What if …

What if I said to you that I love you ... 

What if I told you all the things your tired, aching soul yearns to hear... all the things that would warm and relax and soothe your pains, your sorrows... 

What if I welcomed you into my arms, into my embrace... so that you may know comfort, so that you may know ease and adoration... 

What if I made space for you beside me, nestled with me in the very centre of my world... 

What if I created the home you've always wanted... always knew you deserved... 

What if we faced the highs and lows, the confluences and confusions of the Universe together... side by side... strengthened, supported, symbiotic in our ways, in our selves... 

What if I opened myself to you so that you may find shelter, growth, freedom...

What if I said to you that I love you.

Tile 19

Tile 19

While I sat and waited, I counted the tiles in the ceiling. Suspended on the day the system was conceived, judging by how dirty and sagging this one presented, I kept getting distracted from my counting by Tile 19. The layered effect of multiple rust-coloured water stains indicated that, at some time in its history, this space may have been an office. The kind with a typing pool and a too-handsy but-he’s-harmless-really, "Oh, that's just Bob. You get used to him and learn to ignore him," boss who smoked too much and swore too much and winked suggestively every time he called his secretary into his space to take dictation. 

Tile 19 seemed to stare back at me, emboldened by, even belligerent in the self importance of having borne witness to scenes and conversations over the years that likely wouldn't be believed. 

If these tiles could talk. 

One corner of Tile 19 was particularly fascinating. There, the darkest layer of staining, almost as dark as old blood, caused me to look to the floor directly beneath, expecting to find corresponding damage or evidence of what must surely have been dripping from the ceiling at one time. 

A chill ran down my spine as I considered what the building now housed in this modern Western word, a supposedly enlightened or "woke" society and then how much worse it may actually have been. 

Back Then. Before. When it was A Different Time and it was socially encouraged to treat others badly. 

The floor revealed nothing, however. Relatively new linoleum tiles covered the room. Hard- wearing, easy-to-clean, functional, reliable. 

Seeping outward, away from the darkest stain, the next layer, at least as dark as dried tobacco leaves, was shaped almost like a butterfly. The abject absurdity of something as beautiful and delicate and natural as a butterfly being present or even represented in this space caused me to actually chuckle to myself. The sound startled my fellow occupants in the otherwise silent room, just as the wall-mounted speakers announced, "four hundred seven!" 

I glanced at the Turn-O- Matic ticket stub clenched in my balled fist and sighed. 

604. 

I looked up and re-started my tile counting. When I got to Tile 19, someone started screaming. I sighed again, my fist tightening around the ticket. 

The Three Crows

The Three Crows

As the afternoon wore on, the old woman wondered when the calling of the crows would herald the arrival of her visitor for she had seen the tell-tale three crows the day before. 

A soft breeze tickled the back of her neck as it slid in through open windows. Age had brought the woman comfort. She was no longer afraid of the unknown, of dangers unseen. She kept the windows and doors of her small cottage open during the day. She loved the feel of fresh air on her wrinkled skin, reminding her of a long-ago time, of youth, of innocence, of a life well-lived. 

The old woman did close her doors at night, however. Though she rarely felt fear these days, she was still reluctant to become food for some wild animal while she slept, and had never enjoyed the concept of pain. 

As she aged, she was grateful that her journey had been quite gentle. 

She hummed softly to herself as she washed her supper dishes, the tune older than she, the lyrics faded into the mists of lost memories. 

Outside the kitchen window, more crows began to gather and she knew her time as limited. 

She dried her hands on a threadbare towel and shuffled into her sitting room. She turned her attention to her shelves, upon which rested her modest collection. 

She smiled as she began polishing each item in turn, items collected thoughtfully, each containing meaning she would be unable to convey if asked, but that she felt deep in her bones... meanings from important moments in her past. 

A gold locket... A handkerchief with the initials A.N.B. embroidered in one corner... A silver coat button... A flint arrowhead... she dusted and fussed over each thing in turn, her eyes twinkling as she recalled memories she’d replayed thousands of times before over her long years. 

She replaced the final item, an unsent love letter, on its shelf and she heard it. The crows had all gathered and started the announcement of her arrival. She smoothed her skirt and ran her arthritic hands over her hair to settle the strays, tucking them into the high bun she favoured for both aesthetics and convenience. 

She settled into her favourite chair and set it to rocking gently. She sighed deeply, relief washing over her. 

