The Yellow Challenge

Well the challenge was to write a poem about, or inspired by, the colour yellow. Harder than one might think! But I added an extra challenge for myself - mostly I write wordy, rambling poems, heavier on description than emotion. This time I aimed to write something short and pithy but meaningful.

A sunshine poem came to me on the morning train - making it light in word count but still saying something proved too hard so I just let that one flow.

But on reflection I starting thinking about yellow representing a lack of courage. We have all experienced fear, fear of failure, of rejection, of change. And to my surprise out came a poem unlike my usual ramblings.

Writing is a journey in self discovery, sharing that writing can be a laboured walk along a muddy track of good intentions and well aimed barbs. Here are my yellow poems :)


Morning Train

Morning sparkles on the river.
Harsh yellow sunlight
burns through train windows
on the morning run to the city.
Glinting off silver necklace
and pearl pendant.
Highlighting deep wrinkles
and downy facial hair.
Small woman opposite
reads king-size book.
Tall man alongside
scans financial section.
Two men behind speak rapidly
in a language harsh and high.
School bags congregate in doorways
their owners squeal in delight
behind oversize sunglasses
as each stop admits
another member of the coterie.
Four seats away, why
is that man frowning so deeply?
Eyes squeezed shut.
Window frame refracts the light
slicing his face into deep shadow
and washed out white.
All is well on the morning train!


Be Yellow

Keep quiet
stay small
blend in.
Swallow back
the rising bile
of fear.

Go along
Avert eyes
close mind.
Push down
the spreading ache
of angst.

Curl up
Switch off
numb senses.
Quell all
glimmers of light
and hope.

See yellow
Feel yellow
Be yellow.

Gargoyle Smile

Walk with me in the moonlight
crunching along gravel paths
skipping over clumps of moss
past fallen angels and crumbling Madonnas
unfurl your wings and stretch out your claws
leap from broken stones to crumbling mausoleums
breathe deeply the damp air of decay and neglect.

Lift up your wings and soar over forgotten tombs
around and up, looping and diving
then landing at my side
for me to clamber onto your back
and nestle in my special place
between your wings
before climbing again
into the crisp night air.

Fly with me above ancient forests and oceans
under the moon and infinite galaxies
past ruined castles on lonely hilltops
and rat-race cities eased into once pristine bays
eyes gleaming, smile untwisted, this is our time
our time until the rising sun calls us back
to our prisons of stone and wood.

Atomic Tangerine

Looking quietly in Valencia for a perfect calming sphere
peace is shattered with a smack in the head
from a misshapen myopic mandarin
shouting 'look at me! I'm here!'

Waking slowly and wobbling on unsteady legs
to the pungent odours of tikka masala
in a working mans bar deep underground
where a clear amber liquid is served from old-fashioned kegs.

Pulsing alarm beacons glint off ragged topaz crystals
crawling between safety suited legs
to a long rusted ladder soaring up
I ascend slowly cradling a pair of gold handled pistols.

Thousands of halloween pumpkins flicker
below a gorgeous low hanging harvest moon
the priestess wears an ant trapped in baltic amber
in a necklace forged eons ago, but under the same tableau.

Lit by a tawny peach and crystal blue morning sky
a handsome ginger tabby licks marmelade from his paws
on a bird bath of bronzed mexican mosaics
the sun climbs slowly and glints like a dragons eye.

Under fragrant sweet scented orange flowers
I follow each bite of sinfully smooth delicate chocolate
with a sip of opalescent cointreau over ice
and completely forget the rush hour.

Autumn in Melbourne

Walking the dogs with a glorious blue sky overhead, crisp leaves underfoot and cheerful lorikeets going about their noisy business – who would want to be anywhere but Melbourne in autumn. 

Fires are already burning from suburban homes adding smoky intensity to the heady odours of green grass and autumn leaves. We are heading to the café by the lake, where I will sip a skinny, extra hot, hot chocolate in gloved hands, while Ella and Billie alternate between asking for a share of carrot cake, and snuffling in the leafy debris around the park. My nose is cold and almost certainly red, but I feel like a million dollars in my new coat and boots. All too soon, we are heading home, where we will play the towel game, before trudging inside with clean feet (me) and barely dry ones (dogs). 

 

It's time to get out another book and curl up in the reading chair in the last of the afternoon sun.

