Day 13 – London and Honour

Day 13 – London and Honour

I’ll admit it, I’ve been a bad writer, it’s been 13 days since I wrote anything or thought of anything other than indignation and anger, and what I’m beginning to discover is that I’m not very good at expressing myself when I am like that.

Which will explain the emptiness of my writing journals from June through to December last year!

I don’t like washing dirty laundry in public, and I don’t really have anything constructive or wise to say about what has happened, so sorry, if you’re looking for some great philosophical piece about forgiveness, then you might want to look elsewhere.  Right now if I was going to post a meme, it would have an awful lot swear words and you could be forgiven for thinking I had some form of written Tourette’s syndrome.

Let’s just say that something happened some months back, and I fell out with someone who I thought was my friend, but it turns out they didn’t ever feel the same way and actually went around spreading rumours about me lying.  And 6 months on I’ve only just found out about it, and I am seething because this person couldn’t just leave well enough alone, they had to pick at the sore until it became infected.  And I want to be done, I honestly do, I seriously thought I was, and then I found this out, and now I’m seething again because I protected this person, I told very few people and all because I really cared about them.

I’m really trying to let go, and I think writing is the way to do it – if my mind is happily employed in creating something, then there’s no room for that anger and those negative thoughts, because I want to move on, and I want to forget.  I really do.

So here’s a little poem in honour of friendships forever lost:

Let me write you a romance,
Let me write you a song,
Let me list all the ways
That this all went wrong.
And at the end of it all
There’ll be no hate to see,
And I will forget the pain
And you will leave me be.


And now I’m just going to post that photo again, because sometimes you find beauty in something, and you have no idea how that was created.

The British Museum is one of the most stunning buildings I’ve been in, let alone the amazing artefacts there!



Day 1 – Starting again

Day 1 – Starting again

So the idea is that in 14 days I’ll post something, no matter what, so here I am at 9pm writing this and thinking about what I’m going to create in 14 days.

I’ll be as surprised as you’ll be!

Etch your name upon my wall,

It’s the only way I’ll hear your call,

I’ll decipher the letters you leave

To create a tale to deceive.






Day 0 – Falling off the bandwagon

Day 0 – Falling off the bandwagon

It sounds like a great post, doesn’t it.

What bandwagon have I fallen off?

Who helped me fall off?

Why did I post such a cryptic title?

Mostly for shits and giggles, I’m afraid.  Soz!

No, the truth is, I’ve finally got back into writing again, and I’d forgotten how freeing it was, how fantastic it felt to write a little snippet every day, how it turned my obsessive mind away from ideas that were better left buried and instead dug up fresh, exciting and mostly imaginary ones.


And then, after I posted my story, I didn’t write for two days, and I let old thoughts slip back in.

Old obsessions.

So here I am, writing again, to keep my brain active and away from ridiculous social media sites that suck my time and energy, and truly do make me feel like everyone else has the perfect life.

No one has a perfect life, I’ve learnt that in the last 12 months.  Just because it’s all pretty on the screen doesn’t mean it’s idyllic beyond that two dimensional world.

And so I have a new plan.  Every 14 days I will post something, and here I will talk about the creating process, trying to keep myself motivated.

Will anyone care?  Will anyone read?

Maybe that’s not the point anymore.  Maybe the point is the little tip-tap of the keyboard, and the thoughts spilling out.

Mic drop.

The Magic Fountain

The Magic Fountain

The Magic Fountain

It was all just so magical; the twisted houses were magical, the Gothic church built on Roman ruins was magical, even the beaches sitting side by side with the port and the hawkers were magical (although you had to ignore the fat, dead, blue rats to retain that magic).
But this, THIS was beyond magic, as though the supernatural world had been amplified by a double dose of fairy dust and wizards’ incantations.
The mist leapt up from the fountain with each beat of the music, on pointe through red, pirouetting through yellow and into green, then with a brise vole it leapt from pastel blue and landed on her cheek.  The audience gasped at each movement of the water, and although she couldn’t really understand what they were saying, their smiles and the constant stream of phone flashes said it all.
Yes, magical.  Beautiful.  A tourist spectacle that would always be a crowd pleaser.
But that didn’t really matter, not really, she was just another tourist who had left her cynicism at home and was ready to be charmed.
The music ended and the fountain faded into gloom, and she joined in with the applause.  She shifted in her seat, aware she was surrounded by strangers in the darkness, and she lightly touched her wallet under her jacket where her few euros remained; she wouldn’t save them from the hawkers only to have them stolen in the night.
Music swelled from the amps, a classic by Frank Sinatra, and she felt a wave of romance and nostalgia as the fountain pulsed back into life.
And that was when she saw them.
The couple.

