S. A. Crawford
Bio
Writer, reader, life-long student - being brave and finally taking the plunge by publishing some articles and fiction pieces.
Achievements (14)
Stories (211)
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The Queen is Dead, Long Live the King
In the early hours of the 24th of March, 1603, a woman struggled to attend to business in the final hours of her life. For days beforehand, she had paced her rooms, stood in silence, or knelt on lavish, plush pillows; she refused to retire to bed because she believed that if she did she would die. As it turned out, she was correct.
By S. A. Crawford12 months ago in The Swamp
2025; The Writerly Solidarity Project
There are two schools of thought when it comes to writers; first, there are those who say that other writers are competition. Next, those who say other writers are allies... and of course there's boringly predictable me who says that two things can be true. You see, no matter how we wish it wasn't so there are a few choke points in the industry where we are forced to compete with other writers. Agents only have so much time, publishers will only spend so much on new releases per year, and the freelance market is becoming more and more congested.
By S. A. Crawford12 months ago in Motivation
Building on the Past
Potentially unpopular opinion; I would wipe the phrase 'New Year, New Me' from existence if I could. Not that I haven't said it (who hasn't?), usually in the depths of some kind of crisis where I have become convinced that the only possible way to find a better life is to destroy myself entirely and build a new woman. A better woman. A woman without my very human failings and flaws; that woman, I have thought, would be fearless and tireless. She would wake up at 5am without complaint, never sleep in her make-up, and drink more than enough water every day. Her skin would shine and her hair would not be perfect, but pretty in a windblown and genuine way. She would always know what to say. That woman, of course, does not exist - she never had a chance. The funny thing is, this desire for destruction to create a clean slate is an intrinsic part of who I am. I am notorious amongst my writerly friends as the person who writes forty thousand words and then deletes the file, pours three weeks into planning and shreds the notes. If you are a character, a new world, a young story being woven and weaved into a larger shape... I am death. I kill my darlings with fervour.
By S. A. Crawford12 months ago in Motivation
10 Magazines That Pay for Fiction. Top Story - January 2025.
The information in this article is correct as of January 2025. With the New Year just beginning, I know all of you writers will be making resolutions and planning how to progress in the year ahead. Making money from writing isn't everyone's goal, but a shift towards aiming for publication is certainly on my radar. While elbow deep in research, I thought it might be a good idea to share some of what I find!
By S. A. Crawfordabout a year ago in Writers
Carus Pater. Top Story - November 2024.
Dear Dad, It's been a while, and for that too I am grateful... you don't need me to tell you that it's a little complicated between us right now, and has been for a long time. We don't talk, not since you told me that I'm not your daughter anymore, but I still think of you as my dad - I guess I always will. So here it is, the truth without glamour or bitterness; I'm not sure I like you, but I love you. I'm not sure I wish things were different, or that I can say truthfully that you have been a good father any more than I could say honestly that you have been a bad one...
By S. A. Crawfordabout a year ago in Humans
The Green Fields Rot. Top Story - November 2024.
It started with the bees, falling like rain as their tiny bodies spasmed, and a few loud voices, but it ended in silence. Isn't that always the way? The tiny things that go unseen mounting like water behind a dam until one crack lets hell loose upon those who weren't looking hard enough. It started with the bees, yes, but the path between the bees and the silence was so long that no-one could really draw a map of where it all went wrong.
By S. A. Crawfordabout a year ago in Fiction
Mimicry
It sat alone on the porch, a solitary Jack-o-Lantern. Not unusual on Halloween, but for the fact that the house had been abandoned for as long as Tommy could remember. Finn and Shona pelted up the street, streaking toward old McLeods house, screaming like banshees. Already sticky with sweets and juice, they would stuff themselves with what the old lady had to offer, listening to her rambling tales for as long as the sugar kept flowing.
By S. A. Crawfordabout a year ago in Horror
Stoneheart
The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished, just as the blind girl said it would. When the King looked back on the events, he would see that she had foretold it all with perfect clarity and wonder how different things would have been if they had listened. As wind whipped around the castle, howling like an enraged beast, and the skies darkened, however, he lacked such clarity.
By S. A. Crawfordabout a year ago in Fiction