Dragon Wings

With dragon wings wrapped around me
shadows disappear
I sleep in a cloud of innocence
there is nothing here to fear

The sun rises and his scales sparkle
midnight blue and pearly grey
around me his wings are the softest silk
he defends me and keeps demons at bay

We fly higher and higher
the world below becomes small
playing peek a boo with wispy clouds
far far away from the urban sprawl

We skim over treetops and a glistening lake
my hands touch the icy water
on this perfect morning with my dragon
I am mother nature's daughter

We land in a meadow of wildflowers
surrounded by majestic trees
as I make a pretty posy
his wings make a gentle breeze

Foes may come and go
he will burn them all to ashes
or flay them with his spiked curly tail
they will flee in fear from any clashes

Climbing again into a perfect blue sky
nestled and secure
I know my dragon will protect me
come what may his love is pure

KC April 2011

The Darkness - Chapter 2

Posted especially for Jenny because she asked so nicely and is such a lovely sister :)

In another part of the ruins we came to what appeared to be an old schoolroom, there was a blackboard still on one wall, and chalk in a pot that looked like it had been made by a child. He handed me a piece of chalk making it was obvious that he wanted me to draw the strange circle again. I had to shut my eyes and really concentrate to remember it clearly.

“I’m not sure…” I started to stammer. But he silenced me by placing his finger on my lips, and he guided me to the blackboard.

“Just relax, and let your hand draw,” he whispered.

Upon opening my eyes, the drawing was there before me, smaller but otherwise just like it had been on the chapel floor. I had no idea how long it had taken, but it had darkened outside now. This time I knew I had drawn it - and that I had to find out what it meant.

“Did this diagram call you? I asked.

 He nodded and his fingers traced the pattern I had drawn.

 “I can teach you some of what you need to know, but we have much to do.”

I now had a million more questions, but it really was getting dark and I needed to organise somewhere more suitable to sleep.  The small room with the chest of old clothes seemed the logical place. This time he did not just disappear; he helped me move a few things around. By the time we had finished, I had a comfortable spot on a pile of old clothes. I was warm enough, fed, and tired. I was also in desperate need of a bath, but that could wait, especially as I hadn’t seen anything to heat water with, and I had never been fond of cold baths.

“You still haven’t told me your name?” I questioned him the next morning.

“You have not told me yours,” he retorted.

 “But you brought me here, you must know who I am, what you want with me?”

“It has been a long time since anyone has called me. Even longer since I have responded. I do not have the answer to either question yet.”  Was his frustrating reply.

“Come on” he said, “lets get to work.”

As we walked, I told him my name and how I got it. The nuns at the orphanage had named me, after St Jude. We had spent a lot of time learning about all the saints. There were a great many - and we had to learn and remember their lives and deaths in detail. Those of us that lived past the age of eleven and a half got a name rather than a number. It was usually selected to humiliate us somehow. St Jude was, and still is I guess, the patron saint of lost causes and hopeless cases – with me falling into the latter category, and with apparently no redeeming features.

The name gave all the nuns endless amusement. When I was smaller, they often joked about the myriad of different unpleasant ways in which I would probably die in physical agony or spiritual longing. It often gave me nightmares. However, I outgrew it, and it annoyed them more every passing year as I became hardened to the taunts.

He had listened in silence as I rambled on about the orphanage and it is naming practices. We reached a cobbled area with a heavy grill. He pulled it up with seeming unlimited strength and we descended worn stone steps into a large chamber and a rabbit warren of tunnels and smaller rooms. It had obviously been a torture chamber of some kind once, as some of the instruments even now hung from the walls. They still looked menacing but there was no evidence of blood, just a thick layer of dust and a lacy weave of cobwebs hanging everywhere - almost to our waists in some places.

I followed him as he swept the cobwebs out of the way and we bent slightly to get into and through one of the tunnels. It was narrow and dark and the walls felt damp. It opened onto another large chamber. He must have had matches or something handy, because a light flared and he lit the candles on the walls.

 

 “A library,” I exclaimed in delight as I clasped my hands together.

It was dusty in this chamber too, but without the cobwebs. Every wall was covered in floor to ceiling glass cabinets. Without waiting to be asked, I moved to the closest shelves and started scanning the books on display. I loved reading and I had never seen such a delicious collection of rich and varied titles.

“Over here,” he called as he opened a locked cupboard over to the side. “These books will help you to understand who you are.”