They swirled into view, their individual movements so in tune with each other that it took her a moment to realise that there were actually two of them.  They spun together, laughing into one another’s eyes, silhouetted against the soft pink jets as Frank sang his song just for them.
She was all glitter and reflection, capturing the fountain’s dance in her drop earrings, and the pastel colours smeared themselves across her blonde hair.  Her eyes glowed as they looked up at her tall partner, her long neck tilted up to catch his eyes.
And he.  Oh he was the epitome of the Spanish silver fox, his white collared neck shirt unbuttoned only at the top and his trousers tailored to suit his tall, slim body.  A gentle smile played on his lips, as he twirled her around and around, creating such a gravity with that spin that everyone’s eyes were drawn to them, until their orbit took them out of sight again, and the crowd was released.
She sighed.  Now THAT was romance.


She loved that he was taller than her, loved his large, warm hand encompassing hers and the press of his other hand on her back, but what she really loved was his grace.  He swept her along effortlessly, his strength pinning her to him with one hand while his body pressed her backwards, their perpetual spin both delicious and terrifying.
She was afraid to look away,  to break their momentum and rhythm, to lose this perfect moment in the night air; one misstep would bring their partnership to an end, and the thrill and fear clogged her throat and drew her mouth into a rictus smile.  All she could see was his eyes, twin dancing jets cascading through the rainbow, her surroundings were only a flash of dark and light in the corner of her eye.
It was perfect, so perfect, and she didn’t want it to end, this dance of coloured light; she had no idea why he had suggested coming here tonight, it was something that out-of-towners came to, and yet when he had whispered “Let’s dance”, she had been unable to resist.
They spun again, and she was dusted with a fine mist; if she stayed this close to the fountain much longer she would melt, her hair and silk dress drooping, and everyone would know that her glamour was as imaginary as the magic inside the fountain.
The music picked up tempo, and the fountain sprayed them again, but she couldn’t let go, couldn’t stop, couldn’t ruin this moment.


It had been a whim, both to come here and to dance; it had felt right to bring her and show her off, because he knew that was what he was doing, displaying her to the crowds and at the same time claiming her for his own.
And he was right, they had stolen the fountain’s thunder, they were who everyone’s eyes turned to and followed.

Her right hand was cool and a little damp, but her back was still warm from her tanning in the afternoon sun, and he splayed his hand wide to catch as much of that warmth as he could.  Her head was tilted up towards him, her eyes unwavering in their attention, her smile so bright that he couldn’t help but return it with his own.  She was beautiful, her long blonde hair trailing down her long slim neck and back, its colour shifting through the rainbow as the lights switched around her.  He knew she’d chosen her dress for the way it complimented her body, hugging her torso until it reached her hips where it floated away, and he was flattered that she had worn it for him.

She laughed, and he smiled down at her, aware of how they must look to the people around them and wondered at the answering silence in him.  He wondered why he wasn’t caught up as well, caught up in her, but instead judged both of them for this facade.

She was beautiful.
And smart.
And just like the crowd gathered around the fountain, his friends and family all thought they fitted together like a jigsaw, but lately he’d only found a stillness in his heart whenever he’d looked at her, and it had begun to seep into their conversation and kisses.  He felt that as a pair they were the substance of a greeting card, all two dimensional hearts and platitudes.  She was never late, everything always perfect and stylish, and they never argued.  Everything was always so light and easy and far too simple.
They spun again, and he felt her grip tighten on him; was that fear in her eyes?  He spun her faster, hoping to catch and hold onto that look, but it disappeared into the darkness along with that small leap in his heart.
And despite his smile, he wished for that look of fear to return again.


Day 14 -Into the breach once more

Day 14 -Into the breach once more

And here we are, just two days away from posting the story, and I have written four drafts. And the question that has occurred to me is: how many more should I write?

I have rewritten it twice today, hopefully fixed most of its faults, and have even read it out loud to make sure it flowed.

And it does flow, which makes me think that I haven’t necessarily written a truly terrible story.

“The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink” T.S.Elliot

It’s also to keep you in constant state of anxiety and insecurity, so much so that when people say they love something you write you never believe them!

Day 9 – share don’t share

Day 9 – share don’t share

So the second draft is completed, and I’ve sent it off to two people for some feedback.  

One is an avid reader who once told me that I wrote better than E.L.James, which does give me some courage, but far less than if it was J.K.Rowling.
The other is a fellow writer, and I’m looking forward to her criticisms, because she understands the act of writing, and perhaps can find the chinks in my armour (this twice autocorrected as armpit and I was tempted to leave it).

God speed, 2nd draft!