Monthly Archives: July 2014

An FP Inspired Short: ‘Links’

This has to be the quickest story I’ve ever written and the least thought about. Last week’s piece of Flash Fiction was so well received (thank you all for your positive responses, by the way) that I thought I’d have another go. I didn’t know when I would get round to it, but then, last night I sat down in front of a blank word document and typed the first line. However, although this could have been a flash piece, I decided I wanted more from it, once I got going, and so, instead, we have a short story. In at around 1800 words, this is an achievement for me. This short is also quite different to my other few in that it has absolutely no basis on real events from my life, at all! So in a way, I consider this to be quite special in my portfolio up to now. It is also special to me because it’s my first stab (pun intended) at one of my favourite genres; detective/mystery fiction. Furthermore this one comes directly from a Friday Phrase micro-fiction piece which I wrote at the start of June under the “Grave Digging” optional theme. (You can find the piece at the end.) So without further ado, may I present….

 Links

The summer sky, swathed in a metallic grey sheet, threatened more rain than the open grave containing the coffin would be able to cope with, should the heavens open.

The vicar spoke rapidly. The warm, oppressive air did nothing to counteract the chill of Detective Chief Inspector Stone Rawlings’ steely, cold eyes boring into him, hurrying the ritual along.

For as much as it has pleased Almighty God to take out of this world the soul of Chad we therefore commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, looking for that blessed hope when the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God, and the dead in Christ shall rise first.” The vicar threw a pitiful handful of dirt onto the coffin and bowed his head.

Stone tapped his fingers impatiently inside the pockets of his rain mac and cast a glance at  the grieving family as they each stepped forward and tossed a handful of soil over the mahogany casket.

Whichever one of them was guilty of Chad’s death was, at the moment, of minor relevance to him. Stone was a good enough detective to know he’d work that one out eventually. No, he needed to focus on other things first.

Great globules of rain plopped to the ground. Stone turned up his collar and stalked away from the grave.

No one saw the tears well up in his eyes.

*

Stone was grateful for the impromptu invitation from Sara to the house for the wake. Granted, an unusual act from a grieving widow, but a welcome one nevertheless. He had needed an excuse to have access to the home – access to Chad’s personal effects, without a warrant and the prying eyes of other officers. It was a stroke of luck Sara had thought it only proper to invite the officer in charge of her husband’s murder case to the wake, though he had hoped she would. In fact he had been counting on it.

After making awkward small talk with numerous distant relatives, Stone left the family to their plates of cold, beige buffet food. He slipped off to the master bedroom on the second floor in search of his secret. He knew for certain Chad had kept it. Now all he had to do was work out where.

A large, dark mahogany wardrobe dominated the room. Like so much else in the house, it was vintage and ornately carved with elaborate embossed designs. Stone thought it couldn’t have summed up Chad’s artisan tastes more perfectly, so at odds with Stone’s own preference for the minimal. He smiled to himself and traced his fingers over the embellishments. This was Chad. The person those people spoke of downstairs held no resemblance to the dead man. Stone opened the heavy doors to the robe.

As good a place to start as any.

Sifting through the layers of crisply pressed shirts, Stone couldn’t help but bury his face in them. He drank in the scent of the dead man and sighed.

Focus. Find the chain. I must find the chain.

In a central console, three drawers dropped down under the shirts. Stone slid the first one open. Inside he found a  collection of silk and lace women’s underwear, designed to attract and flatter. Not undergarments to wear. This stuff, unsurprisingly to Stone, seemed as though it had never seen the light of day. Some pieces retained their shop tags. Stone didn’t touch them. He wouldn’t find what he was looking for in there.

He moved to the second drawer but this clearly belonged to Sara too. Diaries decorated with images of butterflies and flowers stacked neatly in two rows. He’d come back to these in the investigation which would follow the funeral. The investigation where he would have to delve into every crevice of the dead man’s life in order to deduce who had killed Chad.

But not now. Now he needed to ensure he found the one thing which linked him to Chad. He had to find it before anyone else did; to break the link.

On opening the final drawer he knew instinctively he’d find what he was looking for. Chad’s unmistakable organisation was evident. Neat rows of cuff-links, each pair still in their individual boxes, were arranged side by side. A stack of linen handkerchiefs lay in the far left hand corner of the drawer. Stone lifted them up and found hidden underneath a small silver key.

