Tag Archives: #amwritingfiction

Where do I do it? … a question from an indie author

For the past seven years my cluttered creative corner of the house has been my beloved writing desk in the corner of the living room

Those who have followed this blog for a long time may remember that I blogged about moving from the kitchen into the living room when that change was forced upon me thanks to a new car and a repositioning of the freezer. (Eviction Notice Served …… | Coral McCallum –  in case you missed it)

Over the next two years, I grew to love my creative corner in the living room. The words flowed as freely as they had when my desk was the table in the corner of the kitchen.

Then Covid came along and with it that brought the necessity to work from home. At that point in time The Big Green Gummi Bear was also working from home and had based himself in the study so with no other choice, my creative space became my work space during the day and then returned to being my creative space a night. Like every other scenario we were faced with, I made it work as best as I could.

A few months later The Big Green Gummi Bear fell ill (terminal brain tumour) and for the next three years, I continued to work from home fulltime, working at my desk during the day then switching laptops at the end of the day to restore it as my creative space at night. The study became The Big Green Gummi Bear’s “bat cave” where he whiled away many hours with YouTube videos and films. I made it work as best as I could.

After The Big Green Gummi Bear passed away in late October 2023, when I was ready to return to work I had the choice of where to work when I was working from home. I could go into his “bat cave” or stay where I was in the corner of the living room. Emotionally I knew there was only one option I could cope with. For over nine months, I chose to stay in the living room. This worked for the day job, but it was no longer working for the me creatively in the evenings.

Let’s face it, by this time, I’d spent about sixteen hours a day most days for over four years in the living room. I was sick of the sight of it! It had begun to feel like a prison cell.

Creatively, the words refused to flow and that frustrated me…and scared me a little. Could I still do it?

About a year ago, I finally felt emotionally ready to claim the “bat cave” as my own and moved up there to work during the day. I’ll not lie it took a long while before I was comfortable being in that small room for more than a few minutes at a time.  Bereavement does strange things to a person.

My writing desk in the living room became my creative space once again…but the room still felt like a prison cell. The words began to flow a little more freely but overall, it still didn’t feel right.

I persevered then made a decision. It was time for another change.

A couple of weeks ago, I finally had the room re-painted. Gone were the candle soot-stained peach walls, replaced with a fresh clean silvery blue shade called Frost Fairy. New curtains were bought and hung. A new sound system was added as some of the speakers in the old one had long since given up the ghost. I de-cluttered the room. I tidied out my desk and de-cluttered the top if it, only retaining a few of the things that had previously sat there. I added a stunning new crystal sphere (poppy jasper and flower agate – just in case you were curious). Gone was the old uncomfortable chair. I replaced it with a nice new kneeling chair. I’ve always wanted one of those!

I’m viewing this as a much-needed creative re-boot.

The smell of paint still lingers in the air and perhaps it’s a little too soon to be sure, but I feel more confident now that the words that have been desperate to be set free will once again start to flow.

Time will tell….

Meet the Writer 2025 – pt 2

Oh good question! Being settled at my writing desk after dinner with my favourite playlist on definitely helps. Thinking through what I plan to write while I’m out walking also helps. If I’m not in the mood to work on my current book baby, I’ll write something else but I try to always write something daily

Music, the beach, love….

These are the themes at the heart of all my book babies so far along with believable characters for you to fall in love with.

Oh this is a cruel question.

In all honesty, I’m happy at having written my own. I’m me so why would I want to have written anyone else’s? I might only earn pennies in royalties most months but I’m proud to have written my own books and to have told my stories

A friend shared the photo below on their Facebook feed as I was starting my writing journey 12 years ago and it struck a chord. It’s been my mantra ever since.

I think the answer to this depends on where you consider to be unusual. I’ve written at work in my lunchbreak, on trains and planes, in the airport, on the beach and in cafes too. All felt normal to me.

to be continued….

A Widow For A Year And Change…..

