Writing Prompt: Texture

Beige, brown, shades of creamy white, magnolia and dark wood. These were the colours I chose for my first house. They were safe colours, practical and inoffensive. They go with everything, I said. I was around 29 years old when I bought my first house. It was a new build in a housing estate outside of Edinburgh with a mock tudor set of windows that gave the house a bit of character, but apart from that, it was as cookie cut out as the rest of the homes in the three blocks that made up the neighbourhood on that hill.

I chose the colours because I didn’t really know what I liked and I didn’t dare put a foot wrong, not when there was so much money at stake. Looking back, I could just as easily painted the house blue or red or added splashes of colour to give it warmth, but the truth is, it never felt like home, I never believed it was really mine. It felt temporary, like it wasn’t worth inserting anything of myself into it because at any moment, I could leave and my tastes would no longer apply. It would sell easier as a blank canvas, I though, not really know when or to whom I would ever sell it.

As it turns out, I stayed 10 years. Too long, too too long in all than lifeless interior and beige.

I’m planning some construction work on my current house, the next one I bought, but not the next one I lived in. The next one I lived in was a rental, but it was only a year. When I chose this house, I fell in love with the openness of the kitchen, the brightness and green of the garden. It was bathed in sunlight and I could picture myself sitting on the grass or on the patio having BBQs. This is not something I ever wanted to do at my old house, there was too much rain and cold and it was too remote for company.

As I look at the construction plans, I can picture the finished room, the new kitchen, pictures on the walls and coloured and quirky cushions on the sofas. I see a huge TV and a cabinet with a hundred vinyl records. I see reds and dangling lamps, a hole in the wall fireplace, a skylight, folding glass doors into my bright flower-filled garden with iron bird feeders. I see a hard tile floor of dark grey ceramic textured tiles and a shaggy rug of light grey and flecks of red woven into the soft material. I tiptoe in the room then plant my shoeless feet firmly on the tiles and they’re warm from the underfloor heating. There are pictures in frames and images mounted on canvas. I run my hand along the shining countertop of the kitchen that smells of coriander, basil and parsley, from the red pebble textured pots on the window sill. There are comical pictures of movie posters or an artist’s interpretation of them. There are magnets on the fridge from all our travels. The cats are curled up on the light grey sofa, curled up on the throw of burnt orange and yellow. One of them sits on the red poof of my reading chair, next to the fake but warm fire produced by the electric fireplace. There are bookcases with all of my treasures on either side of the overstuffed chair. There’s a light hanging over it producing a warm glow from the energy efficient bulbs. Amongst the soft finishings and sleeping cats, there I sit, in a room of my design and at last, I feel at home.

For this prompt, try to focus on different textures and colours. Describe a room or something will multiple textures. Have fun.

Writing Prompt: Bookcase

I’m getting ready to rip up my house and add an extension. I’ve been in denial about how disruptive this is going to be to my life for three-four months and I’ve buried my head in the sand with regards to how much this is going to cost, but the builders are engaged, the movers are booked an I’ve started packing my things into cardboard boxes that are being recycled from my last house move. They’ve survived the elements in the garden shed, though I had expected them to deteriorate, they seem to be able to handle the books I’ve stacking into them.

This exercise is making me aware of how many books I have (and in some cases multiple copies of particularly loved works) and how many I have yet to read. As I’ve been putting them into boxes, I’ve been creating a little pile of books I’m not prepared to part with during the demolition.

Among the books I can’t bring myself to store for three months are the following:

