Each member was given a photograph of a person.
Retrieving my folding stool from the spare room, grabbing a notepad and calling my dog, I head for the tree by my front gate. This has become base camp on my outdoor writing forays.
Even before the car stops, the living room curtains are moving. Climbing the front steps, the unmistakable thud of running feet sounds from within the house.
A surprised face appeared at the lace curtain beside the door. ‘Hello, Charlie! It’s nice of you to drop in,’ my Grandfather told me.
Longer days give time for grander adventures Beneath windows cicadas serenade children to sleep
Anonymous dogs bark, invisible in the thick, grey morning...
Diaries, journals, letters, shopping lists, poetry, prose – it is all writing, and it is all practice.