Tag: writer

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fiction Writing

The Perfect Home

As soon as Mary pulled onto the drive, she felt that she was at home. After the chaos and living for so long with her mother she knew that anywhere would bring her more comfort than the current situation that she was in, but this place felt more special than that.

The house stood proudly in the sunlight with its green front door matching that of the garage.

‘My favourite,’ she exclaimed as if someone had painted it that colour on purpose as a selling technique.

She smiled as she left the car and headed towards the fine-looking estate agent waiting happily for her on the driveway. Seeing her face, he thought he had an easy task on his hands and Mary knew that he wasn’t wrong.

‘Hello there Mary, I’m Simon.’

‘Hello.’

‘I can see from your face that you already like what you see, let’s head on in.’

The place was bright from the entrance with every wall painted in warming but light colours. The kitchen, again with a green theme, the exact green that Mary adored, was spacious and airy. The floors were cool and the whole vibe felt as if she was in a villa in a remote area of Portugal.

‘It’s perfect,’ she said, thinking out loud.

‘Don’t be too hasty,’ Simon replied in a joking but careful manner, knowing that he was told to be gentle as Mary was a vulnerable customer. ‘I would actually like to let you see the garden first and work our way back through if you are happy with that?’

‘Absolutely.’

The garden was in full sunlight with different levels and little grass. The small patch that was present was lusciously green and there were all sorts of plants dotted about. Hydrangeas, Lavender, grasses blowing in the breeze and a beautiful Honeysuckle just starting to flower from a deep pink spiky bud. Merely looking at the garden made Mary smile and the feeling of being somewhere relaxing and exotic remained, the pebbles enhancing this.

‘Wow,’ she said not knowing how else to express her happiness. She realised fully that it was a small place and wouldn’t be too impressionable to most, but it was perfect for her.

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fiction Writing

Chapter 2, February 1994

While the thoughts had been flowing around Mary’s head she realised that the silence had continued for the duration of their first drinks and that they had been sitting and enjoying the moment, gazing into each other’s eyes like a love scene from a film. Quickly snapping back into reality, Mary went to the toilet to check her makeup situation and to slightly lower her top to entice James to some drunken action later, or perhaps just a kiss. James went to the bar for another round.

‘She really likes you,’ uttered the barman with more experience in years than James had. ‘You can tell from the way she holds herself around you. I’ve been watching the pair of you, not to sound creepy like, but it’s cute.’

The barman was Geordie and had the strongest accent that James had heard since moving up north to university. He was short and bald so James wrongly judged and thought what does he know, but he remained polite despite his inner judgement.

‘I’m glad it looks that way,’ he replied and swiftly moved on to the ordering of more drinks. There was an offer on spirits and mixers meaning Mary had been getting two drinks each time, so James made sure that he had two as well so not to feel left out. He remained on pints and didn’t feel overly drunk yet, so he knew he couldn’t get the blame for taking advantage of her or not acting in a gentlemanly manner and forgetting to walk her home, thoughts coming from experience.

He sat back at the table feeling smug with their beverage layout as well as hearing the comments from the barman proving that he was doing a good job. He’d never been so nervous on a date before but so far he felt that his nerves were well hidden and the attraction between the two of them was there.

After chatting a while more and opening up with the alcohol kicking in, they realised that they had more in common than they had initially thought. Even though Mary was the least sporty person and James had no interest for English Literature and writing, they found lots of topics which meant something to them both and spent a good while comparing travel notes which was full of laughter.

Once they’d finished the round and stood up ready to move on, Mary built up the courage to lean in for a kiss. She had never thought that she would let her guard down enough to do that on a first date before, but her feelings and mild intoxication made it happen. It was a comfortable moment as she leant into James’ strong body. He held her hair back with one hand and grabbed her waist with the other, pinching it gently and affectionately tickling her on the ribs. She giggled and after that moment they decided against the pub crawl and bought beverages to consume back at his flat.

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Non-fiction Observations Writing

The Write Mood

Aspiring to be a writer is a tricky thing. Not only does it take time and effort, but it takes a strong and confident mindset too. This is something that I sometimes forget to have.

I firmly believe (and know from experience) that being in my twenties is tough. I’m not yet settled, I am single, I don’t own a house, I have no responsibilities, no notion of the future and a constant comparison to others. Whether this is going to be the case throughout my life, I am yet to find out, but all I know is this stage of life in contrast to younger years.

