Artistic licence

I have too many writing books. They’re not instruction manuals or guides to sculpting a perfect sentence.

They belong in a fuzzier category, say self-help for writers. Some of them I’ve read several times, underlining entire pages and using up packets of sticky, lollipopcoloured bookmarks.

I’m so familiar with my favourites that I can match them to my moods. For the literary equivalent of a maternal hug, I’ll grab Bird by Bird by ...