I’ll never ever…
…fall out of love with writers.
The storyteller who can spin a yarn at pace. Sentences are clean. Nothin’ fancy. It’s just wham, bam, I want you to keep reading, ma’am. Their words aren’t meant to inspire, just thrill with spills and rollercoaster plotlines.
The wordsmith who flirts with wanky wordplay. But the turns of phrase are so delicious, you forgive them a five-paragraph description of a dried-up-leaf-that-crunches-and-cracks-like-dying-burnt-orange-embers-on-the petrified-ground.
The scribe who teases your grey matter and fills your heart while they throw you into labyrinthian plots, riddled with twists. Their real skill lies in how they can guide us out of rabbit holes so that we emerge blinking into the light of… a new page.
I’ll never fall out of love with writing.
He sits opposite me, whispering on his phone, a hint of handlebar moustache on his upper lip. “Please tell me you’re going to do it.” He urges. A woman hunches in a shop doorway, sucking on a cigarette. A chiselled Clark Kent type spots her as he rushes past, a sour look lasts a nanosecond on his face. In the café an office worker sits with rolled up sleeves, eyes trained on his screen and sushi. The word free is tattooed on his arm. The letters ‘dom’ are only outlined.
I spot a marriage proposal scrawled in black marker on a cardboard scrap. The invitation to ‘do forever’ is attached to a bollard at a busy intersection in the city – signed, Anon.
© Phyllis Foundis 2026