My mood towards life and my future goes in a pattern of waves. Sometimes I am full of energy and can’t write fast enough for all the projects that I have on the go. Sometimes I write five blog posts in an hour, a novel in six months and tiredness never comes into it because I’m so passionate. I know I’ll succeed and take every bit of feedback, every rejection, every personal opinion asking me what I’m “actually doing with my life” in a positive light and strive for a bright future ahead of me.

Other times I have no motivation, I feel overwhelmed with my workload, I have a novel on hold for six months and I feel completely tired all of the time. I take every nugget of advice as criticism, I doubt my every move, all rejection is a black hole and I feel skeptical about the whole thing.

Being a creative, I have the tendency to exaggerate. The other day I woke in the stormy weather to realise that my car windows were open and my key was at my friend’s house. Knowing I couldn’t close it without a key, I thought up the most unrealistic and extreme scenario that I could and concluded that my car would be struck by lightning, the water would cause an explosion which would set alight my grass, our house and then the entire neighborhood. Of course, I was wrong. This is the mind of a writer after all.

I have to remember this when I’m thinking about my future too. I will think up the worst case scenarios and fixate on them which is dangerous. I’ll always be single, I’ll never afford to buy a house, I won’t ever get published. What am I doing?

My busy brain got the better of me one morning last week and to shut it up I meditated. Whether meditation is for you or not, I think it teaches a huge skill in life. That skill is pretty much not to think too much and to live fully in the moment.

Think about things to a certain extent, but not too much that it removes a passion, or happiness, or peace. When things get too much – stop. Focus on the moment, enjoy the here and now, count your blessings and live.

Categories
Non-fiction Observations Writing

My Writing Space: what it means to me

If I have learnt nothing else from my time as an aspiring writer it’s that if the space in which I am trying to write in isn’t right then, I am not going to get a lot of writing done.

Sometimes I choose my desk. On it there is a radio, some twinkling fairy lights inside a glass jar (pointless but important), a photo of my Grandad and I at my 21st, candles, place mats, my laptop and an owl pot filled with corks and stones (again, totally useless but crucial).

From my desk I can look out to a view over fields. In the summer this view is gorgeously clear, blue skies and greenery. Occasionally it is blurred through the raindrops hitting the window, but that just makes me more thankful that I am inside and at my desk. On a good winters day the view is spectacularly white from frost or snow and it is, especially when writing, one of my favorite views.

Sometimes I choose the sofa. Since getting our puppy who is extremely lovable if not a little bit of a distraction, I struggle to work upstairs at my desk if nobody else is around. This is why I have acquired a new working space on the corner sofa that is so comfortable that if hungover I simply sleep and no words are written. Sometimes my feet are up, sometimes they are not but always my slippers are on. My dog, Arkley, likes to nestle in between me and my laptop on my lap, listening intently to me reading short stories aloud while editing them.

Sometimes I choose outside. When the weather is being nice, I just have to work outdoors. There is a little bench in my garden and the sun is guartuneed to shine on one seat. That is the seat I choose to sit at. I lay everything out as if on my desk; my laptop, diary, coffee and usually another sugary beverage to spark up some extra motivation. Here, I enjoy the warmth while producing more material.

Then there’s my other place. A house of my friends which I find so special when it comes to my writing. I discovered while house sitting there that it had a good effect on my writing. New ideas flowed and the motivation lingered so that I just couldn’t stop. Whether it was changing my space or something in the air over that pocket of land, I’m not sure, but there is something in it that means a lot to me and my work.

One day, I know (hope) I live in a wonderful house looking out over a lake because water too helps me and my words. Whenever I got to the beach even if I don’t intend to, I write or note down so many ideas which flow out of my overwhelmed mind. Being by water is certainly something for the soul, but it helps my writing too.

So as pernickety as this all may sound, these are the spaces in which I like to write and they are very special to me.

Categories
Non-fiction Observations Writing

Keeping up with the socials

Being a young person isn’t easy. Being a person isn’t always easy. Particularly if that person is starting out a business or a new career through which social media is essential.

In this day and age many people can’t go to the toilet without announcing it on Facebook. They can’t go to the supermarket and bag themselves a bargain without a Tweet to say how fabulous they feel. They can’t sit and do some work without capturing the setup of their laptop, coffee and diary in a structured fashion. I am a huge culprit of this.