I don’t often write these blogs on a personal level, preferring to keep the vast majority of my personal life out of the social media spotlight. This week is an exception.

I’ve been a widow for a year…and a few days… and it still feels weird…surreal…unreal.

There’s a certain loss of identity that comes with this new title that isn’t sitting easy with me. Am I single? Am I still married? I know that legally I’m single but what about emotionally? Who am I now?

There have been a lot of hurdles to get over this year as I try to rebuild not just my own life but also a new dynamic to family life too. It’s an ongoing journey and there’s a long way to go still with certain aspects of it.

I have tried to take time out this year for myself. I’m not good at putting myself first. It really doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m also not very good at being patient with myself. I set far too high a level of expectation of myself but at least I’ve recognised that so that’s a small step forward.

On World Mental Health Day I attended a webinar through work about burnout and it proved to be a bit of a lightbulb moment for me. Burnout and I are not strangers to each other. I first burnt out in 2012. (I recognise that now, but it took a while to acknowledge this.) It was that experience that set me on my current creative path so there was something positive came out of it.

Last year left me burnt out for a second time. If I’m being honest, I actually burnt out towards the end of 2021 but had no option but to keep going. I can admit that now. I have tried to be gentle with myself this year…. or have I?

The session I attended on 10th October brought me up short. Had I been pushing myself too hard? When I asked a close friend that question, they replied “Probably have.” That too brought me up short.

One of the casualties of the way I have been feeling both physically and emotionally this year has been my writing. I don’t mean these short weekly blog posts. My current work-in-progress, my 9th book baby, is the innocent victim here. The words just haven’t been flowing. I’ve felt disconnected from it. I parked it a few months ago, started a new project but that felt all wrong too, so I went back to the original piece. I owe it to that story to finish telling it.

Another thing that session from earlier this month made me acknowledge is that fresh signs of burnout are appearing. I’ve spotted them but they need to be addressed and addressed soon before they spiral out of control. And address them I will. I promise.

Several followers of this blog and my creative journey have been asking when my next book will be out. They’ve been asking if there will be more books about Silver Lake and Jake Power. They’ve been asking if there is more to come from Riley.

I guess where I’m going here is yes, but all in good time.

I have Book Baby 9 partially written. It’s about a third to halfway there. I just need to be patient with myself a little longer and not try to force the words out onto the page. When you do that, they don’t necessarily land in the right order. I’ve been working on it for two years…that’s longer than I’ve spent writing any of its siblings.

I owe it to myself and to the tale to take my time and not force the issue. Creatively it needs to flow and for now that flow is a bit of a stop/start affair, a bit like everyday life.

One step at a time. One word at a time… and this widow will rediscover her creative mojo.

What happens when you put on the Out of Office for a week… a sunny week ;)

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With my “out of office” on at the salt mine, I left work full of great creative intentions…..

I had my “To Do” list written :

blog – write and post

Book Baby 5 -write some more; type  10 0000 words

Book Babies 1-4 – promote

Gig review – write and post

 

It didn’t seem like an onerous list then the sun came out…….

I got off to a good start…..20190419_134140

 

then I got distracted……

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I tried to re-focus with some art therapy….

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and I picked up where I’d left off with Book Baby 5…

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then may have got distracted again…..

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and met some new friends….

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The week was fast disappearing…… I sat down again with Book Baby 5….

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On Friday I allowed myself a mother/daughter day out with my mum….we had a date with a dinosaur 😉

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And by the time I got home from mother/daughter day out, it was after 5pm on Friday and technically my “out of office” had expired….. my week was over…..

But did I manage to tick off all the items on the To Do list?

Yes I did 🙂

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Maybe I should be allowed to put the “out of office” on more often!

On Butterfly Wings (short story)

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For the first time in weeks, she felt safe and secure. She felt calm as she sat on a thick carpet of dry pine needles. Deep in the heart of the small cluster of trees, she was hidden from prying eyes, protected from the world about her. No one knew she came there to think, to read and now to write, well, journal, to be more precise. She was finally alone for the first time in weeks.

