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Posts from the ‘Freewrites’ Category

Imperfectly perfect

I’m sat on the ground on a hill and not far in front of me, to the left, are a couple of those smaller wooden pylon/electricity posts or utility poles or transformers or whatever they’re called. To the right on the ground are the remains of a rusting fallen corrugated iron roof. Over the ridge below me a digger is clanking and if I stand up I can see its mechanical orange elbow jutting up and down.
I’m currently sat on rabbit droppings (it was either that or crusty old cowpats), I have a chesty cough and the wind is giving me mild earache. It’s been a lousy, wet and windy June so far, and today – the first day of summer, I am wearing a long black, knee-length cardigan even though it’s finally sunny. The puppy woke us up at 5am this morning needing to empty his rear and in a minute I have to rush home for a grocery delivery, put it all away, arrange tea, and other evening family and household doings.
But it’s easy to ignore all the above right now because between the pylons (or whatever they are) and the corrugated iron is the one of the prettiest views I have ever seen.
I won’t take a photo for you because you wouldn’t see in a photo what I see now.
You wouldn’t see the way the eye sees past the pylons and the corrugated iron and leads us down and through and on and on to the inch-wide scribbles of white water, holding the blue triangle of sea to the rounded green buttocky hills like knicker-elastic. You wouldn’t see the full panoramic view as I turn around and head back to the house. Walking as if towards the new giant wind turbines in the distance. Standing strong and new and proud. Defenders of the planet. You wouldn’t necessarily pick out the way the wind-flipped leaves on the birch tree mirror the white on green of the tiny sheep on the opposite hill.
And the smell. No not dung. Rich warm fertile earth and long strong healthy grasses blowing and growing.
The smell of green and brown. Can you smell the green and brown? Can you feel the blessed feeling of a comforting, rich blue sky that frames the hair that licks about your face? If you don’t have hair you will have to imagine in the same way I have to imagine having a bosom enough ample to bounce or even move when I run down the slope with the black dog. The black 11-week-old gundog who has instinctively begun his inbred training today by chasing butterflies and hunting grasshoppers.
Start small they say.

(A few words written on a walk so I could try out the WordPress app on my phone.I was tempted to edit but that would be cheating)

(okay I added an ‘e’ )

Look at it Another Way

Although you stand and stare at the oranges and wish they would choose themselves, they cannot. You go on like everyone else. And although you feel so very alone you are not.
The man on your left holds a cabbage not knowing if this was the kind his wife used to buy.
‘Do I like these ones?’ he whispers.
The confident woman with the beautiful coat and expensive perfume who annoys the shattered young parents by whizzing too fast past the tiny pink baby clothes in case she breaks down and cries for the children she never had.
No… You are not alone.

But you never tell. They never tell. Strangers with trolleys and their other lives – dodging and ignoring, choosing and organising the life they are left with, such as it is. Sleepless nights, big empty beds, screaming babies, no babies, never any love, too much of the wrong kind of love, too much to do, nothing to do. Just coping… not coping. Pretending.

Of course, you tell yourself, you have suffered the most, no one hurts like you, they all have it so easy, more money, more support, more years, better health and you were unlucky.

On the other hand, who would you swap with? Who would you be if you could?
When you look at the man with the cabbage – do you want his despair? His beautiful cottage by the sea with the half-papered wall where his wife collapsed?
Do you want the children who never sleep and a marriage that cannot cope?
The wealth of a woman whose womb didn’t work and the husband who will work until his heart gives in?

Alternatively you can dress all in black, drive a mobility scooter, a wheelchair, pull a trolley carrying oxygen behind you. Wear a badge that says: “I hurt. Look at me. Do you care?”

However, the chocolate and the TV and the big blue sky and the baby in the buggy from a party who is telling his mother he sees a dog and the man who offers to take your trolley back for you and your favourite song on the radio when you get in the car and … a memory. A good memory. Things that mysteriously push at the back of your throat and awaken your spirits, keep the living just good enough…

Still. Just the same. Making do.