Her visitor didn’t knock. He knew he was expected. 

As he entered the sitting room, the old woman’s eyes sought his and she nodded to him, her mouth relaxed but expressionless. 

The visitor spoke first, “You know why I’m here?”

The old woman nodded. 

“You’ve been expecting me for some time, haven’t you?”

Again, the old woman nodded silently. 

“Mind if I sit?”

The old woman shrugged, eyes never leaving her visitor, and still she didn’t speak. 

The visitor settled himself into the seat beside the cold fireplace and turned to stare into its blackened emptiness. 

Resigned to what was to come, knowing it would be painless - that was the promise - the old woman sat in comfortable silence and closed her eyes. Though she knew it was time, she was in no hurry. All urgency belonged to her visitor. 

The old woman woke suddenly from a gentle, pleasant dream or, perhaps, a memory, to find her visitor now standing over her... a soft, reassuring smile on his face. 

He whispered, “It’s time.”

The old woman nodded and accepted the visitor’s outstretched hand to help her to her feet. 

“It’s been a good life,” he said. “Full of adventure, love, generosity... but now it’s time.”

The old woman nodded once more and, with one swift, silent movement, ended the life of the man before her. She bent, picking up her trinket, a signet ring, and placed it on a shelf among her other memories. 

As she shuffled to her bedroom, the old woman began to hum once more, idly wondering how long she would wait until she again saw the three crows.

The Photograph - Flash Fiction Challenge

At writer's group last month, we were offered old photographs that had been part of an estate donated to a charity shop and asked to write a story about it. This is my story:

The Photograph

Sarah hummed softly to herself, a song from her childhood that evoked memories of her father, aproned and covered in flour, baking in their kitchen on a Sunday morning, memories that made her smile.

She tapped short but perfectly manicured nails on the table-top before her as she waited, eager to spend time with one of her favourite people. It had been a decade since they’d seen each other. An old photograph of that person, Sarah’s great aunt, sat on the thick, buff folder just to the right of her tapping fingertips. Though she knew the subject of the photograph well and had seen hundreds of photographs of her famous great aunt over the years, it was only three months ago that she’d first seen this specific photograph for the first time. It had been sent to her anonymously along with a note.

Sarah stood and smiled as a woman was wheeled into the room and pushed up to the table. For the first time in her memory, Sarah didn’t kiss the old woman in greeting though she couldn’t pinpoint the emotions that caused the change in her behaviour and, for her great aunt’s part, it went unnoticed anyway. The woman was glamorous, always had been. Her decades before the movie cameras had crafted her every move and even at 96 the woman didn’t have a single hair out of place, her make up was perfect, her face dewy, even if heavily lined in her advanced age.

Sarah and the old woman exchanged pleasantries and Sarah felt herself smile as she asked after the health and welfare of the old woman before her, their affinity for one another undeniable, cultivated over decades of familiarity.

Finally, as the conversation reached a gentle, natural lull, the old woman mentioned the photograph on the table. ‘Where did you get that?’ she all but whispered. ‘I must have been – what – 21, I think.’

Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her seat, hoping the other woman would continue. Trying to meet her gaze, her heart felt heavy as she saw the look on the old woman’s face, saw the wetness in her eyes. The moment of silence between them stretched for uncountable heartbeats before Sarah could bear it no longer.

Sarah looked down at the photograph one final time before asking, ‘Why did you kill that boy, Margaret?’

Flash Fiction - The Danger of Undeserved Power

Flash Fiction Challenge from the terribleminds blog

~1000 words based on the idea of The Danger of Undeserved Power

Entering the room, he hesitated, unsure of how to broach the subject weighing on his mind. His pulse raced, blood and hormones coursing through his veins – fight or flight in full swing though he had not yet made up his mind which course to take.

She was standing at the window, looking out at the falling snow, and he was momentarily relieved. She adored snow. Perhaps seeing it now, in all its cold, serene, beautiful danger would mean she was in good humour and accept his coming declaration with some level of humility.

Crossing to the centre of the room, he gently cleared his throat to get her attention and held his breath while she turned from her daydreaming, anxious to try to read the look on her face.

True to form, however, her face held as much emotion as a slab of marble. Blank, yet disarmingly welcoming, her gaze settled upon him as she waited to learn of the reason for the interruption. She seldom asked people for anything, and they both expected him to know it was for him to explain his presence.

