WRITERS IN THE ATTIC:

Louise Allan chats to Zoe Deleuil about her debut novel:

Zoë Deleuil: The Accidental Novel

by Louise Allan | Aug 30, 2021 | WRITERS IN THE ATTIC | 1 comment

I’m excited to welcome Zoe Deleuil, to the attic this week. Zoë is from Perth, Western Australia, but now lives in Berlin with her family. I remember running into Zoe at the Perth Writers Festival a few years ago (in the women’s loos, of course!), and chatting at length about her book and finding it a home, so I’m thrilled that the The Night Village is now out in the world. READ THE FULL INTERVIEW

http://louiseallan.com/2021/08/30/zoe-deleuil-the-accidental-novel/?fbclid=IwAR0dN3iNp2F13RD6ciu95h1b9Y8QC-eCkGykMrore38jn5U7c3W59ed4eqw

#WritersInTheAttic #LouiseAllan #ZoeDeleuil #FremantlePress #HungerfordAward #WritingInWA #WAWriters #WesternAustralia

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Seeing Red

Not my words – it’s Lynda Bullerwell Poetry but I love this one – it deserves a re-blog.

AUGUST 26, 2016 / LYNDA BULLERWELL POETRY

You can sit in your easy chair
mocking tired old commercials
and checking lotto numbers
to see if you got lucky,

or you can be like the cardinal,
up at 5:00 am each morning,
tapping on my window,
(even on Saturdays)
just to make sure I’m awake,

then, leaving me
in a red cloud of dust
with a smile

and seeds
to grow a poem.

~

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The Screenwriters Bible

How Quentin Tarantino Has Influenced Cinema (Part 1) (creativescreenwriting.com)

CREATIVE SCREENWRITING magazine is a Screenwriters Bible. Here’s another great series and essential knowledge for anyone who writes for page, stage or screen.

How Quentin Tarantino Has Influenced Cinema (Part 1)

• By  Michael Lee Simpson
• .August  19, 2021

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This entry is part 1 of 1 in the series Quentin Tarantino

• How Quentin Tarantino Has Influenced Cinema (Part 1)

In the mid-1980s, a video rental store in Manhattan Beach, California blended in with the traffic on North Sepulveda Blvd. It was called Video Archives, owned by film fanatics Lance Lawson and Rick Humbert. VHS and Betamax tapes lined the shelves, the aisles stacked with Westerns like Shane and The Searchers, classics from the Golden Era— Casablanca and Citizen Kane — horror slashers like Halloween and The Evil Dead, and more modern movies — Stand by Me and The Breakfast Club. Unpredictable at the time, they were running a breeding ground for Hollywood success stories. Frequent customers were Jeff Maguire, who would later pen the screenplay for Clint Eastwood’s In the Line of Fire, Josh Olson, who would write A History of Violence and Batman: Gotham Knight and John Langley, who would create COPS and revolutionize television. READ FULL ARTICLE.

#CreativeScreenwriting #TheScreenwritersBible #QuentinTarantino #EssentialKnowlege #WritingForScreen #Screenwriters

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The Script Lab: Cringeworthy Moments.

THE SCRIPT LAB Magazine, always worth a read:

The Most Cringeworthy Movie Moments & How to Avoid Them in Your Script

By Alex EdgeAugust 18, 2021Blogs

What makes these scenes so cringy?

There have been many moments in cinema that are toe-curlingly cringy, but do we ever stop to understand why? Below I have provided a few examples of movies that have some pretty cringeworthy scenes, dialogue, and deliveries in hopes of showing you what not to do.

In no particular order, let the cringe begin! READ FULL ARTICLE.

#TheScriptLabMag #Scriptwriting #CringeMoments #MovieMistakes #WriteForCinema

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The Empty Chair

This deserves a reblog… one of my favourite contemporary poems doing exactly what it is supposed to do – make me feel!

Perth Words... exploring possibilities.

Periodically, I read poems posted on a blog called Write Out Loud even now and then, post one or two myself. 

Last week, one of my favourite contributors, David Moore posted a poignant poem which reminded me so much of my dad. 

With his kind permission I am reprinting it here but if you’d like to hear David read it as well, go directly to the original posting by clicking this link for Write Out Loud. 