  1. Candide – This book is one of my favourites and I think i’ve read it about 10 times To be fair, it’s short, but that’s not the point. It’s funny, sad, crude and manages to convey everything about the nature of human beings. It flashes a mirror into the face of mankind and forces us to acknowledge that we’re never satisfied, are hypocritical, unforgiving, petty, ignorant and yet, we can also be romantic, charitable, ironic and mindlessly optimistic in the face of all the other reprehensible characteristics. It’s a perfect little book that reminds me that sometimes, you just have to laugh.
  2. Dracula – It’s one of the most original, well craft stories of all time. The narrative is unique in that it tells the story from all of the main characters points of view through a collection of note, diaries, journals and audio recordings. Dracula is evil incarnate and the characters that fight him, both men and women (unusual for that time) are heroic in a way I’d like to think I’d be when faced with a monster.
  3. Lolita – This controversial book stands out in it’s twisted 1st person narrative. The main character, “Humbert Humbert” is one of the classic voices in modern literature. His opinions and thoughts are sickening, yet compelling. There is something sympathetic in his tale but taken as a whole, it’s shocking, sad, drives me to anger and although I hate Humbert Humbert as a character, there’s a fucked up comedy to the story and how he delivers his case to the reader. I think I know every word of this book. It reminds me of what human beings are capable of and what a precarious world we live in. Unlike Dracula, Humbert Humbert represents the real monsters among us and that’s worth a spot in the list.
  4. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – There is nothing I don’t love about this book. The characters are funny and original, the plot stands above the rest as one of the most imaginative science fictions books of all time and it never fails to make me laugh. There’s nothing I can really add to this. I’ve read it and listened to the audio book countless times and it never gets old. There is something comforting in the familiarity of the story and I think it’s safe to say that although I’ve probably covered it 20 or 30 times, I think I’l be reading it 20-30 more before I check out.
  5. The Age of Innocence – never mind that it’s the first Pulitzer Prize winning book by a female author (though that’s a strong recommendation). It’s tragic, beautiful and makes astute observations about American society (late 1800s) that makes you feel like you’re there watching the splendour, riches, hypocrisy and subtlety of the New York upper classes. As you read it, you feel like a fly on the wall, willing our hero and heroine to drop kick convention and do as they please. On more than one occasion, I’ve practically yelled at the pages with full knowledge that there is nothing anyone can do to change the inevitable car crash that our characters are heading for. Yet, I love watching the struggle unfold and wonder if, under the same circumstances, I would behave in the same way? It makes me think of our 21st century sensibilities and I wonder, are we really better off or have we just managed to disguise our prejudices better? I can go on about this one for ages, but it’s better if I leave you to read it or watch the beautifully crafted film adaptation by Martin Scorsese.

So, that’s my bookcase. These are the books that never leave my side and I can’t store away. If you had to cling to only 5 books, which would they be and why?

Writing Prompt: YA Fiction

I’m currently doing a course that focuses on Young Adult fiction and one of the interesting exercises we’re doing is going through a listing the most influential books we read when we were growing up. For my part, Judy Blume played a big part in my reading enjoyment as a young adult and the themes are still relevant today. (Loss, religion, friendship, bullying, conformity, siding rivalry, etc).

For this exercise, think about the types of books you read growing up. What is it you liked about them? What were some of the common themes? Are they still relevant?

Next, try writing a short outline for a story based on a teenage experience. Write it in the 1st person and from the point of view of your younger self. Next, read it back, what would you stay to your younger self based on the experiences you’ve had as an adult? Have fun strolling down memory lane.

 

Writing Prompt: Your Opening Line

Grabbing your reader is perhaps one of the most difficult things to do it writing. How do you get someone to stick with your narrative? Having a brilliant story is great, but if you don’t get your reader’s attention, you’ll lose them and they’ll never get to the end.

So, having a strong opening line is critical to inspiring your reader to plow ahead with your story. Try this, have some fun writing compelling opening lines and see what story springs from them. Here are a few of my attempts.

  1. The phone rang just after midnight.
  2. He stood at the end of the road waiting to cross when he spotted her.
  3. As she stood at the hearth tending to the fire, the chain around her neck fell into the flames.
  4. The evening bloated with wine and high spirits started well enough but soon to an ugly turn.
  5. Effy sat on the window sill every afternoon, staring through the glass, watching the world go by and waiting for her human to come home.

Enjoy.