She had discovered this small quiet sanctuary by chance. Or had something guided her towards it? How many times had she walked past that stand of trees without a second thought? Something had caught her attention though and, on a whim one sunny summer day, she had strayed from the path to take a closer look. The second she had stepped into the hidden clearing deep with the circle of pine trees, a tranquil silence had enveloped her. She immediately felt as if she belonged there. Was something from the past, from another lifetime, reaching out to tell her she was supposed to be there?

Over the months she had visited the small clearing regularly. After several idyllic afternoons spent hidden there, she realised that she wasn’t the only one spending time in the space. Someone had hung some wind chimes high up on one of the branches. Their gentle tinkling notes were soothing as she hid beneath them, sheltered from the outside world, recharging the batteries of her soul.

Now though, as she settled herself on the thick layer of dried pine needles, her heart and soul were troubled.  Time was running out. Sitting cross-legged, she stared down at the journal resting in her lap. It was slightly larger than a desk diary with a silvery pink cover decorated with multi-coloured butterflies. Its lined pages were blank. She had bought it on a whim over a year before, attracted by the bright butterflies. She never could resist a butterfly.

With a trembling hand, she opened the small, hardbacked journal at the first blank page and began to write. Time lost all meaning as she poured her hopes and fears into the pages. Now that she had opened the lid on the well of emotions that had been bubbling inside her since mid-winter, the words flooded the pages. Safe in the freedom of her journaling, she wrote about feelings and emotions that she had barely consciously acknowledged. She wrote about love. As her spidery writing covered page after page, the pain in her heart and her soul lessened. Her fears of rejection and of failure and of loss and regret gradually began to melt away. Seeing her own words written down in front of her for the first time, she recognised that she had never been the one at fault. Her only fault was to care too deeply about life and some of the people in it.

If she had known then what she knew now, would she have lived her life any differently?

Turning to the last blank page, she smiled to herself and silently acknowledged that she wouldn’t change a second of it. Reliving some of those memories had made her smile, something she had had little cause to do of late.

Staring at the final blank page, she paused. Over the course of the spring afternoon, she had filled the journal with her innermost thoughts. This last blank page was her final chance to have her say, to say how she really felt. The only opportunity left to write a long overdue letter. It was a chance to say goodbye.

Keeping her handwriting small, she swiftly filled the page with words written straight from the heart.

A warm red glowing light was swathing the clearing. It was the colours of sunset. Time was almost up.

Closing the journal over, its magnetic cover snapping into position, she let out a sigh. A little unsteadily, she got to her feet, brushed the pine needles from her jeans and slipped the journal and her green pen into her tote bag. Glancing round for one last time, she whispered, “Thank you.” then ducked down low as she stepped out of the sanctuary into the late afternoon sunshine.

The sun was low in the sky, almost touching the hills across the river to the north. It was casting streaks of red and gold across the virtually cloudless sky, promising a stunning sunset when the golden orb finally dipped below the horizon.

Slowly she made her way along the path then down onto the deserted stretch of beach. Breathing in the salty air, she smiled. Listening to the waves gently lapping ashore, she smiled. Feeling the damp sand under her unsteady feet, she smiled. Feeling the last of the sun’s warmth on her pale cheeks, she smiled.

It sapped the last of her strength but she made it to her favourite spot at the far end of the beach just as the sun began to disappear. The view was perfect. Unable to resist, she reached into her bag for her phone, ignoring all the alerts about missed calls and messages, and photographed one last spectacular sunset.

The bag fell open and, unseen, the butterfly journal dropped out onto the sand. The magnetic cover sprung open.

“There you are!” came an exasperated cry. “Where the hell have you been? Everyone is out looking for you!”

 

Long after the sun had set, a gentle breeze blew in from the west. It caught the pages of the journal flicking them over, setting her emotional confession free.

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