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...
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