Writing Prompt: Scene and Memory

Nabokov once wrote, “There are two kinds of visual memory: one when you skillfully recreate an image in the laboratory of your mind, with your eyes open […]; and the other when you instantly evoke, with shut eyes, on the dark innerside of your eyelids, the objective, absolutely optical replica of a beloved face…”

As time and distance separate me from those I care for, I find myself staring off into the distance, or a blank space on the wall, trying to recall my last moments with them, piecing together our words, gestures, our attire and surroundings to bring back what I was feeling when we last met. I sometimes doubt my memory and struggle to recall their features and although I can tell tell myself that I love their eyes, their smile or a signature gesture, I cannot recall it. It is not until I close my eyes and fix on one key detail, that the whole picture re-forms in my mind’s eye. When the image is complete, it’s like I’m there with them, sharing a laugh or an embrace. In some cases, it takes the generation of the memory of a twisted frown, an argument or a flash of sad eyes to bring them back to me. From there, I can trace the steps to the features I adore and the person attached to them .

For this exercise, close your eyes and recreate the face and expression of someone in your life. Try to recall everything about their features, If you want to expand, try to remember the last words you exchanged or the circumstances of your last meeting. What were they wearing? Where was it? Were you sitting, standing walking? Be as descriptive as you can and try to do it for a couple of people. You’ll be surprised how much comes out. Don’t forget to try to write what you were feeling.

Example: We walked into the room and closed the glass door. Even before I reached the chair, the words where forming in my mind, “I owe you an apology.” I went on with what I had to say, trying to focus on the response, looking for some sign in his face that I would be forgiven. We sat on opposite sides of a small round table, in low green plastic chairs. He leaned back lazily as he so often did, with his legs stretched out before him with a posture of such nonchalance, it was hard to feel anything but warmth, ease and the genuine desire to be forgiven, for us to go back to the nervous yet friendly demeanour that so often categorised our talks.

As he spoke, I listened for the tone of his voice to provide me with some clue as to our future. Although we were discussing serious matters, when I met his eyes I could see they were smiling. His long dark lashes, half closed, almost concealed the deep, rich colour of his eyes. As we took turns talking, it was as though we were both searching for some understanding from the other.

With the awkwardness melting away, I too began to lean back and relax. We talked of things that matter to each of us and that sharing gave way to the equilibrium that we had temporarily disturbed through misunderstanding.

I now see the scene of our parting quite clearly. He, turning to walk in the opposite direction with his white-shirted back angling itself towards to door. I, quickly moving to leave the scene, while muttering a final disclaimer until we turned and looked back one last time. “See ya, Mate.” were my last words to him, uncertain if we would ever meet again, but with a flutter of hope in my chest that time and circumstance would allow it. He smiled, a subtle, knowing smile, and there his face remains frozen in my mind, complete with short, dark beard, the smiling eyes and an almost imperceptible expression of relief.

 

Example: When I close my eyes, I see her quite clearly, a pretty-nosed girl of sixteen. She sits on a stool in the kitchen with her slashed black jeans tight against her slim frame. I feel at once pride and envy, remembering my figure at her age. I glance down and realise I’m wearing the same jeans and chuckle at the stark difference. She’s tapping away on her phone and her head is low with her brows furrowed in concentration, the hood of her black hoodie back and her long brown hair tucked behind her ear. It occurs to me that my niece is beautiful. I’m filled with both admiration and fear and a sudden protective flash of preemptive hatred for anyone who ever dares to hurt her. Then, in a wink, the calm voice inside my head reminds me of who’s daughter she is, what a strong and sensible character they have raised and hate turns to pity for the imagined future enemy.

When she turns her head and notices me standing there, only a few seconds later and a few feet away from where she sits with her back to the kitchen door, the precious phone drops from her hand and her face bursts into an endearing grin. She hops from the kitchen stool and reaches for me, arms outstretched, and as I pull her to me in a rib-crunching embrace, I release she is taller, nearly matching my height. She’ll pass me and be model height I think. I look at her intelligent face, and clock the row of subtle freckles across the bridge of her nose, her lovely long lashes framing her brown eyes and the English rose complexion of her cheeks.

“How’s it going kid?” I ask and we pour ourselves into adjoining kitchen stools for a good gossip. The other grown ups melt into the background and begin to chatter while we, 16 and middle-aged talk movies, books and music, my favourite subjects in good company. My sister in law offers Prosecco (though more to me) and we nod assent in unison.