(This was a bit of a freewrite – of sorts. I gave myself the challenge of writing something that had paragraphs beginning with Although, But, Of course, On the other hand, Alternatively, However and Still.
I know you are not supposed to begin a paragraph with ‘But’, but I like breaking rules!)


This is so bad. But also very funny. I just had to share it. I have never typed so fast or so badly before in my life. A ten minute unfocussed freewrite . . . .

okay. So just keep on writing writing writing. Don’t look back, don’t worry about spelling, grammar, pinctuation. Inhibitions out of that womdow. Stop even thinking about the fact that you are thinking about the fact that you are writing. Let those words flow flow flow out of your head and into your finger tips. But don’t even think about that process otherwisde you’ll start getting all inhibited again. Qrods flow think and fast nothingness sometimes little nuggets if something at other times it is a bit lie a triver. Sometimes fast flowing and full of muddy water just gushing rapidly probably full of crap but lways flowing. It has picked up the debirs from the fields on oits way mud and coshit grass and trees dirty brown fast flowing and never stopping. Other times it has slowed to a trickle and is clear and quiet and rather pretty, but we don’t want that we want it to flow full and fast amd muddy, never stopping. Poeple keep away from the edges you may not liek what you see! It miht be smell. There might be dead rats in it. It might even pick you up and seep you away you might be killed by it or just mamed. They might be able to bring you back to life, but you will be damaged for ever by the shit in her. Is the kind of death you want? Ha ha why am I talking about drowning in a dirty river. ojh dear there are those inhibitions back aginb. When the river is ful of all this dirty brownnesss t has to go somewhere. It may flood towns and villages it maytake out bridges! It may just flow on down to the sea and just be another drop in the ocea. Out at sea everything is diluted, less significant, but is it less potent. I’m thinking now about seawage being let out into the sea its disguisting, eventually it gets lost in a vast wide ocen, but does it become less dangerous. Lots of the crap ends up on the beachs and is picked up by small choildren. Poepl swim and suf in the sea and pick up diseases. Ear infections. Its that what happens to Barbar Cartland novels. Are they big rivers of muddy water or are they streams of shit/. Do they get diluted by the tide of other stuff out there or do they come back to hunant us -nwashing up on our beaches (loibraries and bookshelves0 to continue to damage and disease us for yearsn and yeras to cpome. Have I writtedna lot of words uyet. My husband keeps disturbing me and I am tryong to ignore hio,. OIthought I was on my own, but just as I get going he comes back into the house. How do other write rers manage with this. Conatsatnt ditractions are very dMAGING TO ON’ES CREATIVITY. aDS IS REALLY BAD WRIST CRAPMPE FROM AN OLD INJURY. i KEEP GOING ON ABOUT IT, BUT IT’S ALWAYS THERE AND ALWAYS WULL BE. rESIDUAL STIFFNESS THE SURGEON SAID. iT WILL HEAL WELL BUT YOU’LL PROBABLY ALWAYS HAVE RESIDUAL STIFGNESS

(another caps lock accident!!)

