Only one

“Ask yourself if you would do it if nobody would ever see it, you would never be compensated for it and nobody wanted it.” – Ernst Haas (via) There must be a reason I write. I write here, I write in a journal, I (don’t really at the moment) write short stories, and I (definitely not at the moment) am writing a novel. I write. All of it because I want to, for me and my own personal reasons which I’ve mentioned here before, at least that’s how it started. Reading that Ernst Haas quote made me realise one of the reasons I’ve been a bit blocked on my novel. During NaNoWriMo I wasn’t thinking about anyone reading it, I …

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Walking Home

The bell finally rings and as one we rise, chairs scrabble across worn tiles as the dull intonation from the teacher behind her desk – take your time and remember to do your homework – bounces and echoes round the room with no ear willing to catch it. We all want out. The first of us stream down the corridor and quickly overwhelm the metal door, with all its dull edges and cross hatched safety glass, that marks the boundary of our freedom. We spill forth; the thundering of feet on the ground where we play, a tumult of immature noises rising and merging as the classrooms empty. At the main entrance to the playground the parents await. Some are …

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Seated

I look around at the others. We are all in our usual positions, legs planted firmly on the floor, facing our desks, backs straight. The low murmur of the black machines, the rectangle glow, the clicky-clacky, soft thumps vibrating through wood and metal to the floor. I can feel them through my feet. Our soundtrack is the gentle thrum of the air boxes, the buzz of the overhead bright makers. Today the air boxes push warm at us, some days they push cold. I think it changes over time but I’m not sure what time is any more. At night, when the bright makers are sleeping, an Upright will walk past every now and then, shining his beam over us, …

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Reading and Writing

It’s a vicious cycle, debilitating one moment, inspiring the next, it feeds my desire to learn and slowly pulls at the insecurity of my abilities. It is fuel on the fire, stoking my passion to explore my own literary ideas. It is the pulled thread, unravelling my dreams. Is this what it is to be a writer? To be found reading with wonderous awe as a story gathers pace before your eyes, the skilled manipulation of the reader crafted through each sentence, each line of dialogue pulling you deeper into the world the writer has created. The slow, building sense of envy, as I reflect on my own bludgeoning attempts at the same. As the days pass, I flip flop …

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Hidden words

I can sense it, sitting there, judging me, mocking me. It taunts me every day. No good, it says. I ignore it. Then I think about what it holds and it reveals itself to me further, insights and ideas bloom, a rough patch of ground speckled with wild flowers. Then it changes. It changes. From one day to the next, as the viewing angle skews, it morphs before me, pushing itself into new shapes, the end disappearing further beyond the blur of the middle. I read. Books that are ‘Glorious, unexpected, superbly written’ (I know this because it says so on the front cover, the words inside echoing the declaration). I read. Articles that are diligent and focused (I know …

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Murmurs

Wings pull at the air as they launch themselves at the sky. Tiny black spots against the dipping glow of the evening sun, soaring higher and higher, cajoling and sniping as the nervous energy builds, pulling them up, up, up.. Viewed from a distance the birds coalesce; the shape shifting from blanket to ball, a liquid mass pulled by invisible forces. In the air they seem one in thought and movement, wheeling and diving, governed only by instinct and the common heartbeat of their motion. On the grass below a couple stand, hand in hand, their gaze held by the swift curves of the flock overhead. More birds arrive, racing from bushes and trees, diving into the wheeling and spiralling noise. Soft …

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NaNoWriMo Reflections

I’ve been blogging for a long time, I keep an occasional diary – in Day One, a wonderful journal app – and have even shared some (very) short stories here. As I’ve mentioned before, I enjoy the process of writing and I’ll admit that NaNoWriMo has always intrigued me. In its 16th year, NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) has flitted in and out of my radar for several years now, with some friends partaking, and I even got close to entering it about a few years ago but decided to get divorced instead. However, with time on my hands I decided to try it this year, I figured that I’d manage to write 1667 words per day, if not more …

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Create to win

I have no job at present. All the fish I had have died. I started Couch to 5K but my ITBS flared up so I can’t run. I’m behind on my reading challenge for the year. Just in case anyone was wondering why I’ve been a bit quiet on this blog, and other places, it’s because I’m failing. I predicted this would be a year for failing I just didn’t think it would be this kind. I like to keep busy, so not working isn’t the best for my mental health, neither is not being involved in anything creative so I’m pushing to fix that in a few ways, one of which being NaNoWriMo which starts in November. I know. …

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The Wait

He sits down and carefully places the cold glass on the table. He squirms on the wooden chair, trying to get comfortable as he slowly looks around, taking in the clientele as some vaguely hip electronica burbles from the speaker above his head. He wonders if he’s chosen the best seat, the window offers a view of the street and the distractions outside. He takes a sip of beer, he’s on his second already, pulls his phone from his pocket and completes the modern ritual of those who live in this always-on connected world. He disconnects from everyone around him as he checks messages, emails, delving into social media this and status updates that as he whiles away the time …

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Pieces of you

Your golden brown skin hides so much from me, dry and flaking it repulses me at first, pushes me away, but I know the wonders that lie underneath. Never judge a book by it’s ageing, dead cover. Inside is where your true meaning is found, your curves offer movement, your sharpness brings me to tears. I love the way you taste, no matter how you arrive on my tongue it is always a moment to be savoured, sweet at times, sour at others. Sliced through you reveal your heart, wrapped in so many layers of protection, hidden away from the world. A tortured soul deep within. Each layer of your protection grown and cultivated with purpose, keeping your core safe …

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