Pomegranate Juice (short story)

Jayne stood facing the window and watched the room behind her through the reflection in the glass. Helen slept, tucked up in the hospital bed, tilted ever so slightly so that her head was elevated from her neck. An I.V. drip pumped clear fluid into her slim arm and a breathing tube hung from her mouth. Whenever Jayne tried to look at her directly, she found herself hanging her head and watching her through half closed eyes. Somehow, looking at the world from the top floor window made it easier. She could see behind her or focus her gaze outside if she needed a distraction.

A priest came in moments before and she had sent him packing. He was trying to be comforting, but his talk of heaven and God’s will annoyed her. He tried his addresses at poor sleeping Helen and that had been too much. She wasn’t awake to defend herself, so Jayne did it for her. “Helen’s an atheist.” Jayne said. “God talk bugs her, so if it’s all the same to you, go away.” He had tried to protest, but the look in Jayne’s eyes convinced him he was going to lose the argument, so with a quick blessing, he pushed off.

The doctor told her to go home, that there was nothing more to do but wait. Jayne thought of going back to her apartment in the city and it depressed her. She would go crazy waiting there, but she hadn’t slept in a 36 hours and the weight if it all was too much.

The doctor had tried to comfort her, but his tone was grave as though trying to prepare her, to tell her she had done her best.

“It’s close.” He said. “If you’d found her earlier, I could be a bit more certain, but we got to her late. You did everything you could. It’s not your fault. The only thing we can do is wait and hope she comes out of it. We’re watching her ever minute.”

“What if she wakes up and I’m not here? Someone should be here.”

“Her husband finally reached us. He’ll be here soon. Why don’t you go home, get some sleep, have some food and come back in the morning. We’ll call you if anything changes.”

Jayne took another look at Helen. She looked so small and peaceful as she slept. She remembered the time they had stayed up all night watching films lying on Helen’s parent’s bed while they were away. The sun was coming up and peaking in through the curtains when they finally nodded off. Jayne had looked over at her friend sleeping, mouth slightly open, a soft snore like a purr coming from her. They were thirteen. Twenty years had passed, but to Jayne, Helen looked the same as she did then.

Suddenly, Jayne remembered Helen’s cat. She would have to go around and feed it, she thought. In truth, she wanted to get out of that room to think.

“When did Graham say he’d be here?” She asked.

“Soon, within the hour.” The doctor said.

“I’ll be on my cell phone if you need me.” Jayne said, and grabbing her coat made her way past the doctor and out the door.

When Jayne arrived at Helen’s house, the sun was starting to set. She pushed open the door she had been too panicked to lock when they left in the ambulance and wandered in towards the kitchen. Vester, the cat came running at the sound of her opening a cat food sachet and buried his black and white face into the cat food bowl.

Jayne knew the house so well. She wandered through the house towards the bedroom where she had found Helen, face down in the bed, the empty pill bottle beside her on the nightstand. Jayne looked at the rumpled bedclothes, half on and off the bed. It all happened so fast. It felt like she had only been on the phone to emergency services for a minute before she could hear an ambulance coming up the street. Could she have moved faster, she wondered.

Back in the kitchen, she looked out the window into the garden. Helen and Graham had a vast garden and a small orchard beyond the patio. From her vantage point, she could see the six pomegranate trees in a tidy row at the edge of the lawn. Grabbing a basket that hung on a rack from the ceiling, she went outside into the warm evening.

She examined each fruit as she filled the basket. To make pomegranate juice, she needed at least ten of them. The trees had been planted in the first year of their marriage and in the first season of bearing fruit, the three of them had gone out to pick some. Graham threw one at Jayne and it had split, spilling irremovable red juice onto her white shirt. When she swore at him, he laughed and said, “Come and get me. I dare you.”

When the basket was full, she went back to the kitchen and taking a cutting board from the rack laid each of the pomegranates side by side. Helen had taught Jayne her own method for creating the perfect glass of juice. Splitting each of the fruits in half with a sharp knife, she squeezed the plump red seeds from the white, hard flesh of the pomegranate.

As Jayne did this, juice ran from the seeds through her fingers and into a bowl that waited to catch it. Her mind wandered back to the telephone call the day before. Helen’s calm was what alarmed her. The softness of her voice like an arrow to Jayne’s heart telling her everything was fine.