I would be lying if I said all of what you see on my social media accounts is the reality. Of course I edit photos from nights out, I big up scenarios to make them sound better than they were and I comment on other people’s feeds far more enthusiastically and witty than I would be if in conversation with them in real life.

Above all in the hyper-reality league table come my writing social feeds. Since aspiring to be an author and realising fast that a lot of the publicity would be up to me whether I self publish or get signed by an agent, I set up a Facebook page, a blog, an Instagram site and a Twitter account all dedicated to my life as an aspiring writer.

Instantly the followers crept in as did the supportive messages from other like-minded individuals. The trouble was that I soon realised I needed to be posting a lot more than I did (and that still needs to be increased).

After having my Instagram account for a week and posting every three days, I knew instantly that I needed to increase that to every day. My blog, Twitter and Facebook feeds are works in progress too as I desperately try to increase my activity (and find the time to do so).

This task sounds easy to some but trust me it is a lot more difficult than you would think. Firstly figuring out what to post about and which images to use is a tricky task, but being motivated and in the mood to post all the time is another thing altogether.

I have been known to post about my fabulously sunny afternoon (#Friyay) making me so happy while in floods of tears, severely hormonal. I have been known to post a sunny idyllic setup, when in fact I am in bed. I have been known to make my views about something sound exceedingly positive when I am breaking inside with negativity over it.

However, it isn’t all doom and gloom. I am getting the hang of it and trying to be ever more real with all of my feeds while also coming across so many other accounts where people are doing great.

Ultimately, I find social media a positive tool in business and careers. Judging by the accounts I follow and from talking to friends I think it’s comforting to people going through health issues and such like, writing about their situation, inspiring others and gaining a boost through those who are suffering with them. I think it’s encouraging to those training for a big event and using social media for advice, enthusiasm and good vibes. It’s also good to know that so many people support you and most only wish you well.

So, while using social networks for publicity of career aspirations, awareness around health issues, or support for a big event is a struggle, a full time job and difficult to increase a following when you’re a nobody, social media is (mostly) brilliant for this!

(In my opinion)

Categories
fiction Writing

Chapter 25, Dublin 2018 (an excerpt)

‘To us getting the outcome that we need tomorrow,’ I say, keeping my fingers crossed and wincing a little hoping that my suggestion goes down well.

Granted I am feeling a little tipsy, so I have built the confidence to say more than I would have at the beginning of our dinner, however these are things that need to be addressed so I am glad to be the one that is doing so.

‘Cheers.’ Comes my thankful response and I am both relieved and happy that I dedicated this glass to the event.

‘You know, it’s going to be seriously difficult to see his face again. I always thought him a lovely lad but now, obviously, my opinions have changed entirely and I just want to rip him apart. I never thought I could kill, but now I know that I could.’

It is after Sheila has finished her miniature rant that I realise she too is probably feeling a little drunk and that is why the truth is all coming out. Being so reserved at first I thought this dinner was going to exhaust me but now the conversation, and the correct conversation at that, is coming so smoothly.

‘Did you know anything about the way he treated Brannagh?’ I ask her, genuinely shocked at Brannagh not asking her mother for help but rather coming to a total stranger in a different country – me.

‘Nothing,’ she pauses, and something appears to be on her mind. ‘I suppose occasionally she seemed a little distressed after seeing him or she would shut me off and just retreat to her room, but I always assumed that was down to her being on her period or that they had had an argument. It was never clear that something was actually wrong.’

‘That’s so sad that she couldn’t speak to any of us. I mean, she tried to tell me and I guess it’s easier telling an almost stranger than your mother but even then I am convinced she wasn’t telling me truly how bad it was.’

The service in the restaurant is great and I glance at my watch to check the time once we finish our mains. I can’t believe it is only half past nine, it feels as though we have been here much longer than that. I suppose the intensity of the conversation has prolonged time but still, I would have expected it to be at least an hour later than it is. However, we’re all tired and with a big day tomorrow we decide to take ourselves off to our separate beds, despite Eileen offering Sheila a glass back at her house.

I am glad Sheila declined this offer because I am tired but also wanted to debrief with my aunt on my own before tomorrow. We both feel that our meeting with Sheila went as well as it could have gone and that we covered many bases of difficult conversational topics. As a reward to us both for getting through it and to temporarily lessen our dread for tomorrow, we open a bottle of Champagne, a staple ingredient to the contents of Eileen’s fridge.

