I've always loved surreal art. Or perhaps realistic-surrealist - where both the familiar and absurd are constructed photorealistically. It's a difficult stunt - most often, the meld between reality and unreality is difficult; there's a 'seam' in the art, a place where it's clear the concepts are changing.

It's less obvious with different styles. Vladimar Kush's work, for example, has a clear illustrative style, which helps blend the concepts, similar to the great Dali. But it's the realistic ones - the ones where I can believe the absurdity with just as much conviction as the mundane - that really get me. I saw one such artist several years ago in a local gallery - I wish I could remember his name. His paintings were 2m square, and therefore far too large for me to own, rich with vivid colours, and real enough to touch. The concepts were simple and clear - a caravan in the sky, a sunset being 'unzipped' into day, posts from a pier in the clouds (yes, the collection had a sky/clouds theme.) - but the execution was gorgeously realistic.

There seems to be a growing conviction in both comments on the blogosphere and in the real world that one needs a degree in Being A Writer - specifically, an MFA or other degree in creative writing. That agents, editors and even readers will roundly dismiss any upstart daring enough to query, write or publish without such an esteemed qualification.

Bollocks. I should know: I have one. Hell, technically I have two.

Honestly, I blame this misconception largely on the glut of creative writing degrees and courses that began not too long ago, and the marketing that accompanied them. With so many universities claiming their degree teaches you how to hone your fiction and characters and learn what it takes to create a good piece of writing, it's somewhat inevitable that would-be writers form the impression this is the only way to learn to hone your fiction and characters. But a degree isn't always helpful to a budding writer. Sometimes they can do more harm than good.