continue for at least the rest of the century. J.K. Rowling (1999) Clearly, male author

Photo by Osman Rana on Unsplash Mechanic blasts of warmth, the wind it whines with heavy handed gusts from platform three. I dare to step over the yellow lines, To draw the more attention back to me. Sat slumped atop a polyester case that’s rain soaked and empty. Nails bitten red, someone should recognise this broken face as the guilty one that fled. The train it comes and empties out the crowd, and I am left with spotlight to my crime. A year of running, stitching my own shroud, this criminal deserves to do his time See me, call them, then please lock me away, For I am tired of acting as the prey

I was born in the British trenches of 1941, to a man that put his pen to work. The spray of bullets and crash of bombs turned to simple white noise as he poured out his heart to me. I creased with the curve of the knee on which he leant, and felt thick desperation run from his heart through to the pen nib. Four long months of separation had taken its toll, and by now he imagined how her belly would have swollen to a considerable bump. As he thought on this, I remember so clearly hearing the loud pounding of his heart through the thin fabric of his uniform. Kicking at a dull piece of shrapnel that lay close by on the muddied floor, his fists balled. What could he possibly tell her about this life? News of the daily suffering was hardly appropriate, and he wasn’t even sure of his exact location, let alone what tomorrow held. I willed him to write on, my bare back a blank canvas for his thoughts. Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash By now the sun was blocked by a heavy m