All This Fence Sitting Is Giving Me Splinters

I woke up this morning not feeling utterly destroyed, as I rightly should have seeing as my partner’s sister in law and I demolished three bottles of wine between us last night, so I’m counting today as a win.

Today is also the start of Nanowrimo, a competition that I adore and try to take part in most years. This year however, I’m not so sure.

Darkened Daughter is currently lurking around the 53,000 word mark. Now I could decided to partake in Nanowrimo and write another 50,000 words to go on top, giving me 100,000 to play around with later. Or I could ignore the event all together and just write the rest of Darkened Daughter or as is the current case, leave it sitting on my desk where it glares at me in neatly spaces lines demanding to be given attention.

I’m on the fence.

Nanowrimo is great for giving writers that push to get stuff down on paper, but can I really go into it knowing that most of the book is already written and I’m now writing chapters to fill out the world and the characters? I am in essence writing the second draft.

I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

I just need to make sure I’m actually getting new words now on paper…


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Do you Believe in Magic?.”

The caravan was small, moving down the southern roads from Hareth towards the open planes of the Burnt Desert. I joined them mostly by mistake, a misunderstanding in some backwards tavern far off the road to nowhere and very decidedly unhappy to see me traipsing through their doorway.

What actually happened in that tavern was something of a blur.

Next thing I knew my horse is tied to the back of a cart, my hands are bound to the saddle and a Hedge Witch is trying to poke my eyes out with her glare.

‘Don’t even try it,’ she hissed. ‘I know a warlock when I smell one.’

A friend of mine once said that ‘magic is just science we haven’t quite worked out yet’. I thought it was a fantastic way of looking at the world and I sort of clung onto the idea from there on out. It made sense to me.

As a writer magic can be an important tool.

Don’t know how a character escapes from an almost certain, horrible fate?


The world is ending and no one can possibly save it?


The dog won’t stop hiccuping and the baboon has learned to plan the harp but doesn’t understand Mozart’s way of composing music?


Magic does have its limits however and if you want to write it convincingly then you need to work out some ground rules for it. Magic is after all energy and energy is neither made or destroyed only changed. [Don’t quote me on that in a science exam. I repeat! I am a writer of fiction! Distrust most things I say that don’t pertain specifically to historical events and even then it’s always good to fact check.]


Writing 201: Poetry: Day Four

Imperfect, Limerick, Enjambment


You wrapped yourself in some foreign cause

and drenched your thoughts in strangers’ applause

hoping to line the story across your lips

and add some gravity to your kiss…

Yet all that stiffens your spine is straw.


Skin: Blogging 201: Poetry Day Three

You thickened your skin until it was armour. Poured yourself into the mould of something else as if it would keep you from harm and wielded smiles like knives. Made even your mother believe that this shell was deeper than a hair’s breath of water. He words bounced like ping-pong balls, plastic and harmless.

When your laugh became acrylic, like the nails you gauged down the chalkboard with a voice that wasn’t your own, something fractured in this friendship. We became acrylic. We became snappable.


I was at a bit of a loss for what to write this morning in response day three’s prompt:

Skin – Prose Poetry – Internal Rhyme

The prompts themselves were not the issue, mild exhaustion is and honestly, I’m craving the weekend already so I can spend some time curled up in bed with ‘American Gods’ by Neil Gaiman and not have to worry about anything else for an hour or two.

So here is my mildly exhaustion contribution to Day Three.

What Is Your Gift?

The rose that bloomed between our lips


When we brushed away the petals

and cleared the crumbs of brittle leaves

all that we had were sheets.

Stark and white we stretched them,

from corner to corner

and smoothed away the creases,

lay together side by side

and searched the ceiling for stars.

‘I’m sorry,

this is all I have to give.’


I really wanted to write something better but this was all I could come up with. Comments and thoughts on this would be hugely appreciated as I have no idea what I was trying to say here. For all the faffing it took to write it still doesn’t strike me as written.