It does bother me that I spend everyday writing, but never allow myself time to sit and read a book these days. But, I have decided to stop beating myself up about it because I do read. I read a lot, but not always in the good old-fashioned way. These days, thanks to the Internet, it is so easy to tap into a plethora of resources for literature, art and just about everything else... 24/7. So I quench my constant thirst for knowledge browsing the Net.
I don't think my mother read any of my literary contributions since I had poetry published at eleven when she had high hopes that I would become Gloucestershire's answer to William Wordsworth. Oh, and helping my step-father piece together his aeronautical autobiography, of course.
So reliant I have become on Word to record my every word, I have now programmed myself to restart and try to recapture that inspiration.
I've been pussyfooting around this passion of mine for too long and now I feel like I am writing for my life.
She still tried to make an effort on the fashion front but, tottering around in ridiculously high heels every day, was beginning to take a toll on her ankles.
'Luke ... how long is it since I last saw you?' He shook his head slowly from side to side, squeezing his eyes together as if trying to solve a cryptic crossword clue. He had no idea, so she continued. 'OK ... let me remind you. Do you remember the morning you went to work and never came back?' He shrugged apologetically. 'I was about to file a missing person's report when you emailed me from Sydney to tell me you had been offered a gig out there for 12 months.' He looked at her, sucking in air through his teeth. One of his irritating habits and something he always did when he knew he was in the wrong. 'Ahh, so you do remember? And that 12 months turned into 8 years ... not that I'm counting ... well, certainly not anymore.'
I have reached the point of no return and I am terrified. I want to cry. I want to run away from it. I want to read Stephen King's On Writing ... again ... on a desert island with no interruptions, because I seem to have forgotten everything he said.
Sam broke the silence and eye contact was reestablished. The words said one thing, but the eyes were saying something else. There was no glimmer of reciprocated emotion, just an apologetic sadness. Nicky always had that nagging doubt, an inner fear that their relationship, the one she had thrown her heart and soul into was always destined to be a one-sided, temporary arrangement. A fling, a game, an experiment. She had been right.
Outtakes from current work-in-progress 2015-2017 Half a bottle of champagne and a sea food platter 'I'm glad you rang, I’ve got a bit of news for you. How was your flight?' 'News? Good I hope. The flight was bloody brilliant actually. I met Luke Holloway in the departure lounge at Gatwick. He was also headed... Continue Reading →