Now to find the box. Stone pushed his hand further to the back of the drawer on the right hand side and groped around. He placed his large hand on two lacquered wooden boxes and felt for a keyhole. On the left hand box he found one and he extracted it from the drawer, taking care to disturb nothing else. His hand shook as he inserted the key. It fitted, and he breathed in.

“Looking for this?” A smooth voice broke the silent tension. Stone dropped the box and his jaw almost simultaneously. Sara stood, her black clothed frame, silhouetted against the light from the doorway. She held up a gold St Christopher on a chain.

Wherever you go I will follow; all my love and protection forever, Stone.” She read the engraving on the back of the charm as she dangled it at arm’s length between herself and the detective. “Touching sentiment. Though sadly your little trinket didn’t protect him, did it?”

“You.” Stone’s voice cracked like the thunder outside. “You did it, didn’t you?” Sudden realisation hit him. He rose to his feet, shaking. Sara might have the upper hand right now, but he could to at least try and intimidate her with his height.

“Prove it,” she said. Her blue eyes fixed on Stone as she wound the chain back in and clutched it tightly in her fist. “I knew. I’ve known about you for a long time. What you two did. How Chad used the fencing club as his alibi. You disgusted me. Both of you.”

“So he deserved to die?” Stone spoke almost in a whisper.

“Only in death could he become pure again, only in death could he be restored in my mind to the man he was. You corrupted him. He needed freeing. Only in death can we ‘look for that blessed hope when the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God, and the dead in Christ shall rise first.’ He was dead in Christ, thanks to you. Now, thanks to me he is alive once more.”

“You’re mad!” Stone looked at her incredulously.  “You will pay for this,” he added, a menace now creeping into his tone.

“Oh I don’t think I will,” Sara said sardonically. “Not when the inspector in charge of the case could very well come to light as a suspect. If this were found.” She unclenched her fist to reveal the gold chain once more. “Such a small thing,” she said nodding towards the object.  “It gives us both a motive yet without it in your possession I am free whilst you are lost.”

Stone made a sudden desperate lunge at Sara to try and retrieve the offending item, but she pulled back away from him and hastily pushed it down her front into the cup of her bra.

“Blackmail is a serious offence Mrs Cummings,” he said shrinking back towards the wardrobe, defeated.

“So is adultery and sodomy.” Sara said, unflinching. “In the eyes of God.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“We just work under different principles Detective Rawlings. My laws are made by God, and yours are made by people.”

“And your God’s law on murder is the same as the law of the land. ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Or perhaps you had conveniently forgotten that one.”

Sara didn’t so much as blink. “Sometimes the Lord’s will moves in mysterious ways. Sometimes laws have to be broken for the greater good. Chad has been saved. By the grace of God, he now has a chance of eternal life.”

Stone knew there was no arguing logic with this maniac. She’d killed her husband, seemingly on religious principal.

“Please,” Stone said, reaching his hand out towards her. “That chain is all I have left of us.”

“Ha! You and I both know that isn’t why you want it,” Sara said. She turned and moved towards the open window of the Juliet balcony. “You want it so that once your investigation begins there is nothing to link you to Chad. Nothing which could make you a suspect. This chain…” she patted her blouse, “makes you a suspect.”

For the first time in his professional life, Stone knew he was beaten. He would not be able to solve the case now. If he pulled Sara in for questioning she could reveal everything she knew about his relationship with Chad and had the proof to back it up. He’d not only be dismissed from the case but become a suspect himself. The situation seemed hopeless. He’d lost the only man he had ever loved and now his future reputation and career lay in the hands of this woman.

Sara stood gazing out across the countryside as the rain lashed down. A flash of lightning forked across the horizon brightening the pewter skies momentarily. There was always something mystical and magical about a summer thunderstorm. Yes, she thought as a clap of thunder crackled through the air. “The Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God.” She smiled, lost in her own triumphant thoughts.

She didn’t hear Stone’s footsteps softly pad across the plush carpet behind her. She had no time to cry out as he cupped his large left hand over her mouth and shoved his right down her front to retrieve the gold St Christopher. “Wherever you go, I will follow,” he hissed into her ear, “Even if it’s into hell.”