In slow, soft whispers she said it. “It’s ok, you know. You can have him. I’ll be fine, just fine, Sweetie. When he gets back from Seattle, he’s all yours.”

At first, Jayne’s heart jumped. Helen knew, but then her words and her tone were not Helen. She was too calm and Jayne wondered if the revelation had made her hit the wine rack before making the phone call.

A hundred thoughts raced through Jayne’s mind. How did she find out? Did she speak to Graham? Could she lie her way out of it?

“Jaynie, it’s all good. We always did share everything, right? I guess you figured, why not this too, right?” Her words were slurred.

Jayne tried to think of something to say quickly, a denial, anything to buy her time to figure out what to do. Then Helen hit her with the words that truly scared her.

“I’m just going to take a little nap now.”  With that, she heard Helen drop the phone.

Jayne froze for a moment, then grabbed her keys and her cell phone. She would have to speak to Graham, to figure it all out on the way over to their house. Damn, she thought. Graham was away for the week. She rang his number over and over and got his voicemail.

 

When she reached the house, she let herself in with the key Helen had given her for the times she needed a cat-sitter.

They would talk it out, she thought. Whatever happened, they could figure something out. She went from room to room calling Helen and receiving no reply.

Jayne found her on the bed. The same bed they had shared with the same man and Jayne felt sick over what she had done in a moment of madness.

It was only the one time, she thought. No one would ever know and they could go on as if nothing had happened. How could she know? She played the incident out in her head. Had she left something there? Did Graham confess?

She moved to Helen’s side and it was then that she saw the empty bottle. The phone beeped angrily in Helen’s hand.

 

When the bowl was filled with seeds, Jayne took a mortar and pestle from the counter and transferred the seeds over from the bowl for crushing. As she ground the seeds, the doctor’s words rang through her head. “It’s not your fault.” Then who’s, she thought.

She transferred the juice into a tall, thin glass jug and added a tablespoon of sugar. As she stirred the liquid with a long wooden spoon, a thought occurred to her.

She rinsed her hands at the sink and went quickly to the living room as she dried them with a dish towel.

In the corner of the room there was an antique rosewood desk. On it were some files, a couple of magazines and the computer they shared. The screensaver was on, displaying digital tropical fish swimming across the screen.

Jayne nudged the mouse and the screen came to life. Her words to Graham starred back at her. The only communication about the incident that existed and he had not the sense to delete it.  Jayne read and re-read the email. Stupid, sentimental Bastard, she thought.  She wanted to grab the machine and throw it to the floor, to stomp on it and batter it with a fireplace poker until nothing was left but bits of glass, plastic and circuit board.  Instead, she selected the offending email and clicked the delete button. It disappeared, but the queasiness in her stomach remained.

She stood, resolved to put everything away and return to the hospital. There had to be some way to make things right.

She cleaned the counter, tossing the empty shells of the pomegranates into the garbage bin under the sink.

As she poured the juice into a glass, she heard the front door open.

Graham stood before her, surprise clearly marked on his face. Through her rage Jayne could still feel the closeness and familiarity that came from so many years of the three of them together.

“Hi.” He said.

“Hi.” Jayne didn’t know where to begin.

“I’ve been to the hospital for the past few hours.”

Jayne looked at the clock, then out the window. Hours had passed without her notice.

“Helen?” She asked.

Graham stood, his shoulders hunched and shook his head. When he tried to reach for her, Jayne recoiled. She placed the glass on the counter beside her and gathering her things, walked out the door towards the cool grass of the orchard.

 

Writing Prompt: 13 weeks to go

It’s officially Q4. We have 13 weeks remaining in 2017 and all I can say is that I hope 2018 is better because this year has been pretty awful from a global perspective. From Brexit to Trump, Hurricanes to Terror attacks, violent protests and casual racism, we need to do better next year.

With the time left this year, I want to focus on the positive and changes I want to make to help make the last 13 weeks of the year pleasant and constructive, not only for myself, but for the people around me. I want to be more positive, gripe less, be more future facing and not as negativistic.