 I headed over to where he knelt in front of the open doors. I could see a small key on a chain around his neck, before it disappeared inside his shirt again. He told me to shut my eyes and take out a book.

“It’s another book about Saints,” I exclaimed as I opened up the small book I had pulled out at random. “Oh, but it’s not saints! Its, it’s about witches and wizards?”

He took the book from me and flipped through the pages before handing it back. “It’s a good one for you to start with” he said, and added “this history is much more important to you than anything you might want to learn about the saints.”

I felt like telling him I had not chosen to learn anything at all about any saints, but I held my tongue.

 “Am I a witch?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

“Well that doesn’t make any sense at all! There are a lot of people I would have turned into toads if I could have done…” I laughed but my voice trailed off under the intensity of his gaze.

“Maybe you have,” he said holding my eyes in his for several seconds.

I felt myself blushing and started looking at the other books in the cupboard. Many did not have titles, but looked very, very old. Others had writing in a language I could not read. I felt a powerful draw to read all of them. One in particular–a huge and beautifully bound book in rich burgundy leather- reminded me of the Bible in the chapel, it was always kept open on the stand in front of the alter. Its gilded pages glowed a deep bronze in the late afternoon sun in summer.

 “Not yet” he cautioned as my hands reached for it.  “You will know when you’re ready.”

The Darkness - Chapter 1

I did promise to start posting the short story I am writing ... but of course,  so many things get in the way. Here is the first chapter, or at least what we will call a chapter for now. I am breaking it into approximately thousand word chunks so it's not too long to read. It was meant to be a short story, but I feel I could write much more–perhaps I will :)

Further chapters will be posted according to my time and inclination !

The darkness surrounded me, enveloped me, I felt strangely warm, as if a quilt had been wrapped around me.

Through half open eyes, I could see whiteness in all directions. Snowflakes fell in my hair and eyelashes, the coldness of each one stung as it landed on my face. I felt myself lifting, could feel hot breath on my neck, strong hands around my chest and abdomen and very definitely warmth; and then darkness again, and then nothing.

 

I woke on hard rock, hungry, thirsty, and cold. And then I saw him in the dim, grey light. Unkempt and grubby, he sat cross-legged on a pile of rubble picking at his nails.

He ignored me in total silence, so I said “hello”.

He carried on picking at his finger nails, which were more like dirty claws.

“How did I get here?” I asked.

Still no response. But he swirled something around in his mouth and spat out a small bone - licked clean, devoid of meat. My stomach rumbled, I hadn't eaten since dinner two nights ago. Maybe he heard them too, or saw me licking my dry lips, because he turned his head to look at me as he said, “there is water in the well.”

When he said nothing further, I stood and set off to look for the well.

The well was outside, in a courtyard of a crumbling castle in the middle of a black and white wilderness - the bucket was small enough to tip to my mouth and the water tasted clean and fresh.

I felt him staring and turned. He sat in the decaying surround of what used to be a window. As I shivered and watched he jumped down with the grace of a big cat.

“Follow me,” he murmured as he brushed past me.

I followed. We walked around the corner of the building and entered a low doorway. At the end of a long, roughly paved corridor he stopped.

“There are some clothes in there” he said as he pointed to an old chest in a small room.

I found a heavy hooded cape and some lace up boots that fit. No gloves, but I could keep my hands inside the cape unless I needed to expose them to the cold air. I hoped he would offer food next, but he had disappeared. Returning to the room in which I had first awoke; I smelt the roast lamb before I saw him. He had bread and potatoes as well, and he silently handed me a cloth bag. He dug into his with his hands, but I was happy to see a fork in the bag for me. I had a million questions that I wanted to ask him.

 

“Why have you brought me here?” was the first one that quite involuntarily came out of my mouth. And interestingly, it was at that time that I realized without any doubt that he had done so.

“Why did you call me?” he answered.

“I didn’t, I don't know you, I don't even know your name, I can't explain anything that has happened since Father Andrew found me in the chapel.” I blurted out in a rush.

The only response I got was a raised eyebrow; he finished eating his food, and looked at me expectantly.

“I don't know where to start”

“At the end of course” he said without the slightest hint of sarcasm.