With the next crash of thunder, and one almighty shove, he sent Sara tumbling over the balcony railings, her screams drowned  in the chaos of nature’s noise. Stone dared not linger to look as her skinny frame sailed three storeys down to the gravel path at the back of the house. Sara landed with a thud, her neck snapping and spine cracking on impact.

Suicide will be easily plausible, Stone told himself. Grieving widow? Guilty widow? Either way, it was the only way.

Maybe Sara had been right. Maybe laws sometimes needed to be broken. He put the St. Christopher in his pocket, wiped all surfaces of his fingerprints with Chad’s handkerchief and re-joined the grieving relatives of his dead lover.

 

As I said at the start of the post, here’s the FP which inspired the story:

 Detective Stone fell grave. Digging into every crevice of the dead man’s life was wrong. Yet he knew he must destroy every link between them.

 

 

 

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My First Flash.

Fiction people! Flash fiction. Drag those minds out of the gutter please. 😉

So, true to my word…okay so I’m a few blog posts late with this, but I did say I was going to try more to focus on the actual subject of writing on the blog and keep my word count down to under 2000. (So spectacularly epic fails all round there.)

Well, well, well, you lucky people. Guess what?

This week, not only am I going to actually provide you with some writing with this piece of flash fiction, (my first ever proper piece, so please be honestly brutal with your thoughts, as I need to learn) but, as such, it’s going to come in at way under 2000 words! Yay! The story itself comes in at 295, but of course I’m just going to ramble on up here for a while otherwise people might think they’ve come to the wrong blog .

Some time ago I blogged about a day out with my little one, whereupon I’d stumbled on a real life story prompt. You can read about that here if you missed it.

A few ideas for short stories bubbled away but nothing concrete. Then last Friday I was doing my usual, that is playing Friday Phrases on Twitter, when an idea came to me. I tweeted my micro-fiction FP and then decided I’d like to try and turn it into a piece of slightly longer flash fiction. Now I’ve never done flash fiction, other than playing FP which is mega short micro-fiction but this idea seemed perfect for a small piece of flash.

So I wrote it. Gave it to some good people to look at. Turned 400 odd words into 300 then 585 and then back down to the final 295 you see here. Flash Fiction is definitely, definitely a challenge. Especially for someone as verbose as me. Anyway see what you think. Gulp.

Abandoned

The canopy of early autumn leaves in the woods offers little shelter from the torrential downpour. Yet there is no other place to go.

Tara turns over the tiny pair of red shoes in her shaking hands. All she has left of the son she was forced to give away. She’s kept them, even after all these years.

Reaching for the bottle lying next to her, knowing there’s nothing left of that either, she drains the final non-existent dregs of gin. The burning at the back of her throat replaced by a lump of guilt and bitter tears.

She fumbles at the latch of a small wooden box, the first thing she ever had to call her own; now the last.

She prises out its contents.

The needle of the brass-encased compass wobbles and comes to rest, pointing west.

Long forgotten words from another time whisper through the leaves.

“You have no choice. A better place, a more hopeful future, lies out there. Somewhere.”

Sleep comes.

One shoe falls from her grasp.

*

Today a wash of pale blue glances between the trees’ naked spindly fingers. Autumn’s colour long since drained. Only bleached-out hues of brown and grey remain.

A biting wind drives in from the north, stinging Connor’s skin despite the thick layers.

Among the carpet of sodden leaves a tiny splash of colour catches his eye.

He moves in closer.

An upturned, rotting box.

A weathered emerald-green bottle.

A rusting compass; its needle jammed, pointing west.

And a small, faded red shoe, half buried in the mulch.

Just where she said it would be.

He picks it up and turns it over in his hand and heads home, west, knowing now for certain he was never truly abandoned.

 

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Writing vs Dating: An Analogical Analysis.

After another off tangent Twitter conversation the other day, another random blog post is born. Hooray! All in the name of having a bit of fun of course, here, in nine succinct (yeah, right) parallel points, is my analogical analysis on how writing a novel is akin to the dating game.

*Disclaimer:

Before we start I should pre-warn readers: I have very little writing experience and even less conventional dating experience, so all in all this is a complete work of fiction. Anyway, without further ado, let us begin.

