I don’t think of myself as a writer. I love words, but mostly I’m more of a reader, and then as a dabbler at writing. I don’t really plot things, they generally fall out of my head and onto the paper or my mobile screen. I guess it’s just the way I am. I love being creative and since I finished work I’ve started to branch out. I feel like a little dabchick or duck. I paddle away, my feet just gently moving the water of words around, breaking the surface tension but not going deep. And what for? I’ve been told my grammar is not as good as it could be. I don’t do this for likes and views, it’s all quite low key. I don’t expect to ever write a novel. I did once try and write a children’s book, so long ago it’s still stored on a floppy disk!
As long as I don’t bore you too much.
Slither, slink, shuffle, slip, slide, glide, gliding, snaking along the ground, writhing, side to side. Your scales patterned like strange jewels. You sniff with your tongue, viper split, sensing the air.
A tube of muscle, constrictor or viper with poison bite. Fangs deep in my flesh pierce my heart. Cobra or mamba, rattler or adder. Bringer of fear to some.
This dragon appeared from my garden hanging baskets photo. I liked the green so thought I would play around with the layout and sketch apps that I use.
I wrote a children’s story about a dragon once. It was a long time ago and I think I still have the floppy disc I saved it on. That was in the time of dial up modems when they used to make that funny dial up tone… Dah Di Dah Dah in a sort of metallic tune.
I never had the courage to send it in. It was too worthy I think. Not exciting enough. I asked a publisher to read it and also my friends daughter. I could tell the publisher wasn’t impressed and my friends daughter said I needed to make it funnier. Perhaps I also used too many long words.
Maybe one day I will edit it and try again. Is it sensible to try after twenty years? I’d like my dragon to go free…..
I have really interesting, involved dreams, marvellous fantasies. The trouble is when I wake up they are gone. Dissappeared, dissolved into the mists of reality. I have just woken up from one marvellous concoction. But it’s gone. I can’t grasp it back from my sleep. Today as I woke I could hear myself shouting Noooooo…..
In other news, I just heard the very quiet sound of running water. A hiss that signifies something is happening outside? Went out. My partner had switched the outside tap on last night with the hose attached… He’s left it on all night! I’m surprised the garden hasn’t floated away! We don’t have a hose ban, but I might ban him. Thank goodness we are not on a water meter!
Another reason to wake up shouting Noooooooo!
He said, let’s visit the big house.
She said, do we have to?
He said, yes it would be fun
She said, but it’s boring.
He said, you liked Scarborough Castle,
She said, that was last year.
He said, what do you mean?
She said, I’m older now.
He said, you will like it.
She said, no, no way.
He said, well I’m going anyway,
She said, Dad. I’m a teenager now. It’s boring and I’m not going, end of!
It struck me that my writing is as mixed up as my painting and art. I’m interested in poetry and short stories, documenting life and writing about esoteric stuff like why the earth isn’t flat.
I sometimes ramble on around similar subjects, then get bored and throw something else into the mix – like writing about bread making, or my cats and garden.
I have a lot of thoughts flowing round in my head. I didn’t ask for them to be there. I’m irritated when Sci-fi shows have sound in the vacuum of space, or someone tells a lie about something that is clearly not true.
I was talking to my hubby about this earlier. I do not want to be different, I was going to write “normal” but perhaps I am. Maybe writers are those people that stick to a specific narrative or genre? Or maybe not. I know I don’t do much research about things, most of my writing is imagined or recollected from books and TV programmes.
I started out thinking it would be purely an art blog, a way of selling my paintings, but it’s morphed. I write mors here than anywhere else and I hope it doesn’t get snatched away. I never check how much content I’m creating. It just flows….. And I was once asked why I don’t have adverts… I don’t like them! I keep seeing photos of lemons, or some green gunk that clears up skin problems…. No, sorry, I’m not happy to sell it….
Step over into the wood and you will be lost forever. Keep this side of the fence. That was what she was always warned as she grew up. There are wolves, bears, screech owls. Spiders big as dinner plates. The boogy man lives there.
For twenty years she kept out. But she knew one day she would have to climb the fence and go and look.
She was twenty one today, she had been to a birthday party at the village hall. Now she was walking home along the lane. The sun was setting and the wood loomed up above her rising up the hill, shutting off the sunlight.
One step led to another. Pine needles softened her footsteps, tree roots started to tangle round her ankles. She looked back to check where the path was, but could not see it through the trees. She tried to retrace her steps, but could not find the fence. Fear crept into her, she trembled as the cool night air touched her skin.
The night was darker and a cold rain fell, still she walked, tripping and falling into bushes, scratched from thorns.
It was early morning when the ranger found her wandering. She could not speak. Her eyes were staring into space, out of focus. No one ever found out what happened to her that night. But the Green man of the woods smiled to himself as she was taken away in an ambulance.