“Did I die in the snow? I know that is what was meant to happen. But I didn't make the diagram on the floor! I didn't! I have never seen anything like it before.” Memories of being dragged to the vestry and locked in, with no explanation, nothing at all, just left there in fear and disbelief, still rankled and hurt. I fought to keep back tears.

“You are not dead”

“Then where am I, who are you, what am I doing here?”

“Tell me about the diagram” he said, somehow his words had a soothing effect.

“I remember Father Andrew shaking me awake. I was on the chapel floor; I don't remember how I got there. I think I still had chalk in my hand.”

“Go on”

“There was a circle, and pictures of things inside the circle. There were triangles too, and some sort of lettering. I think Father Andrew recognized it, he looked angry and sort of scared and he was rough with me when he pushed me into the vestry and locked the door.”

He stood - and motioned me to follow him.

“You still haven't answered my questions, why should I trust you?” I asked, but I was already following him.

Naughty Corners

A silly little poem written in jest, but i rather like it:

So often bare and bereft,

corners pose awkward questions,

if left empty to gather dust.

They are awkward to clean,

but shall i let them get dirty,

until cobwebs can be seen.

Or fill them all in,

with furniture and art,

a soft reading chair here,

corner library there.

Potted plants where there is light,

a shrine to Buddha,

in that dark spot next to the fireplace.

No bare and bereft corners here.

Do I interpret a deeper meaning,

am i filling in holes?

Surely just a dislike of corners?

Perhaps just in case, 

i should take myself,

to the naughty step on the stairs.

(KC March 2011)

Darkness Surrounds Me

Darkness surrounds me
envelopes me
a strange warmth
spreads through me
as if a quilt
from grandmothers bed
had been wrapped around me
except the heat
sears my skin

Desperately my fingers
tear at the fabric
giant quills
push their way out
scratching my hands
ripping at
my eyes and ears
bound in the shredded fabric
I twist and contort

The skull mocks and snickers
blood oozes and bubbles
as a zombie takes shape
it's mouth dripping
putrid saliva
a lopsided grin
does not disguise
rotting teeth
or its hunger for my flesh

Blind, or is it dark
deaf, or is this thing silent
mute, as I cannot
scream for help
or in bravado
hands still bound
even the liquid
I am bleeding
does not ease the pain this time

Black is turning
to a miserable grey
the desk is here
the bottle is here
empty of course
the start of another day
in the mirror
only my dead eyes
betray the night before

kc 25/3/2011

Writing Course Over :(

Well my first foray into actually studying writing is finished. The last lesson was on Monday, the last writing homework was done on the weekend (Previously posted here: "Worst Nightmare"). I hope that my fellow students keep in touch.

I am feeling bereft of it already - so have started exploring other options. There is an online creative writing course that sounds OK as a stop gap ... and a CAE course on novel writing that starts on May 20 which sounds very interesting.

I am also critiquing and posting in Scribblophile whenever I get the chance. Reviewing other writers work is more helpful than I thought it would be, much more so in fact. And the feedback from other writers is thought provoking, even if i would rather they said "it's wonderful" !!!!

A few weeks ago we had a long weekend and no writing class or homework. I asked Graeme for a first sentence to get me started as I had a week looming with no writing task and couldn't think of anything. He gave me the following:

"The darkness surrounded me, enveloped me, I felt strangely warm as if a quilt had been wrapped around me."

I loved it! And came up with a poem the next day ... and the first few pages of a possible short story in the next week. I am posting the poem next - and over the next few posts I might pop in the short story (which keeps growing - and is no longer that short :))

The poem is very very different to the short story - it's just what came out of my head; really nothing to do with me at all!

Please post a comment or two if you have the time and / or inclination :) thank you xxx

The pleasure of giving - its not just about writing

Its not just about writing for pleasure ... although that does take up a lot of my energy these days ! The pleasure with which a friend received a hand-made gift (not from me) recently reminded me how much a hand made gift means - to both the giver and the receiver.  I don't knit as much as I used to with my hands being rather useless ... but I do very much enjoy making small things for friends. Hats, scarves and gloves are well within my range of capability - and do seem to be appreciated. I did say at the start that I would randomly blah on about topics other than writing ... 

This is Graeme's hat, scarf and gloves (well one of them anyway), the hat is almost done, the scarf about 2/3 of the way through, and of course there is just one fingerless glove. It is just starting spring in the UK at the moment - but the the thought was there, and I am sure it will be horribly cold in the next autumn / winter. Maybe even in the UK summer !!!