Step 1:  First Meeting

Writing: A great idea for a story/novel enters your visionary realm. You pursue the idea by writing copious amounts of notes, outlines and character descriptions. You delve into research, finding out all you can about the subject until you know all you need to know ready to immerse yourself wholly into writing it.

Dating: A hot, nice guy/girl enters your visionary realm in the bar/club/at work/on the dating website etc etc…You pursue the object of your affections by trying to find out as much about them as is humanly possible. You delve into research, finding out all you can about the object of your affections. You chat to them at any opportunity; accidentally on purpose ‘bump’ into them at any plausible moments. You talk to their friends to find out what you can about them, (or look up their Facebook page/Twitter account), ready to immerse yourself wholly into asking them out or saying yes to them asking you out. 

Step 2: The Beginning

Writing: You begin writing your novel. You throw yourself whole-heartedly into it.  You live it, You breathe it, you can’t stop thinking about it or talking about it. You dream about it when you go to sleep and when you’re not working on it you miss it and can’t wait to get back to it. You throw yourself completely into nurturing it and exploring its many facets.

Dating: You begin dating hot, nice guy/girl. You throw yourself whole-heartedly into the new relationship. You live them, you breathe them. You can’t stop thinking about them/talking about them; boring your friends and family with stories and anecdotes about them. When you don’t see them, you can’t wait to get back to them and throw yourself into exploring them and nurturing all the facets of your relationship.

Step 3: The Honeymoon Period

Writing: You’re in love with your WIP. You’re so in love you can’t bear to be separated from it lest the ideas fall out of your head quicker than you can get them down. It’s going well. You even give it a title and it just feels right. You’re getting to know the characters and the words are flowing well. You haven’t hit the middle section wall yet, in fact you haven’t even thought about it because damn: This is the best thing you’ve ever written. How did you not write this before? It’s always been there, but you just didn’t see it and now it’s here in your life, and gosh it’s so wonderful! You’ll write forever, surrounded by birdsong cheeping through the open window and the sun drenching your desk with brightness whilst you drink copious amounts of real coffee to keep you going through the endless nights of writing. Nothing else matters. You see no-one. You care for nothing other than getting to the end of this first draft.

Dating: You’re in love with hot, nice guy/girl. So in love you cannot be separated lest the world might end if you are. It’s all going well. You label each other girlfriend/boyfriend and it feels so right. You’re at the staying up all night chatting part, getting to know each other and the conversations flow and are easy. You haven’t hit the monotony/everyday living part yet, in fact you haven’t even thought about it because damn: This is the best relationship you’ve ever been in. That part will never happen to you. The hot,nice guy/girl is the best thing since sliced bread. How did you not see them before? They’ve always been there, passing you in the photocopying room/canteen, you just didn’t see them. But now here they are in your life and gosh it’s so wonderful you want to write poetry about it. You are in no doubt you will be together forever, surrounded by ‘your song’ playing on a continuous loop, the sun shining even when it’s not. There’s a wide grin permanently slapped across your face whilst drinking copious amounts of coffee, any coffee to keep you awake as you don’t sleep at night any more…oh no. Nothing else matters. You see no one else. You care for nothing other than each other. 

Step 4: A few months in…

Writing: You’ve hit the middle section and it’s all suddenly seeming a bit too much like hard work. The words aren’t coming as easily, life’s getting in the way a bit. You know you should be weeding the jungle, I mean garden, and cleaning the cesspit which your house has become. You’ve neglected your family for so long, you can’t recall what their names are and so, you know, you really should call them. The WIP is stagnant anyway. You need some time away from it. The characters won’t do what you want them to do. Time to phone friends and arrange to see them. You can moan about the stubbornness of your characters to them. They’ll understand right? Or perhaps just go out and forget about all that hassle for a night and get drunk, like you used to with them, before your novel came along and took over your life.

