Since I was last posting I went through a series of Depressive Episodes before I found a regimen of therapy, meditation and supplements that helped. I’ve managed to go a couple of months without SERIOUS suicidal thoughts – actually considering the means etc. I have the odd few death wish thoughts but the’re relatively mild.
In other news I attended a discovery day for new authors held at Foyles, Charing Cross Road where Literary Agents Curtis Brown did a meet, greet and read for authors. The line was through the door and there were timed slots all through the day. I gave them the first three pages of my novel and they loved it. I need to try and get it finished this year and then submit it. They’ve given me a name to submit to so I’m now very motivated to think, act and plan as a writer rather than as a wannabe.
So pleased to present the beginning of “The End of the Garden” by Yusuf (Smiley) Yearwood. (1st novel on backburner, 2nd novel cooking nicely) Continue reading
Sunday afternoon -The dark tea time of the soul (h/t Douglas Adams) Let the random ruminations begin!
Hugo stared at the wall daring it to be anything but what it was. Unyielding, unchanging, uninteresting. It did not alter or shift. Neither did the Djinn rune written in an ink no pure human could read.
There was no option but to do this the Djinn way. He felt his body undulate and lose weight. It felt like falling asleep but not nearly as comforting. Anyone lucky or unlucky enough to have been watching him at that moment would have seen him appear to fade into near nothingness, a ghost image. That ghost then appeared to walk through the wall.
The manner of why this can be is quite tedious to explain.
Meanwhile back at the Batcave…
Since I’ve last written I’ve been mostly trying to get my head straight.
It’s been a tough couple of weeks and I’ve now reached out for help on that score. Watch this space for more on that. Save to say I have now accepted the fact that I am big “D” Depressed not llittle “d” depressed and I can’t figure it out on my own.
On the writing front I’ve now decided to use Roz Morris’s novel writing process to help me get me pass my writing block. I went through a dozen or so possibilities but Roz impressed me the most with her readability and structured approach.
Nail Your Novel – Why Writers Abandon Books and How You Can Draft, Fix and Finish With Confidence
Using her approach I am now scoping out my ideas and working on my synopsis in a orderly fashion rather than bouncing in and out – though rather than keep all my ideas in a hat I’m using Evernote – same principle
I’ve spent way too much time procrastinating on twitter and Facebook but I like to think its better than not writing at all.
Day Fourteen: To Whom It May Concern
Today’s Prompt: Pick up the nearest book and flip to page 29. What’s the first word that jumps off the page? Use this word as your springboard for inspiration. If you need a boost, Google the word and see what images appear, and then go from there.
Today’s post is brought to you by the Spartan Warrior Workout and the word is:
Today’s twist: write the post in the form of a letter.
(2nd and final of today’s posts from the Marvel Comic Universe)
Today’s Prompt: Write a post inspired by a real-world conversation.
It was a week after I had walked away from wrapping my car around a telegraph pole. I had walked away from a widowmaker without a scratch. On the first frosty day of September seventeen year old me had left early one morning to go to his job in a a hardware store. Woodford is hilly and and some of the roads hug the hills like lycra. To cut a long story short heading down a hill on a curve on the road I hit a patch of black ice spun slowly round and slammed my clunky Ford Orion into a telegraph pole; bounced off and came to rest in the front garden of a man who when he came to the door had the resigned look of someone who was tired of this sh*t.
A week later I got a call from the hospital I’d been driven to. They wanted to talk about my X-ray….
Turns out I was a double jointed and the junior doctor wanted to examine me again for his own interest.
Mum. Was Pissed.
Anyway the story is based on being born different!
(Which today is set in the Marvel Cinematic Universe for kicks and giggles) Continue reading
Most of the meals I remember from growing up…
Actually I don’t remember most of the meals from my childhood. Most of the time eating isn’t that memorable.
Unless you’re in the mafia apparently. They seem to eat all the time according to television and film and it’s always interesting,
I digress on a tangent.
Today’s Prompt: A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands.They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.
Today’s twist: write the scene from three different points of view
The familiar white roaring light filled Sam’s world from scream to shining scream. It was different this time though. Often when he jumped he felt dizzy for a some time afterwards but this time the dizziness left him altogether immediately.
His gaze and consciousness cleared and returned and his heart filled with equal parts of wonder, dread and foreboding. He was home. Not his functional palace in California, 2035. Home in London in 1995.
Today’s Prompt: You stumble upon a random letter on the path.You read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. Write a story about this encounter.
Today’s twist: Approach this post in as few words as possible.
None of us will ever know the whole story in other words. We can only collect a bag full of shards that each seem perfect.
— From 100 Word Story‘s About page
Brevity is the goal of this task, although “brief” can mean five words or five-hundred words. You might write a fifty-word story, as writer Vincent Mars publishes on his blog, Boy in the Hat. Or you might tell your tale in precisely one-hundred words, like the folks at 100 Word Story — an approach that forces you to question every word. Continue reading
During a particularly bad patch some time ago I was chatting to my oldest friend Arliss Porter. I had known him since taking my A-levels and we were as matched as any man I’ve ever called brother. We thought the same movies were good and hated the same music. Neither of us fitted into the mainstream portrayal of Black Manhood. We liked guitar music, didn’t drink, looked terrible in baggy trousers and made lewd jokes about Nietzche and Descartes.