Categories
Adulthood Observations Writing

The different versions of you

You are an individual, of course you are, just like nobody else. You could be happy one day and another day sad but you’ll still do it differently to everyone. As important as it is to be you and the best version of it that you can be, I still think we all have numerous very different versions of what this is.

There’s the work one. The I must be polite to everyone one. The musn’t swear no matter how better it will make me feel one. The must work hard even though I am so tired one.

There’s the play one. The swear as much as you like one. The drink as much as you can one. The no regrets until morning one.

There’s the meeting old friends one. The can’t stop talking and who needs to take breath anyway one. The so much to catch up on so the conversation is meaningful one.

There’s the friend you see every day one. The still can’t allow for breath but talking about nothing one. The let’s have another glass and talk more rubbish one.

There’s the happiness around dogs one. The forgiving for everything one. The being delighted no matter how bad they are being one – because who can be sad around dogs?

There’s the holiday one. The off duty one. The nothing matters how long it takes one. The I don’t care about organisation I have all the time in the world one. The no cares at all one.

There’s the mundane day one. The I have an hour to do everything so I’m going to stress about it all one. The getting home and listing all the things that I’ve stressed about and laughing it off in the car one.

There’s the crisis one. The everything is such a HUGE deal one. The how can I possibly cope one. The screaming at the top of my lungs while driving down country roads one.

There’s the reasoning one. The logical one. The irritatingly calm one. Jumping in when chaos has struck one.

For me, personally, there’s the questioning one. The querying all that I’m doing and all I’ve ever done one. Wondering if I’ll ever get married, find success, where I’ll end up one. The somewhat dramatic one.

Then there’s the writer in me. The fighter in me. The never giving upper in me. The I am happy, the stop worrying about the future, the keep going, pour another gin.

They may appear to be very different people, but I feel that these are all versions of one you.

Categories
Adulthood Observations Writing

20 ways that my full time job enhances my creative ambition

Having attended university and obtained an above average degree, people often ask me what’s next. I sometimes think that because they can’t physically see the results of my writing and where it could lead, they feel that I go home and do nothing or that I haven’t much ambition at all.

As good as I’ve got at not feeling the need to justify myself anymore, I won’t. Instead, I will tell you all of the wonderful ways that having my full time job at a Post Office and Stores enhances my creative ambition.

  1. It brings new ideas from the situations I encounter
  2. It enhances the personalities of my characters through the variety of people I meet
  3. Providing a break from my desk work is SO HELPFUL
  4. As is earning money so I’m not stressed while I write, since I don’t earn too much from writing yet
  5. It provides another purpose on days when writing isn’t happening
  6. I find so much blog material through working with people
  7. I have many positive chats through my working days about what I am deciding to do
  8. Peers are always interested and encouraging in my slightly off-piste approach, as we chat over the preparation of a bacon sandwich
  9. Hearing how others have overcome hurdles in life and ended up as successful as they are now provides a huge boost
  10. I add to my skill set outside of writing, learning new things every day (including managing the little time that I have to write effectively!)
  11. I get support from customers
  12. I get support from colleagues
  13. I get support from my bosses
  14. Free (amazing, thank you) proofreaders
  15. Advice
  16. Connections
  17. Book recommendations
  18. Opportunities
  19. Inspiration
  20. Happiness
Categories
Writing

Excerpt from Chapter 6, London 1988

She could see signs everywhere and arrows and exits. There were members of staff stood around not doing much at all and others who looked rushed off their feet, so she wondered why they didn’t get better at sharing the workload. The first bag came around the corner and a very happy couple grabbed it finding it hilarious that they didn’t have to wait and could beat the traffic queues. Mary hoped that the smug couple’s car battery had run down like it had on her mum’s car when they were due to go to her gran’s once or that they couldn’t find their keys. Then she silently had a word with herself for being so cynical as they were probably lovely people, she was just bored of walking then waiting then walking so much.

Once they had grabbed their bags and Séan had figured out taxi numbers and prices with the very helpful lady in the tourist information centre, they headed to the rank for another waiting episode during which Mary observed maturely the goings on around her. She often did this and anybody who she openly spoke to about what she perceived would tell her that she had an old head. She never knew what they meant by this expression but nodded and continued her inspections.