My sister is looking for a scarf soon, and I have some other friends in mind for my knitting list :) I will post updates occasionally (can here your sighs of relief that it will only be occasional ....) until next time ....  

Worst Nigthmare

This is my last writing exercise for the writing class i am doing. The last lesson is this Monday - I am already sad at the thought of the class coming to an end :(  The task was to write a complete short story with a developed plot, problem climax and resolution; with understandable characters. I chose the topic “facing a situation where one's worst fears are confronted”. I hope you like it!

Pat came to - disoriented, groggy, and sore.  The past few hours were dim and foggy in his memory. As he slowly awakened, he became aware of sharp pains in his chest – he suspected he had several cracked ribs, but he couldn’t feel any other broken bones.

It was dark, and he reached for the light, but found he could not move his arm more than an inch or two. He tried to sit up, but quickly fell back down. It wasn’t just the pain in his chest, his head had hit something soft yet very firm. He tried to turn over on his side, and realised he was in some sort of cupboard or box, it felt like he was lying down, but he wasn’t quite alert enough to work out what was going on. With growing panic Pat tried to remember what he could of the previous night.

He could certainly remember the kicks, and fat Albert holding him so greasy Joe could get several good punches in. But he must have blacked out. With some difficulty, Pat managed to get his hand into his jeans pocket and pull out his lighter; he flicked it on. He seemed to be inside a padded box. A quilted padded box.

He was inside a coffin. His worst nightmare – was he buried alive? With his heart pounding, and blood rushing to his ears, Pat carefully felt all around the inside     of his padded prison as far as his hands could reach; he found the join quite easily, but pushing his fingertips into the gap sent spasms of agony through each broken rib.           

By pausing and breathing, and pushing rhythmically he managed to get his right-hand far enough in to the join to be able to prise it apart a little. A few grains of dirt trickled in. He sank back, drenched in sweat and barely able to breathe.

He had no idea how long the air would last, or how deep he was buried.  But he knew one thing; he had to get out. Becky would be waiting for him; she would have had dinner ready and started worrying when he wasn’t home before midnight. She would have been frantic by breakfast time, how long had he been here? He had no idea.

He couldn’t have tried to bash his way out if it wanted to. If he was going to make it, he was going to have to use his brains. Slowly and wincing every step of the way, he levered up the lid. Little by little dirt trickled in, and he tried to scoop more dirt out of the way. It didn’t feel like it was packed in too hard - maybe they had rushed, maybe he had a chance.

The air was getting stale, and every small movement was costing Pat effort and energy. He kept going; there was no point in resting or stopping.  He was a dead man anyway. Suddenly his fingers broke through to air, whether it was an air pocket or the surface, Pat had no idea. Ignoring the pain completely now, and absolutely focused on moving the dirt he moved slowly and with discipline, taking a handful and pulling it back into the coffin itself.

His hand and arm were ripped raw; he had almost no feeling left in his fingertips. But on the next push to the surface he felt something wet, and then something furry, and then a scrabbling close to his wrist. He quickly prayed to every saint he remembered and even those he had forgotten; he thought he heard a dull and vague barking. Could it be Buster?

A small hand took his through the dirt; she had come looking for him. She had found him. Bit by bit, with their dog digging, and with both of them moving the dirt from either end they managed to clear enough of the soil to lift the lid just enough so that he could crawl out.

He managed to get his head and he shoulders out, but the pain was excruciating now; he kept falling back as the weight of the lid and the soil seemed   determined to entomb him. Becky took his hands and tried to pull him out, but he screamed in pain and besides she was far too weak. She and Buster carried on pushing the soil away from the lid, while he hung over the edge – limp but at least breathing fresh air.

He could hear Becky crying, loud, gulping and raw. He would not give up, he had both arms out now and he pushed himself until most of his body was out of the coffin and he was able to wriggle himself free. Buster started licking his face and he could hear the dog’s tail thumping on the ground. 

Becky was trying to pull him off, talking and crying at the same time "Buster, Buster let me see if he’s okay, let me see if he’s all right."

Pat flopped onto his back, and pulled himself into a sitting position. He looked at Becky for a few moments before pulling her into his lap and hugging her as close as he could. His beautiful and brave eight-year-old daughter.

