S. A. Crawford
Bio
Writer, reader, life-long student - being brave and finally taking the plunge by publishing some articles and fiction pieces.
Stories (167/0)
Widower's Peak
"The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window." The shopkeepers face was a map of the world; crisscrossing laughter lines slashed through gorges created by worry and anger. He drummed his large, blunt-nailed hands on the counter as Iain set up the camera and narrowed his flinty eyes, tan face puckering around them as if considering whether to continue.
By S. A. Crawford2 years ago in Fiction
7 Quick and Dirty Writing Tips for Romance
Romance is something I spend a lot of time thinking about - mostly because I publish romantic erotica under a pseudonym - and that's led to some startling realizations about the staples of creating an effective romance, how to write effective sex scenes, and some key mistakes to avoid. Despite all this, the one thing that remains elusive is the ability to make a fictional romance feel real.
By S. A. Crawford2 years ago in Journal
The Croft
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It cast its sickly, flickering light sparsely across the stunted, gnarled gorse bushes that huddled close to its crumbling walls. Inside, a ragged, bedraggled man huddled close to the remnants of the fireplace and piled a pathetic tumble of moss and dead wood in its empty belly.
By S. A. Crawford2 years ago in Fiction
Growing Pains
The sun sits low in the sky during early autumn in Scotland - it seems to travel horizontally rather than in an arch, and the light it casts is like rich, golden honey. It drips over the world slowly and makes everything thick and hazy. When I think of my dad I think of this period; the gateway between the last, dying ebbs of the summer and the first gasps of autumn. I think of the dusty, cracked roads somewhere between the outskirts of the town and the forgotten byways past the last street lights. I think of campfires, tents, scraped knees, a hot, musty car, the smell of cigarette smoke and sharp aftershave and...
By S. A. Crawford2 years ago in Families
The Anatomy of an Ice Cream Float
Summer means St Andrews, and that, despite the passage of time, has always meant ice cream floats. The place, and taste, are so ingrained into my being that I can close my eyes and recall each change like a scar on the landscape of my world. A new building here, a cafe closed there - the expansion of the world and the shrinking of the family can all be held at bay by an ice cream float.
By S. A. Crawford2 years ago in Families
The Business of Writing
I never wanted to be a writer - I simply was one, from the day I was capable of holding a pen. I copied poems down, wrote out words I liked, and stared at them as if they held some kind of secret. I told myself and others stories, stories convincing enough to land me in hot water at least once (I convinced the other children in the neighbourhood that a certain alley between two houses was haunted). Beyond all that, however, I was always living in a story. Call it creativity, imagination, or maladaptive daydreaming, but it has been the foundation of my life and my livelihood.
By S. A. Crawford2 years ago in Journal
Blood on the Snow
There weren't always dragons in the Valley, but war came and brought them with it. Black armoured soldiers with featureless helmets came riding them as weapons of war, silver and blue soldiers came leading them as beasts of burden, red soldiers in leather armor brought the dragonlings on harnessess as scouting beasts... and they died. Great dragons fell from the sky and died in pained heaps on the ground, small dragonlings were trampled underfoot by their larger siblings.
By S. A. Crawford2 years ago in Fiction