The taxi driver was very nice, but he too had that funny accent the same as the man on the passport desk. The taxi was also something new and one thing about England that she had seen photographed – the black cab. She couldn’t remember where she had seen it and gathered that tourist shops in Ireland wouldn’t be promoting very English memorabilia, but she had definitely seen a picture of the famous British feature. She thought it was surreal to be witnessing the reality of these vehicles and cooler still to be travelling inside one.

Mary had always felt that the traffic was bad in Dublin but London trumped Dublin’s busiest times. For the entire journey all Mary heard was the beeping of horns from angry drivers. She found it funny to watch the anger show all over their faces and in the dramatic hand gestures which were sometimes quite rude. What all the fuss was about she didn’t know, nor could she understand why people thought that making this commotion inside your car would help the traffic move more smoothly.

Luckily the two of them were in no rush so the traffic was ok. It will be different when her dad begins work, she noted. This train of thought entering her head made her wonder what her dad was planning to do for work over in London and whether he had sold McDintons or kept it in case they decided to move back home.

All of these questions she stored away for a later date because she felt it too soon to be bombarding her dad with them. Besides, for all she knew he could be feeling quite nervous too.

She couldn’t believe how absorbed in the goings on back home she had been not to notice conversations about the pub or her dad’s work. She was used to listening in on her parent’s conversations always wanting to know absolutely everything but without her mum she figured that no conversation was interesting enough for her to care about anymore.

The chat between her dad and the taxi driver was pretty boring in Mary’s opinion which was why her mind was focussed on other topics. She hadn’t been in many taxis in her lifetime because mostly they spent their free time in the city; if they had gone away it would have been with an auntie or her parents, so they would have taken the car. She did remember in the few taxi rides she’d had there were similarly dull discussions during them though. It was full of what she understood as being small talk. She’d never wanted to travel far if she was with her mother because she worried it would get awkward as her mum often ran out of things to say. Séan on the other hand never had this problem and was the king of this small talk which he was demonstrating in the current situation.

As they got closer to their destination which was unknown to Mary, the houses became larger and less cramped together. The tacky looking newsagents which were cropping up every other building before had vanished and the dirty streets had become much cleaner. Some of the fronts of the buildings looked more like palaces than people’s homes and Mary wondered which one the queen lived in. Perhaps it was one of those. Perhaps they were to be staying with a member of the royal family. She swiftly stopped those thoughts knowing with certainty that the Queen lived at Buckingham Palace and hoped that her dad would take her there quite soon.

Even though it had been drilled into her from a young age that she had Irish blood and the English were very much a separate entity, one thing she had always loved about England from the little that she knew was the royal family. She had watched Princess Diana and Prince Charles’ wedding on her auntie’s television during the summer holidays. She sat there for the whole day being fed ice cream and fruit but not moving her eyes from the box. Her aunt was having a party which most certainly was not in aid of the wedding, but Mary removed herself from this and was utterly absorbed by Dianna’s beauty and the sheer Britishness of it all. She realised that this was going against all morals that her parents had taught her but, in that moment, she didn’t care at all.

Categories
Observations Writing

Easy Like A Sunday Morning: a writer’s take

Sundays. What a brilliant day. Aren’t they just the best day of the week?

No work (for most people), a quiet space (in most places) and an all round chilled vibe.

As an aspiring writer, I struggle through the week to squeeze everything into my tight schedule. Of course, I have a full time job on top of all the writing that I do because what writer starting out doesn’t? But also I find that I take on so many different projects and this can be both good and bad.

For my brain and writing capabilities it is good to test out different styles and writing for different purposes. I gain experience in writing fiction, press releases, blog posts, academic essays and the list goes on which is great.

On the other hand, it can all get too much and occasionally I find myself unable to work to the best of my ability because I am trying to cram so much into the little time that I have in between shifts.

This is why I LOVE Sundays.

Not only is it an opportunity to have a BREAK and time out away from my laptop (just like I am NOT doing now on a sunny Sunday morning writing this post), but it also gives me time to concentrate, get into the writing zone and dedicate quality time to some of the projects that pass by so fleetingly throughout the week.

Whenever I look back at the work that I have done (whenever I get a chance to do so) the best quality are the pieces I have written on days where I have had more time and haven’t been constantly checking the clock to see how long I have left. Days where I have chosen to sit down and write at the time I choose and for however long it takes are the days where I produce the best stuff.

And there’s no better time to produce the good work than on a Sunday. The air feels clear, the diary is empty and the vibes are strong.

It’s ‘easy like a Sunday morning.’