Tag: writing

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Adulthood fiction Stories Writing

The Disagreement

Jane and Oliver knew that they were late for lunch at the new pub that opened in the village last night, but they couldn’t leave during the debate. Both of them were very excited to try the new menu and see how the place had been transformed from its old ragged self into a shiny new upmarket venue. Yet they also didn’t want the onlooking villagers to gossip over their table mannerisms showing quite opaquely the row that they had prior to arriving.

He’s certainly having an affair with the accountant, the rumours would begin, Jane knew the village too well. They had to settle it before leaving the house.

‘Look, all I’m saying is that he would be much better off in a care home. It’s for the best,’ Oliver said with the same irritatingly calming tone that he always used during arguments.

‘What if it was your father? Would you be happy just to lock him away?’

‘Jane, it’s not a case of locking him away. We will visit him all the time and some of the homes are luxury these days. To be honest I’d prefer to stay in them rather than a posh hotel.’

The playful shift in Oliver’s manner wasn’t reciprocated by Jane who merely stared at him disapprovingly.

‘I’d personally want to live my last years in my own space, my own home, without old folk making me feel twenty years older than I am. He’s not even ill!’

‘Jane, we’ve been through this.’

‘Don’t.’

Holding back the tears, Jane soon realised that lunch was going to have to wait until another day.

Categories
fiction Stories Writing

Chapter 3, Erin

Of course, I worried a little initially about the horror stories I had heard. The trolls, the glamorous accounts of false lives to make me feel awful about my own, the mass of uneducated opinions, the dangerously fast addiction and everything else in between, but I never thought much about it all after a while. Besides being sixteen in 2019 meant that I had a firm grasp of what lay before me and felt strong enough to cope with life on social media.

At the beginning I tried to remain strong anyway. It was more to prove a point to my mum but a fraction of it was fear of the inevitable. I could feel instantly the addiction looming. After two days of having access to the virtual social world, my phone was the first thing I went to pick up in the morning and the last thing that I put down at night. I spent hours scrolling and still do, but I don’t know why because after doing so I have never gained anything more or lost anything – my life remains exactly as it was.

On days when I feel bad about my own image, Instagram strengthens this sad emotion when I witness the accounts not of celebrities but of my own friends looking like celebrities. Their accounts fill my newsfeed with perfection and no flaws. The perfect brunch, the most exotic holiday venues, the prettiest new haircuts that look better than I looked that time when I had my hair and all my makeup done by a professional for a family wedding back in Ireland.

At the weekend I see friends and acquaintances out having fun. I always think to myself how they are doing the things that I should be doing when I am visiting Mummy or at work. Friends who have gone to places without even asking me so of course I feel totally left out and forgotten. Acquaintances who I don’t even care about doing things that make my Saturday night look so boring and suddenly I am deeply involved with care for the comparison.

On a more distant level, I see opinions all the time that I completely disagree with or that make me so angry that I can feel my face going red. I see people being horrible openly in their statuses or indirect Tweets and I laugh a little inside in agreement, but never would I say it to their face. I don’t wish to be involved with that kind of negative behaviour, but it is too easy to get sucked in.

When it all began though, I didn’t and still don’t feel I got too involved. I always stayed back and never posted much on my own accounts. The last picture I posted on Instagram which I also posted onto my Facebook account was wishing Jack a Happy Birthday in May. I made a collage of photos of the two of us from when we were very little up until our holiday in Ireland last year.

I am finding it very hard to see how my involvement affected anything. I guess you never know what is happening behind somebody’s eyes. Their thoughts and feelings are totally invisible which is the danger when they don’t discuss anything going on inside their head. I have been over all our accounts since finding out, even hers which is hurtful to do, and nothing seems too awful, but it must have seemed awful to her.

Categories
Non-fiction Writing

I write because…

I write because it’s therapy

I write because I’m lucky

I write because I have the opportunity

I write because it’s fun

I write because it makes me happy

I write because it is my sanity

I write because sometimes I’m sad

I write because sometimes I’m happy

I write because it teaches me

I write because I need to

I write because I escape

I write because it tests me

I write because it helps others

I write because it helps me

I write to express myself

I write because I love it

I write because I want to

Categories
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.