Dating: You’ve been seeing each other a few months now. He/she has a drawer and toothbrush at your place and vice versa. You’ve found out all the things you wanted to find out and you’ve hit a bit of a wall with conversation at times. Life has steam-rolled it’s way back. The endless late nights and days out on dates to places you’d never usually dare to venture are over because you were in danger of been sacked… or making yourself bankrupt. You’re still in love of course, only the constant cleaning of the house to impress, the daily shaving, the keeping your make up/ personal hygiene routine in tip top condition has worn you out. You want nothing more than to leave the odd plate lying around and to not worry you have a days worth of underarm stubble. Besides which, you just want your own space for a little while. You don’t want things to become really stagnant. You need some mystery back. Time to phone friends and arrange a night out. You can moan at them about his/her obsession with cross rally biking he/she failed to mention on his/her dating profile. Or perhaps you’ll just go out, forget all the niggly things about them and get drunk, like you used to with your friends, before hot,nice girl/guy came along and took over your life. 

Step 5: Paranoia

Writing: You’ve finished the first draft, thank goodness because wow, did that drag out? Now comes the edits. You read back though what you’ve written and the paranoia starts to creep in. This is the biggest pile of poo you’ve ever written. Why didn’t someone stop you? You stop editing and read novels by other authors hoping you’ll return with fresh eyes, only for the paranoia at how absolutely awful your WIP is to return in comparison to the greatness you’ve just read.  Yours will never be as good as theirs. Your plot has more holes than a piece of Swiss cheese and you’ve used cliches like that one all the way through. You spend sporadic periods batting the paranoia away and plod on regardless. Sometimes you look at your WIP lovingly and remember why you started it it in the first place. Some parts aren’t so bad really. This is worth seeing through to the end, you think. You send it off to beta readers and the paranoia returns temporarily but soon, from their constructive advice, you find your feet once more and power surge forward to the final edit.

Dating: You’re settled in to each other now. You spend Friday and Saturday nights together and go to family functions together but in between he/she keeps going out with their friends and work colleagues without you on a regular basis. Paranoia starts to creep in. Why does their ex suddenly seem to be cropping up in conversation? In fact why does your ex keep cropping up in conversation? Oh no, you’re not living up to their exes standards. Damn, your new love isn’t quite living up to your exes standards. They do things which are just weird. Oh God, they’re probably comparing you to their ex. They might not like the way you eat your hair when you get nervous. Time to edit your own behaviour. Time to get the opinion of your trusted friends. What have I done? Is he/she really the one for me? You seek their opinions and trust them. You are being silly. You find your feet in the relationship once more and power surge forward into ‘going steady.’

Step 6: The Comfort Zone

Writing: Now you’re onto the final edit. You know your WIP inside out, upside down and back to front. Thanks to your beta readers, you know how to fix what’s wrong and you settle in to cosy night after night of simply enjoying immersing yourself in, making the best out of what you’ve written. Every time you open up your Word doc. it’s like slipping on a comfortable pair of slippers. You know where this is going and it feels good to have the stability of something familiar to surround yourself in. Hell, you may even get a publishing deal out of this one.

Dating: Now you’ve moved in together. You know each other inside out, upside down (oo er..) and back to front. Thanks to your friends telling you to shut up and stop seeing your ex in the rose tinted spectacles you made for yourself, you’ve accepted that you and your new love are good together and you settle in to cosy night after cosy night of M&S dinners and episodes of Master Chef together. Immersing yourself in the warmth of love which envelopes you. Every time you look at the guy/girl next to you, you feel a warm glow of smugness that there’s someone there you trust by your side. You know where this is going and it feels good to have the stability of someone familiar with you. Hell, this one you may even want to marry one day. 

Step 7: The Rejection

Writing: So, you’ve finally mustered the courage to submit your synopsis (oh, the hell) and first three chapters off to various publishers. The MS was finished but something was missing. Readers; and the only way to get them is to publish the thing. You want to show your WIP off to the world, so you send off your baby for someone to judge its worth. You wait and you press on with life, pretending not to think about it. Getting on with life, getting on with writing the next thing. And then it happens. One day, two, maybe three months later, a letter plops through your letter box. You note  your own handwriting on the SAE you sent with your submission and your heart lurches in excitement and drops in dread all at the same time. With nervous excitement, you tear open the envelope before staring at the folded letter for what seems like hours, knowing your whole future could depend on the words contained in that letter. You hurriedly unfold it and scan the first paragraph. Your heart sinks. Rejection. Not good enough. Not what we’re looking for. We’re sorry.

