Sarah Tanburn's writing blog

To write is to read. An obvious truism yet they are different. Writing, particularly writing fiction, is to call into being something new. Even the most prosaic shopping list is pregnant with meals to be made. Any act of creation … Continue reading →

The ffotogallery in Cardiff has been exhibiting photographs by and about women in Iran.  I caught the last  day yesterday.  As a whole the exhibition oscillates between celebrating love and marking censorship.  The curator, Amek Mahmoodian, has a wonderful exhibit … Continue reading →

Malta has the oldest stone buildings in the world.  Their oldest temples are a millennium older than the Great Pyramid, three millennia before the Acropolis more than five thousand years old than St Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Perhaps because of … Continue reading →

People around the world have been blogging yesterday and today about their most beautiful things, to mark Fiona Robyn’s new book. Now I have to confess I have not got into the spirit of this, and haven’t read enough other … Continue reading →

Ninepins was published last week. The eponymous toll-house is in an isolated Fen village outside Cambridge. Standing just a little higher than the surrounding reclaimed flat land, it is home to Laura and her asthmatic twelve year-old, Beth. Laura lets … Continue reading →

My short story Switzerland won that fantastic cup that’s gracing my living room.  The great folk behind National Short Story Week have put it online here.   The whole week, which happens in November, is a great concept, which helps … Continue reading →

The stretch of sea that reaches, like the long neck of a bottle, from the Ionian to the foot of the Alps has been long overdue for its own narrative.  Everyone, it seems, has dipped a toe in its waters. … Continue reading →