To that end, I’m working on a few things to support people at work and hopefully the wider community. Closer to home, I’m doing little things. I’m cooking fresh food, cutting back on meat, learning to bake, playing with my cats more, leaving the TV on in the background less and actually trying to pay attention to only one thing at a time. I have a tendency to only half-listen to people when they’re speaking to me since I always feel like I’m playing catch up with my day. I intent to put an end to that. Life is too short.

At an even more personal level, I have a little challenge for myself. Here goes:

 

  1. I’m reading a book a week for the next 13 weeks. How you ask? Easy, I’m not bringing my headphones on the tube with me, but am instead carrying a book.
  2. I’m writing every day till the end of the year. How you ask? Easy, as I am now. I’m writing for 10 minutes at any point during the day, when to mood strikes and leaving the TV off while I do it.
  3. I’m limiting myself to 25 days of alcohol between now and the end of the year. With the hot toddy I just had for my cold, that leaves me 24. There are 92 days left in the years, so that should be totally do-able.
  4. Apart from what I have to spend to get to and from work, I’m only spending what I can find in the house from today. I’ve been going through my handbags, coat pockets and change purses and managed to find around £26 without even trying. That is more than enough to sort me out, especially if I’m cooking more, taking my lunch and excluding my travel costs.
  5. I’m getting 8 hours of sleep per night It’s going to take training, but if that means I go to bed at 9pm and it take a while to drift off, so be it. Sleep deprivation ages and does nothing for your mood or ability to concentrate. There’s a reason why sleep deprivation is often used as a form of torture.
  6. I’m going to do something nice for someone else very day. It might be giving up my seat on the tube, paying a compliment or helping someone carry their shopping up the stairs, but if you make the day a little better for someone, it in turn, can make the day a little better for everyone.

That’s it. Nothing too difficult, but as they say, sometimes the simplest changes are the hardest. Wish me luck. I’ll check in as we go.

Writing prompt (I almost forgot) what are you going to do with the last 13 weeks of the year to make your life better?

Writing Prompt: Comfort Feeding

I’ve just realised the cooker is broken. The oven is fine, but the hob is out of action. Although I now need to shell out for a new cooker, I’m not that fussed. Instead of cursing the limited warranty, I got creative. The fridge is generally where condiments go to congregate and eventually die, for once, I had some left overs and some random ingredients standing on the ledge of their sell-by date. I cleared the counter, gathered a bin liner and got clearing. Anything with a better than average chance of killing me went into the bin. Everything else formed a neat row of ingredients for me to play with. I had an oven and a microwave to work with and a load of ceramic and oven-proof dishes. With my cutting board, kitchen knife and stock cubes in hand, I got to work. The end result was four hours of culinary ingenuity and enough carrot and coriander soup to keep me fed and improve my eyesight.

Over time, there also appeared a pasta bake, grilled bacon, microwaved eggs and the makings of a oven baked frittata. There is something comforting and therapeutic about making enough food for the masses. When my fella asked me why I keep feeding him, on impulse I said, “It’s how I show affection. It’s how I was raised.” It just popped out, but it made me realise that there was some truth in it. Treat have always been a form of comfort in our house, my mother constantly chasing us with bowls of popcorn or store bought bags of chocolate chip cookies. After school was strawberry pop tarts of twinkles. Dinner was always a three part dish of meat and two veg. Mom gorged herself with Butter Pecan ice cream, her favourite to this day.

Maybe, despite my best effort to be my own person, I have finally become my mother. if so, there are worse things to be. She rang me today to say that the campbell’s chicken noodle soup and A-1 steak sauce I requested was in the post. Three to four days and I’ll be drowning a perfectly good sirloin in tangy sauce. In the meantime, I have a vat of soup to get through.

How do you feel about food? Do you enjoy cooking or is it purely functional? Write about a pleasurable experience involving food.

Bon appetite!

Writing Prompt: Say anything

It’s funny how spending three days sick at home is what it takes for me to write, or even think about anything unrelated to work or life admin.

This has been yet another year of change. It has finally dawned on me that this is going to be a permanent state of affairs. Work, in particular has been full of change, which could explain why my brain is racing to keep up and has left little time for me to think about much else.

So, that being said, I’ve decided to do something about it. I’m ill and I’m tired, but somehow, I feel pretty optimistic about writing again. This promote is about free-writing about absolutely anything. Which is what I shall be doing now. I’m not going to edit and I’m just going to let me fingers drift along the keys and see what happens.

