The Heart is a Library Hunter

My first memories belong to the surreal landscape of childhood. Cushioned in tenderness, they flicker a blurred reel of mango trees, mud pies and mosquito screens.

Occasionally, through the fuzz, concrete moments come into focus.

For me, the first of those is the imprint of a rainy afternoon in a library.

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What Remains: Cebu after the Storm

Acres of sand greeted me on the morning I woke in Cebu.

Arriving on the midnight flight from Hong Kong, my Filipina host and her German husband had collected me from the airport.

For three hours our trinity had driven north into darkened jungle. But for the occasional village-party exploding wild by the roadside, the tableaus before dawn were dimly-lit. Read More

Where the Bookish Bed Down: Accommodation for Bibliophiles

When booking a hotel everyone has a wish list.

Is there room service? Twenty-four-hour reception? A spa? All valid questions and certainly necessary to know.

However, no matter how fluffy the bathrobe or late the check-out the one drawcard that never fails to entice the final digit of my CVC is a hotel with books. Read More

My Elephant Journal Piece

Hi there fellow Write Lifers!

Recently I contributed a piece to Elephant Journal and I’m excited to share it with you here. πŸ‘‡πŸ»

https://www.elephantjournal.com/now/i-quit-reading-for-a-man/

I received lovely feedback from their editors:

Thank you for putting yourself out there and sharing something that could be of benefit to many. This was beautifully written!

The piece explores my recent revelation about audiobooks. Let’s just say it has been life changing!

If you haven’t joined our community of Writer Lifers over at FB then we’d love to see you. It’s a fun and fresh place for bibliophiles and a pretty smashing group of readers and writers all in pursuit of The Write Life.

Join us here. πŸ‘‡πŸ»

https://www.facebook.com/brookehardwickwriter/

Brooke πŸ’‹

Lost in Translation: A Monolingual Girl in a Multilingual World

by Brooke Hardwick

My days begin watching a woman whittle ginger and end with a pair of mischievous twins waiting for the bus to China.

In between these bookends I cross paths with a long list of people. They, like me, are performing the rituals of their day. The only difference between us is that we don’t speak the same language. Read More