Categories
fiction Observations Writing

A house, who’s lived in it?

The sixties housewife who spent her days swamped in chores,
Her husband who was always ranting each time he came through the doors.
Their three little children, so well behaved,
Then the old man’s father before he went to the grave.

The eighties rock chick, dressed in fluorescent colours,
Her many boyfriends and the rest were just lovers.
A friendly Labrador who obeyed her every request,
She loved this dog and he loved her, for they are the very best.

Then the nineties came and brought in a new clan,
Just a couple and their baby who sat in his pram.
The mother was lucky and didn’t have to work,
While the garden expanded and the baby played in the dirt.

The family moved when the millennium struck,
Father Dixon came into a bit of luck.
Next came a gambler, his name was Phil,
He didn’t last long, bill after bill.

2003 brought another family but the children soon fled,
Margaret and James swear that they will still live here when they are dead.
I always think each time I look at the brick,
Here’s a house, somebody’s home, but who’s lived in it?

Categories
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.

Categories
Non-fiction Writing

My Head Is Filled With Stuff

My head is filled with stuff

From ideas to plans to what I’m going to have for lunch, it’s always full of stuff

My head is full of things

A house, my car, the lists that I need to complete, it’s just so full of things

My head is full of people

Friends, strangers, family – it’s packed full to the brim of lovely people

My head is full of ideas

Ideas for books, ideas for stories, interior design ideas and everything in between

My head is full of love

The love I have for others, the love they have for me and sometimes, occasionally I can share it

My head is full of positivity

It thinks well about how lucky I am, to have good people around, to have a good job that I enjoy, a home, belongings, many more days, it’s thoughts about how lucky I am

My head can be full of messiness

It stresses, it cries, it screams, it angers, it does all of those things but it also overcomes

My head can be tired

It fails to think, can’t converse, is exhausted of ideas, wishes to sleep, it sometimes does get tired

My head is sometimes, occasionally, very very rarely full of nothing

It rests, it chills, it soaks up the calm but it is not very often full of nothing

My head is filled with stuff.

Categories
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
fiction Writing

Dining Room

Dad and I have been waiting for our starter for over fifteen minutes now since ordering and I am beginning to get impatient. The hunger is very real shown through the embarrassing grumbles in my stomach and the angry expression which I can feel upon my face so I try to take my focus elsewhere to forget about it for a while.

A voice beckons from the entrance where the diners have only just arrived, but a man in a black suit impatiently fidgets which I guess is so that he will be noticed by the wait staff. His wife is swiftly tugging at his suit jacket to prompt him to quit the act, but his frustration is showing through the redness and stern expression all over his face. The quiet atmosphere in the restaurant calls for only whispers so though he is speaking soft but firmly, his words appear as a bellowing as if he’s at a fun fare with a homophone attached to his jaw.

Eventually a nervous waitress attends to them when he almost leads her to an available table and pulls out the chair for himself before his gentlemanly duties of allowing his wife a seat first.

A man to the left of the couple is clearly indulging in a similar form of scrutiny as myself as I can clearly see his right eye glaring at them while attempting to act subtle by keeping his left eye focussed on the menu. His hands are shaking as if he is waiting on a first date with a beautiful lady but the rest of his body appears to be waiting on no one. His gaze keeps shifting between the couple and his menu so that when the waitress asks him if he is ready to order, he directs her away to give him some minutes more.

While the couple to his right are ordering with the poor waitress, his attention shifts to elsewhere in the room bringing my focus there as well. It is at this moment that I realise I am no longer people watching but rather following this man and his thoughts.

A couple are quietly but equally loudly showing their affection for one another. The observing man looks concerned at this but the man involved is beaming with happiness and pride. Having already demolished their starters to not miss out on lovingly kissing while they await the mains, the lady sidles up to the man in a teasing manner ending with her sat upon his knee.

So that I don’t look obvious in my observations and because it’s making me a little queasy, I remove my gaze from the two and back to the single man who looks more depressed than before. The couple to the right are onto their mains when I notice Dad’s Mussels coming out.