Tag Archives: Writing

Dreaming Big

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I have been resisting the urge to write a romance for years. I kept telling myself that my first book needs to be deep and inspiring, a meaningful exposé of the human condition, filled with hidden plots and witty conversation. It needed to be important. But in the end… what is more important than love? More worthwhile? More deserving of the dedication required to write a novel?

How could it have ever been anything other than love?

I am a romantic. I always have been. I hope that nothing ever brings me down so low that I forget how to daydream. As such, my first completed, full-length story is going to be a fairy tale. And I’m going to love writing every page of it.

I barely have any clue what it is going to be about. There’s going to be a boy. And a girl. And magic.

I really hope you like it. :)

“I am a dreamer. I always have been. During every minute of the day the dreams are fluid, constantly shifting. With every breath, they take on new life, new form; an endless barrage of possibility. But in the night, when the world sleeps so peacefully under the glittering skies, until that first glow graces the horizon… In the night, I only dream of you.”

Grey

Fog

I used to dream in black and white, beautiful in its simplicity. But as I’ve lived and as I’ve learnt the stark contrast began to fade, revealing then, a hint of grey. An in-between, a mystery place; where nothing was as simple as it seemed. A place that brought uncertainty into a certain, ordered world.

Standing in the black and white, the uncertainty seems to be everything that should be feared. But take a step into the grey and uncertainty becomes possibility. Chances and dreams that could never have existed within the perfect black and white suddenly spring into reality.

Sometimes I long for black and white, that ability to never doubt. Until I fade into a dream that carries me away; a dream that’s always filled with grey.

Picture via kozlozay

Random Excerpt: Change

Sometimes you can feel it in your blood, the gentle boiling that sings of things to come. It’s much like that first gust of wind, gentle, subtle – but the scent of rain and power is hidden within it and you know instantly that the night will bring a storm, fierce and unyielding. You prepare for that storm, though the evidence is nothing more than a slight tease to your senses.
I can feel this change coming. I might not be able to smell it in the wind, but my very soul knows that it is nearly upon us.

Pause.

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Time stands still in moments like these; you forget to breathe, the world becomes silent and the tears well in your eyes but do not fall, shrouding your sight in a watery haze. No thoughts would dare enter your mind, the wind doesn’t blow and the sun, for just that brief moment, ceases to shine. Inevitably, time carries on. You blink, and the heavy tears slide down your cheeks, cold and wet. Air fills your lungs and your heart beats, strong and fast – reminding you that you are still alive.

As long as you are alive, you feel, for time will not stand still again. That one brief respite is all that you will ever have; the moment has ended, and life must carry on.

A Wish Upon A Snowflake.

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The curser blinked slowly, waiting for her to write something, anything. The blank white box of MSWord mocked her in its stark emptiness. Faint whispers of Jazz music floated out from the small speakers in her laptop. Slightly tinny, but it wasn’t any big bother. Nearly drowning it out was the patter of rain on the living room window.

She was slouched on a shabby blue couch in her shabby one bedroom apartment. Her toes freezing cold despite the enormous fuzzy slippers that currently adorned them, honestly she didn’t think they had been warm since the moment she stepped into the country.

But no matter, her lap was being kept toasty by the little firebox that wished to consider itself a marvel of technology. Whirring away. Still an empty screen.

She peered past the rain at what on a good day would have been a remarkable view.

Remarkable to her at the very least.

To a small-town girl from Canada the ancient buildings and townhouses that made up this section, and honestly most of the city were something incredible. Her own apartment was a renovated factory, used in the manufacturing of the famed Nottingham lace. It was converted into an apartment building many years after it shut down.

Nottingham. The English city she had chosen as her place of residence for the next year. Partially because other than London it was really the only city she knew anything about. And that only because it was the epicentre of the famed Robin Hood story, and the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham.
And partially because it really was part of a fairy tale, something she only imagined for so many years, it was still somewhat hard for her to believe that it actually existed.

Three weeks she’d been living in her fairy tale and still, there was nothing. She watched as daily the money she had saved and hoarded for this trip disappeared in a steady flow. She could get a job to allow her to stay longer, that was true. But that wasn’t the point of this trip. She wasn’t planning to stay here forever. It was supposed to be a six month leap of faith, somewhere new, some place that her muse couldn’t fail to find her. No work other than concentrating on what was supposed to be her big break. A novel that was going to jumpstart her career as a writer.

A blank page.

For three weeks it had been like this. It was ridiculous. The story was there on her fingertips, it was always there, hundreds of plotlines and ideas chasing each other around in her brain but never quite making it out onto the page.

She still didn’t even know what this story was going to be about, she could pick from any genre, but hadn’t even done that yet.

I guess I just thought it would be so much easier.
That her fingers would write by themselves and without any difficulty to herself she would be able to create a masterpiece.
And so she waited, the rain continuing to drum down.

It was a beautiful country.

Yes, it is. And I have no muse.

In frustration she tossed the laptop onto the couch cushion. Gently of course. Despite her unhappy mood it was still her best friend.

Best friend? Or only friend?

What, really, was the point of writing a fantastic book if you were miserable while doing it?

She glanced up at the only thing adorning her walls. A piece of white printer paper with big black letters scrawled on it, stuck up with scotch tape.

“No one ever committed suicide while reading a good book, but many have while trying to write one.”

The quote had in recent months taken on a whole new meaning.

She threw her body back on the lumpy cushions, stretching up until her toes curled.

It would be nice if my toes curled for another reason.

But what was the point of thinking about it? That wasn’t why she was here.