more rubbish


(10 minutes. It was 10 minutes!)
I don’t do this often enough, because I’m really worried that I won’t have anything to write about. I sit and try to think of a topic. Or a story. But that’s not the point is it? The point is to keep writing writing writing and not stop. If a load of personal garbage comes out then that’s fine. But the whole point is to just let the words flow flow flow and keep flowing. I’m hoping something really great will happen eventually. Nothing yet!!! Haha – I’m sitting here laughing at myself for being so crap. To be honest I feel crap today. Not ill, just rubbish at getting anything done. Its brain fog. Happens to me unexpectantly every now and then. I have about a week when I’m inspired and ideas keep flowing – there’s no stopping me, and then at some point – I never know when it’s going to happen I just get all foggy and heavy eyed and don’t have anything clever or funny to say at all. I sometimes think it’s diet related or exercise related or even alcohol related. But most of the time, I think it’s probably damned bloody bad luck. Things happen in the brain. Chemicals, that don’t always balance happily and we can adjust them slightly by eating happy foods – like carbohydrates, oily fish and avocados, etc or by talking a nice brisk walk somewhere up-lifting. But often there’s just no getting away from it, particularly – if like me – there are hormones involved. I often find myself looking forward to the menopause – how sad is that?!?! But I’m sure my imagination and dreams will change too when my hormones change. I’m not sure I want that…damn it I’ve got cramp already. I think my chair is too low and I’m having to bend my wrist strangely to compensate. I did just now and the word was ‘cosmos’. Errrrr – I froze. I have nothing to say about the word cosmos. But is it the word – or am I just crap today. I also wonder how much of it is to do with the fact that it’s the weekend. My weekends aren’t like a lot of other people’s . My husband has a shop in a holiday village and has to work weekends. So when everyone else is going:”Yay! It’s the weekend!” I am going “Oh great, back to being on my own with three kids again.” The older 2 just want to bugger off and find their friends and the little one gets upset. All in all we’re all a bit pissed off. I wish it wasn’t like that but I guess its just tough titties. I really have got bad cramp now and I’m hoping the trumpets sound very very soon or I WILL STOP ANYWAY (oops CAPS lock! – quite effective, but a total accident)

Once Upon a Time . . .


(It was 10 minutes actually, but I took 5 extra seconds correcting typos)
Once upon a time (!) there was a silly little (well quite tall actually) woman in Devon, who decided that it was time to stop dreaming and start writing. She had been very tough on herself for years and thought that the way to become a good person was to keep doing doing doing all the time. Keep the house tidy, make nice meals, wash up, do lots of washing and look lovely for her husband. She tried to help as much as she could to bring money into the house, by helping with the business and climbing up the property ladder. But she was struggling. She had wanted to be normal all her life and had always felt it important to fit in. But now she realised that not being true to yourself was really hard work and soul-destroying. So, she decided (unintentionally at first) to let go of all the stuff that was holding her back – like worrying about the state of the house, and everyone having clean clothes every day and even stopped caring that the bathroom tiles were quite frankly disgusting and that creamy, yellowy peach and magnolia were liveable with. Who cares. Instead she concentrated on being sane and not busy, busy, busy all the time. It suited some people, but not her. She needed quiet time, calm time, lots of sleep and thinking and daydreaming time for her sanity and she needed a form of self expression. She went back to playing her piano and her flute for a while….but there was still something missing. She did a few Open University courses and enjoyed them and discovered other ‘not normal’ types, but there was still something missing. Then one day she came across a course called ‘Creative Writing’ and wow! She was going to do that – for sure! So she signed up, got into the chat forums and the course materials arrived and she hasn’t looked back since. She knew instinctively that it was the right thing to do. It would be nice if she found that she was good at it, she thought. But it didn’t really matter that much. She would be doing something that made her happy – that satisfied her and that was what counted. Great for the heart and soul. A bit of self-expression. Lovely. She also came across like-minded dreamy people and is getting happier by the day. Her husband doesn’t fully understand, but he loves her and wants her to be happy. And he’s secretly hoping she’ll churn out loads of best-sellers and they’ll become rich


Memories you can’t disguise, a history of happenings or trouble or accident. Colours of claret burgundy, dark red. Furniture, table, surface, carpet ruined. Fabric bleeds. Wipe rub wash. Sit on it to hide it. Something or someone gone but evidence remains.
Drunk? A party? An alcoholic?
Bottle or glass drips
A ring of dark red is left.
An innocent happy memory of a pleasant evening or a lonely memory of one person’s solitary drinking.
Get a cloth and try to wipe it away or sit and look and touch and remember.
Pub garden table of porous wood soaks up the colour. Cover it with and ashtray – or maybe not these days! Cover it with a plastic menu holder.
Best clothes ruined by a wine stain become old clothes, gardening clothes, walking the dog clothes.
A ring of red on a circle of Irish linen turns brown with age, but she never washes it. She looks at it and remembers her loved one. He put his glass there.

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