Emily Paull

Tomorrow morning, bright and early, some friends and i will pack up the cars and head south for a little holiday to celebrate the end of our high school days. While i'm not necessarily going for the purpose of writing, I am going to relax, collect my thoughts and let myself slide into the long, 3 months of abyss... i mean break. (I'm the kind of person who thrives off of structure, and loves to be challenged if it means i get a chance to prove things to people... perhaps thats why i cleaned so much so fast at work today.) The best thing about going away is that it is a parent free retreat, which means the eight of us will be given a chance to act as responsible as possible, meaning that surely, hilarity will ensue. I'm looking forward to journaling it all, to file away for later writing (memoirs perhaps, at the end of a long, literary career) and more than anything else, i'm looking forward to cementing for the years to come, the friendships that will matter. Not ...

And so it begins... exams and school are over; new jobs are starting; new friendships will emerge; older ones might become a little less frequently acted upon. It's time to learn a few truths about life. That, I believe, is fast becoming a discovery which I am making in relation to the writing of my novel. It seems to be evident that growing up, being the age of about 17, becomes about learning truths such as learning about balance. Of course, the theme of my book works with this but on a much more historical tangent. I'm still researching my novel heavily, I've been told that this is a good idea, because of the subject matter of the segment on which I am about to begin work.

I can barely believe it myself! I have been shortlisted in this year's Katharine Susannah Pritchard Young Writer's Award, and that feels pretty amazing. I don't know if I have won yet or not, of course, because all of that will be announced at the birthday celebrations for Katharine on Sunday December 7. I will not be attending, in case any of you crazed fans were wondering, and I'm terribly sorry to disappoint. Actually, I lied there. I'm too pleased with myself to be sorry. You see, when i first started this blog, I set myself a challenge... I was going to be a published Author by my twentieth birthday, and I have already been published in several minor ways since I made that goal (testement to the power of writing my goals down!). A list of my publications is as follows: * pieces in Inkfish, the anthologoy from Write-a-rama 2008 (January) * a poem in Primo Lux * a short story in the Mandurah Murray writer's group Scribblers book And, on top of that, I ha...

Henry did not care for venison. It was the kind of meat which looked down its nose and sneered at him, which was unacceptable. He was the King of England, after all. He held a great chunk of it in one hand, meeting it eye to eye like a challenge. Hot, powdery grease stained his raw hand, and he squeezed the flesh, sneering back as its juices evacuated in dribbles down his arm. Beside him, his wife Catherine Parr sat serenely, controlling an urge to be disgusted by his behaviour. Henry could sense, from her rigid posture and tight-lipped smile that she was nauseated, and rightly so. The stench from his festering leg wound permeated that morning's dressing so strongly that even Henry was aware of it. But that stench was his, and he took misguided pleasure in the uncomfortable politeness of his courtiers. Catherine reached gently for the decanter of wine and poured him another glass. Henry threw down the meat, licked his fingers and drained the cup. Catherine smiled at him encouraging...