What is my writing like?
It's weird.
There you go.
It's an odd blend of all types of stuff. Sad stuff, happy stuff, karmic stuff. Sometimes it's funny. Sometimes it will make you cry. I can't promise you any particular type of genre or outcome.
If you want predictable that's ok. I just can't promise it here. I write what they tell me. These are their stories and, as such, are a blur of experiences and emotions.
I do hope you enjoy the ones you read.
Footsteps
You follow in my footsteps.
You may, through pain,
Walk in my shoes,
Though I prayed an easier way for you.
Life is hard.
Sometimes.
People learn slowly.
The damage they gave to me,
They may give to you.
The pain I have felt,
You may feel too.
There is much to be feared.
Yet there is light too.
For I have endured.
I have survived.
At times, I have thrived.
I have learnt ways
That I can teach you.
To protect yourself,
To keep breathing,
To embrace your damage,
Your pain,
Your bruises,
And let them make you stronger.
When the grief
The anguish
The agony
Pierce your soul,
When the light seems to dim,
Let your tears fall
And let them dry.
Hold up your head.
For you are my successor,
As I am, of the women before me.
In our strength,
Open your mouth and say
I am not afraid,
For I walk in my mother’s footsteps
And she has
Defeated you.
Pennie Payton!
It's out! Pennie Payton, a novelette, is available on Smashwords, and via most ebook apps!
'Pennie Payton spends her days dreaming about the delivery guy and hating her husband. Will she resort to desperate measures to find happiness or will fate lend a hand?'
(potential trigger warning, contains violence against women and some horror aspects)
Here's another hyperlink to it!
A Writer not Writing
Who is a writer if a writer isn't writing?
Not themselves, it seems.
For the writer, born with the need to set free the people in their heads, there can be no more honest and true place to be than in front of the keyboard, or holding the notepad, each word transporting their characters into reality. When deprived of this, and let’s face it, in modern life there are more necessary distractions than it’s possible to list, are they even a real person anymore? I’m not. At least not to a degree that I feel my soul could survive.
I can don many masks, perform many roles. Parent, child, sibling, friend, lover, employee, (mostly) functioning member of society. Yet the only time I truly take off the mask, let the walls crumble, remove the ever-conscious monitor of my own being, is when I’m writing. When I’m in the worlds of the people from my mind. Being custodian to their stories, being the one who gets to discover them, is what I’m here to do.
When I’ve been in that zone and then have to come back, have to return to my roles, it feels like dressing when you were happier naked. There’s the shock and the mad fumble to cover my vulnerability, to slip on that mask of a smile. To monitor monitor monitor what I say, what I do. And every bit of it takes me further from my true naked self.
So, maybe that’s who a writer is when a writer isn’t writing. A human hiding a soul.
(previously featured on wordpress)
This is not a writing themed post.
See this cat? This is my cat. Tabitha.
She's getting on now. You can't tell. She's still the same as she was eleven years ago.
Have your seen her expression? That's her 'tolerating humans' face. Tabitha dislikes being picked up. She does love to curl up on your lap, but only on her time and terms. She constantly nags. She doesn't know what she wants, but she knows she wants something and that it's my job to provide it. When you tell her to wait or move or get down from in front of the T.V. she meows in a sound that is clearly a 'noooooo.'
Tabitha dislikes all other animals and the majority of humans. It's unfortunate for her that she's so small and cute. Everyone wants to pet her. Usefully, Tabitha is often not quite moving in time with the rest of the world so I get to grab and cuddle her for at least a minute before she realises what's happening.
Once, on a particularly cold day, when the heating was off, I was concerned about her, being as she's so slight. So, I dressed her in a jumper. Yup, put it right over her head, threaded her little arms in like a newborn. Not a peep of fuss. Until she tried to walk. The material dragged on her back legs just a bit. She walked forward. She walked backward. She realised something was wrong. She turned to her brother and hissed in his face. She was pretty sure he caused it.
Like I said, Tabitha isn't quite moving in time with the rest of us.
You know what I like best about her? What I really love? I love when her pupils get wide, really wide. Because that's when she manages to make eye contact. Normally, she can never quite find you, her eyes are always looking off to the side. But when those pupils get big...her tiny kitten-cute face gazes up at you like puss-in-boots from Shrek, and you get to see where she is. She's really there and she's so small and so soft and she's choosing to put aside her hate and be there, with you.
That's my favourite bit. When my little feline ball of hatred manages to look right in my eyes, and all I see is her confused-but-real affection for me, the woman who's loved her since she was but nothing but a tiny tiny ball of fluff. .