Let’s start with the basics. I spoke to my mother yesterday. I emailed Mom and Dad on Wednesday when I decided that persisting with going to work this week was a colossal mistake and that I was never going to get well if I didn’t stay home and rest. A colleague had told me that i was foolish to return to work after only one day off last week (I had already been ill for three days and kept going in) and it pains me to admit he was right. So, I emailed my parents asking them for the only thing that makes me happy when I’m feeling unwell, Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. Unbelievably, you can’t get it in the shops in the UK. Mom called me to see how I was doing and to let me know that Dad was making up a care package of soup and A-1 steak sauce for me. This cheered me up no end and we fell into chat.

Mom is on a diet, but hasn’t done research on what she should be eating in relation to her calorie expenditure. I felt a combination of shock and the usual parent/child role reversal as I explained that thinks like dairy red meat, peanuts, cream and fruit can be fattening. fruit is a good alternative to biscuits and cake and chocolate (which she loves). Anyway, by the end, I felt like a bit of jerk for giving her a dieting lecture (glass houses) but I tried to be encouraging as I know that any extra weight is bad for her heart. She did inspire me to get myself sorted too. Just a sec, let me put the chicken nuggets down…

I’ve been alone in the house for two days, just me and the cats. That gives me the time to think about the things I want to do for myself as my birthday approaches and the year draws to a close. Work and university have taken up my year and I have managed to fit a lot in with regards to experiences, so I’ll focus in that for a moment.

What happened this year?

  1. Finished university with a Merit
  2. Got into the MSc programme – deferring to next year
  3. Gigs – Greenday, Kings of Leon, Black Sabbath, Guns and Roses, Stone Roses, Metallica
  4. Theatre = As you like it, Romeo and Juliet, Othello, King Lear, Hamlet, Twelfth Night
  5. Experiential = World Athletics x 2, Somerset House Jaws, Donnie Darko, The Omen, ATP Tennis
  6. Travel = Whistler, Mallorca, Plockton with the 1994 Uni crowd
  7. Reading music beginners course
  8. Reading proper books – nope…

So, what’s the plan for the next three months? Assuming work cracks on as usual, there are a few things I want to start doing next month.

  1. Go back to archery
  2. go back to piano lessons
  3. read a book a week
  4. write every day – anything
  5. set up a coaching website and start activity looking for clients.
  6. Finish application for MA in creative writing for 2018

There’s the list for Oct to Dec 2018. All of these I can kick off today. I have the domain for the website, but need to start getting the content sorted.

I know I said I’m going to free write and not self-edit, but I’m struggling to work out what to say next. I’ve felt a little flat this past few months. There have been changes with work and that has made me nervous. When you’re worrying about whether or not you’re going to be able to pay the mortgage, it’s hard to think about creative life. Maybe that is when it is most important. I want to feel that I can do my job, get paid, pay my bills and have time to focus on other things. Maybe I chose the wrong profession? May I need to not earns as much in exchange for feeling like I don’t have to occupy every minute of my brain on media? I’m rambling now.

If I take this back to writing again, one of the things I’ve been asking myself is what am I going to write? Am I any good? Do I have anything worth writing? Would people want to read what I have to say? One of the most traumatic things I’ve every done is destroy all of my journals. Someone read one of my private journals and used it to beat me with my own words. It was a horrible violation. I was so angry and felt like my privacy had been invaded so thoroughly, that I pulled all of work off the selves and ripped my journal to shreds. Year and years of private thoughts and memories were gone. I put the shredded remains and torn covers into a bag and drove around town, dropping the pieces into skips from one end of the city to the next. I condemned my feelings and thoughts and drafts and ideas to the land fill, feeling like my belief that anything I wrote would be judged by others and had potential to offend was correct.  I felt like I would never be able to publish anything without letting people into my head. I suppose that is the risk with writing. Here I am, five years later and ready to start again. This is exhausting  after years of not thinking properly about writing. It’s time to stat again and be brave and free to say what I think.

Wish me luck.

If you feel like writing, here’s a prompt. Free write about the fear of writing.

 

 

 

 

 

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