Binge My Blogs

A gluttony of words, glorious words 

 

Write Drunk, Edit (And Proof-Read) Sober

6 Solid Tips For Self-Proofing and Editing Success We all know you should at least find a good proof-reader. Love them, send them flowers, buy them coffee and cake, but most importantly pay them to proof your post before you hit publish, riddled with grammatical...

There’s No Aphrodisac Like A Good Testimonial

OK, it’s true. Maybe we both knew we were in this for a good time, not a long time. Still, we created something magical. You told me about the plans you had for us to work together again soon. But now I feel kind of weird about it, because you’ve left me…wanting.

The Language of Sedition

By the end of the Tudor dynasty the Cornish language had “nowhere to go but the sea” – find out how it came back from the brink

Four People You’ll Meet as a Newbie

We've All Been the Newbie It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, so they say.  When I first started walking the well-beaten path of the freelance copywriter world, I found myself wearing the Newbie hat for the first time in some years.  It's a hat I've worn before, and...

Four Things I'm Grateful For

It’s so important to embrace gratitude and give ourselves time to acknowledge it, to really feel it.  Today’s impromtu post is a list of little things I’m grateful for today.  1. Rest I woke up feeling happy and well-rested.  Miss 10 Months held on to wakefulness...

“When She Smiles, Is There Dimples?”

How My Miscarriage Helped Me Love the Little Things Even More "[T]iddlers in a jamjar...Buttermilk and whippets...Rock-a-bye-baby...Washing on the line...When she smiles, is there dimples?...What's the smell of parsley?" -- Dylan Thomas, 1953, Under Milk Wood I read...

Read me in Eureka Street: The Girls Are Exaggerating

How Australia’s ‘good bloke’ narrative silences women across generations.

I spent the first six or seven years of my life spellbound by my mum’s stories of her childhood in Far North Queensland. Herstory came from warm, outback and subtropical places. She and her sisters wrote on slates at school, played in custard apple trees, kept their own bees…

The girls are exaggerating, Peter said on the last day he beat his wife.

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