Dating: So, you’re there, ensconced  in suburban, relationship bliss. But something’s missing. There’s no permanency yet. You think more about asking your love to marry you/have kids/get a pet, whatever. You love them and you desire nothing more than than to show them off to the world; show them you’re here for keeps and show them how much you love them. Finally, after months of fretting about it and preparing what you’ll say and how you’ll say it, you get round to posing the question.  Your heart lurches in excitement and drops in dread at the same time. What if they say no? You know your entire future together hangs on their response. You drop to one knee only to glance up to a look of embarrassment. Your heart sinks. Rejection. Not good enough. It’s me not you. I’m sorry.

Step 8: The Grief Cycle

Writing: Initially there’s the shock.  You just sit there, staring at the piece of paper, to be precise the words saying “not for us.” Then there’s denial: How could they reject that masterpiece? Surely not? I’ll just read through this again to make sure I didn’t mis-read what they wrote. Nope, definitely rejected. Slowly shock and denial turn to anger. Phillistines. I’ve read some of the stuff they’ve published and it’s utter tripe. How very DARE they reject mine. Seriously. What is wrong with them? Then there’s blame. This isn’t my fault. It’s not my sub-standard writing to blame, this is them. They just can’t see greatness when it’s staring in front of them. Well, it’s their loss (and we’re back to anger again). Then there’s the embarrassment and shame. How will you ever face your friends again after being rejected? Now all those times they laughed at your dreams of writing a best selling novel have been vilified. They were right, you were wrong. Depression kicks in. You don’t even want to think about your WIP again. In fact you’re never going to write again. You’re never going to be good enough so why even try? Eventually though, you dip your toe back in with your writer friends. You dissect every angle with them, struggling to find meaning behind what’s happened, you blog about it, you reach out. Finally you come to rational acceptance. You’ve reached out and others have helped you to put things into perspective: You start to explore different options and put a plan in motion. It’s time to move on.

Dating:  Initially there’s the shock.  You just sit there, staring at the walls, photos of your guy/girl or a blank TV screen.You cry. A lot. You turn the words of rejection over and over in your mind like a bad movie on replay, not quite able to believe that the words “it’s over” even came from their lips. That’s the denial. How could they reject me? All that we had together. I thought he/she loved me. They did love me. How can they just leave what we had? You try bargaining with yourself and with them: You text them, write to them, perhaps as all pride and stakes are gone, beg and plead with them to not leave you. It can’t be over. It just can’t. But we were going to spend Christmas together/go on holiday together. You’d just bought me that beautiful ring/watch. But to no avial. All your efforts are  rejected.  Slowly shock and denial turn to anger. Anger at yourself for being so trusting, anger at them for breaking the trust. How dare they reject me? There’s nothing wrong with me. The two timing ratbag. Well, it’s his/her loss (and we’re back to anger again). Then there’s the embarrassment and shame. How will you ever face your friends again after being dumped? Now all those times they said he/she was a good for nothing loser have been vilified. They were right, you were wrong. Depression kicks in. You don’t even want to think about another relationship ever again, yet you miss those cosy nights in front of Master Chef. But still,  you’re never going to date again. Ever. You’re never going to be good enough for anyone. Who’d ever fancy you? So why even try? Eventually though, you dip your toe back in with your seeing your friends. You dissect every angle of where the relationship went wrong, struggling to find meaning behind what happened. Finally you come to some rational acceptance. You’ve reached out and others have helped you to put things into perspective: You start to explore different options, maybe a dating website, maybe speed dating and you put a plan in motion. It’s time to move on.

Step 9: The One

Writing: Repeat step seven until a publisher accepts your masterpiece and live happily ever after in author bliss… If too many rejections at step seven crop up, repeat all steps until the one publisher comes along who finally appreciates you for the artist you always knew yourself to be.

Dating: Unlike with writing, do not repeat step seven solely as this is known as desperation or flogging a dead horse. Instead go straight back to step one and repeat through to step three only, because at that point the path forward will look different to the others highlighted here as finally the one comes along who appreciates you for the wonderful human you always knew yourself to be and live happily ever after in married bliss. 

And finally…

If you’re a writer: keep on; it will happen. (she says..)

If you’re dating: keep on; it will happen. (she says…)

Though I suspect both may be equally painful and joyous processes.

Doing both?

What?

Are you crazy?!

As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to comment and add your own analogies in the boxy bits below  🙂

 

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