A Blackbird Sings on Bluebird Hill

I wrote this for a flash piece competition. It had to be 500 words and based on or inspired by the lyrics of "The Riddle" by Nic Kershaw.  It is my first attempt at prose !  A few people have said they like it ... I hope you do too :)

I have been watching and waiting for some time, she is more precious than all the gasoline and gold in the world, but she doesn’t really see me yet. So far I am just pieces of a valentine to her, but tonight I will sing to her under the big old tree by the river, and in the veil of the night I will win her heart and her trust.

It has been a game, with sly looks in corridors and passing notes in the scullery, code words and cryptograms to add adventure, I am the blackbird and she is my bluebird.

A wiser man may have folded some time ago. But I stopped being wise when she arrived here to work as the junior kitchen maid.  Not a conventional beauty, but her smile lights up the world and I see kindness in her eyes and all of her actions. I am the strongman around here, her duties often take her into the gardens, and it has not been difficult to make sure we say hello every day. It was lucky that I saw her writing down her thoughts, and turning them into a rhyme, it has given us a shared love, and we have overcome shyness, by talking about, and in poetry.

I have had time to work out how to get her away from the house, lucky again that it is now Valentine’s Day, her head has been full of red hearts and pretty birds, blue skies and sunshine.  It’s a very large house, and the property extends right down to the river, we will not be missed once our duties for the day have been done.

There will be a full moon tonight, and it’s still warm. She was a little hesitant to agree to meet me under the old tree, but the charm of Valentine’s Day and delight that I have written a song for her overcame her fears. Everything is arranged now; the game has been more fun than I thought it would. Hinges oiled, paths cleared of gorse and bracken, and there’s a hole in the ground under that big tree, it always fills up with pine needles making it soft and cozy - I have made sure it’s a very comfortable and secluded spot.

The picnic basket is already under the tree, as are some blankets and some wine, taken from the pantry while the butler was sleeping off excessive port and cigars. I will carry my guitar with me when we leave the house this evening, her song is done, and it is the best I’ve ever written. I know she is as excited as me; her eyes were shining with anticipation when we saw one another a few moments ago.

I have had time to kill and I’ve made plans for us.  Tonight is just the start, in the morning, a blackbird will sing on bluebird hill thanks to the calling of the wild in us all.

Big Girls Cry

I wrote this in about 5 minutes one evening. A dear friend, who I had been chatting with just about every evening, announced that she would be cutting her time online back; for all sorts of reasons, none of which I could change. We were both crying, having become somewhat co-dependent it was a wrench to imagine not having each other to lean on. She sent me a U-Tube link to Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry". I immediately responded "yes they do" and wrote this:

 

Big girls cry,

and laugh,

and dance and sing.

Big girls fall in love,

and sparkle,

and bleed.

Big girls say I love you,

and mean it,

and ache.

Big girls say let me help you,

and ask for help,

when they need it.

Big girls shine in the sun,

and glow in the moon,

and sometimes hide away.

Big girls cry,

behind the smiles,

and just get on.

 

I really like it, and so does she :)

In A Crowd

It isn't a massive crowd,
but big enough.
Sitting at what was the edge,
in the shade,
hands stepped on.
A bicycle rode over my foot,
and a lady with a pram,
but at least she said 'watch your hand'.

Perhaps i should stand?
Better to stay small,
so i hug my knees,
and look at the grass.
It's fresh and long,
and very green.
Smells like grass,
nice new shoots to pull out and squish,
I remember dad,
eating the soft ends of the new shoots.

Lots of feet and legs,
fat and skinny,
hairy and smooth,
ugly and nice.
Very jealous of the really nice ones !!

Clapping and cheering at last,
presentation must be over,
lots of people milling about,
walking past and around,
will be safe soon.

(Jan 2011, KC)

First Post

It has been a long time since I have kept a journal of any kind–but it feels right to start again now.

I have always loved words, and word crafting; but until recently my career kept me occupied and took all of my energy and creativity.

Illness has forced me to rethink work life balance, and it was with some fear that I started sharing my writing with a few friends a short while ago. It was a fear that has been proved baseless, I write freely and even enjoy my own work sometimes!


I don't know who might read this journal, but I intend to chat in it randomly about my writing, enjoying life with a permanent incapacity, and maybe a few other odd things.

If you are reading, I hope you enjoy it… but I  will appreciate your comments regardless :)