Welcome. Anonymous Author holds a mirror to the face of humanity, asking what it really means to be human,

and in doing so blurs the line between what is good and bad writing.

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Thursday, December 1, 2011


Callum 34. Impossibly Ripely handsome. Art English teacher. Too kind, too sincere, popular, envied. (A bit of me??). Carl 32. Courier franchisee. Withered. Manipulative, sardonic, evil, scathing, mean, magnetic. (A bit of me??).
Karyn 28. Landscape gardener. Earthy beauty. Vulnerable, pleasant, introvert, considerate, damaged.
(A bit of me??)
The character outlines were framed with radiating pen strokes, like cartoon suns, which elevated them as somehow more vital. The inky lines gave the words a lustre, as neon tubes give to opaque signs. 
The story, set in Christchurch over one spring day and titled The Verdant City, would, the author planned, harvest meaning from fertile imagery – the garden as metaphor for life, where a sharp-nibbed pen prunes crowded sentences and light promotes truth.
At any moment you’ll be discovered and planted deeply into the bitter truth of this place. Who would say that? The author didn’t allocate the line to a character, and she was undecided whether or not to include it; in case critics pounce upon it as autobiographical; for fear this new sphere I inhabit named ‘recent divorcee’ stains every page, faintly but indelibly like a watermark. Every fiction must embrace unavoidable elements of fact.
The story was ready to be written...