The Empty Chair

The empty chair is unimpressed

its vacant care bereft, un-blessed,

with threadbare arms and scuffed footrest

in lonely sitting room, undressed.

It squats in rays of slatted light

unknowing of the day or night,

no to and fro of padding feet

it’s just a chair, so incomplete.

The chair is nothing now he’s gone

just something he once sat upon,

where soon there’ll be an empty space

for something else…

View original post 15 more words

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Koffee Korner Kafé…

Today I find myself thinking about Ireland – the wonderful places, people, voices and travelling to Dungarvan from Midleton, in Cork.

Jack Lynch Tunnel – photo by Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

Koffee Korner Kafé

Rows of Midleton houses seem to move in 
the crisp, sharp air, like the branches of 100
-year-old trees, bare for winter cold but weighted
- old with wisdom, moving slowly, waving up 

and down, like high galleons majestically 
sailing on the windy ebb and flow. Wide, smooth 
empty ring roads follow estuarine edges 
through emerald fields. Houses-that-all-look-the-same 

estates, industrial cities, port-type wharf 
cranes erect and ready.  The Jack Lynch tunnel 
disappears under water, coastal traders 
above.  Chugging cross-river ferries waltz with 

Titanic cruise-ships. Tenders nudging, budging,
control the dance.  Cobh. Turn-off , road narrows with
stone uprights guiding, bordering ancient foot-
falls way, animal-hoof routes. Rising, riding 

bridges built over ancient wild waterways  
flowing through battlefields and forested hills.
We travel paths that meander seemingly 
anywhere but straight ahead - where we want to 

go. Sideways, byways. Avoiding craters that 
require filling, positioned perilously,
making it fun to drive, swerving here and there 
for tractors. Dungarvan town sleeps in school-time, 

a quiet  waiting-place.  Old bridge spans to Prince 
John’s Castle and fresh new four-stories modern
overlooking calm Brickey’s tidal flow, hides 
more secrets than any one man can know or 

remember. We trod the cobblestones, leaning 
forward in the breeze, audibly aware of 
intoned melodies caught in doorways and cars 
as the courteous cruise with windows down in 

the warmth. Walking through Market Square, holding coats 
close, feeling echoes of Town Centre Seventeen
Hundred.  Butter market, slick with Council men
and Spirited characters in United Irishmen Power.  

Feeling occupation, execution, all 
history held in a narrow staircase, that
oft-painted hidden door to the second floor. 
The Koffee Korner Kafé.  It’s the tenth of 

the tenth in two thousand and two - a six day.  
We’re sitting in this space, no bigger than some
-one’s lounge or front room, they’re called here. Perched high 
on a kitchen chair, we’ve just ordered coffee

and cottage pie from Mary.  I feel Ireland.  
I feel the frustration of a language lost
and beaten away in disgust.  The despair 
of those who take some pride in their mother tongue 

now taught to the young but only spoken at 
home - not in public where judgement rules – except 
here. My untutored ear hears the Viking, sees 
the sail of his ship, hears the memory, lilt

of liquid walls, breaking in rhythm, strange 
but still familiar in tone and melody. 
Often almost indistinguishable to 
the foreign ear, - the heavy brogue – the sound of 

Eire today. We swallow the sweet warmth and wait 
with the town, bracing itself for uniforms 
on the loud hunt for Sherbert treats in exchange 
for brain labour. A no-worries future. No 

famine here. Youth with fresh focus and knowing 
eye on EU opportunities. Techi-haven 
Ireland spawns aggressive enterprise, 
ripe, eager to take advantage in the ‘Now’.

Overseas interests, brash pharmaceutical 
relationship phallus-fixers, expel puffs 
of bottom-line money into grateful small 
country coffers. Tax advantage gateway to 

Europe ‘so t‘is’, set up, employ, fill the cup 
of industry in her village halls. While car
license plates display everyman riches since 
the century turned.  The Little Man gaily

lurches from one wealthy franchise to the next, 
celebrates, independence - Gaelic road names.
I lean closer, strain my ears - listen with pride; 
and relish the sounds of the language of here.


Frances Macaulay Forde © 2002 

Another memory of WATERFORD and HURLING.

#POEM:KoffeeKornerKafe   #IRISHPoems  #FrancesMacaulayForde   #MIDLETONCork  #DUNGARVAN  #IrishNotebook

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