He gently cleared his throat once more, his gaze dropping to the expensive carpet beneath their shoes before speaking, careful to enunciate every syllable for oh, how she loathed mumbling!

‘Your Grace, we have received word that…’ was all he was able to manage before being cut off by the sound of her voice. His head snapped up in his shock and worry, no one ever spoke over her, not even a syllable and he wracked his brain, trying to remember if he’d been inhaling or otherwise hesitating when she’d started speaking. He silently prayed that this was true while taking extra pains to hear her every word.

‘I don’t care,’ she all but spat. The venom in her voice not worse than normal but he noticed something about her face. There was an expression there that he’d never seen before in all his years of service to her. It was all he could do to stop himself from visibly recoiling at the sight.

‘Has the fabric for my dress been finished?’

‘No, Your Grace. The factory has had a set back. The fire caused so much damage that they haven’t been able to fulfil the order. They’re rebuilding as fast as they can.’ He blanched, knowing that she had ordered the arson attack on the city and that it had gotten out of hand. The people tasked with starting the fire had met their own end in another, smaller fire two days later when the total extent of the damage had been known. She expected perfection and it had not been delivered.

‘Those bloody imbeciles! I simply wanted the urchins in that damned bakery to learn a lesson – no one disappoints me, I don’t care who died. I accept no excuses.’

He nodded in response, ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ His own brother had been lost in the accident that affected the bakery but he was wise enough to know better than to speak of such things in her presence.

He listened to the rest of her brief diatribe and accepted her next set of outrageous instructions. She all but vibrated with ferocity and strength as she spoke. She was quite formidable and anyone who had ever seen her in person understood immediately how she had come to power so quickly, so absolutely.

When he finally left her presence, she was back to staring out the window, her lunch – cooked to perfection – and probably several times before the chef was willing to have it presented to her, being wheeled in through the doorway he’d just exited.

Walking swiftly from her suite, he found a rare moment to breathe and to collect his thoughts before he was bombarded by lesser staff, desperate to know what it was that she demanded next, desperate to know how they would struggle to appease her.

One by one he briefed all of the people who approached him and then sought out those that had been too busy or too afraid to learn of what was to come. The staff scurried from task to task – there was no time for hesitation, conversation, contemplation… Orders had been received and must be carried out to perfection and without question.

Several hours later, when the instructions had all been disseminated, he left the building through a servant’s door and headed to a local café. Bundled against the snow, he was grateful for it as it provided much-needed anonymity. He entered the café through the back door and stomped his boots firmly on the mat inside before removing his heavy outerwear and heading upstairs to the café owner’s residence.

Well into the night, the carefully-chosen attendees of this secret meeting discussed the plans, the details of the coming coup. It had been 5 years in the making, each year the plans becoming more and more concrete, more and more urgent as their beloved country struggled under the control of Her Grace. Meticulously detailed and happening in just two days’ time, the plan was set into motion that night in the residence above a small, unassuming café where, outside, beautiful snow blanketed the world, creating a landscape of dreams, of fantasies, creating a world of seeming purity and innocence.

He knew his role in the plan and he knew it well, and though he understood the necessity of it, he still struggled with the damage his future actions might have on his psyche. He had been ordered to kill many people while under her rule – many who deserved it and many who did not. This next killing, however, was different. This next killing would be of their ruler, their leader, Her Grace and, though he knew they needed to be free of her tyranny, he had never killed someone so young. If everything went according to plan, and how could it not, Her Grace would die the night before her 11^th birthday.

Long Way Home

My back aching with the strain of the extra weight, I pulled the child along in the sled as we traversed the field. It had been days since we had seen any signs of human life and I was grateful that the child slept now.

She never really complained – I expected tears, screams of terror for what she must have been through, for what she must have seen – but all she did was stare at my eyes when I spoke to her. Approximately 7 or 8 years old, I knew she had to understand me and sometimes she would acknowledge what I had said or asked with a quick, singular nod or shake of her head, her filthy hair flying about her face, sending dirt and dead leaves falling to her tatted t-shirt.

Her stare haunted me, her silence scared me even more. It had been some considerable time since I had had any human companionship and when I had finally encountered another person, a person who understood where they were, that person was essentially mute. Just my luck.

As we approached an abandoned house along our path, I gently shook the sled as I walked, never taking my eyes off of the house. I felt the sled move slightly behind me and the child let go a small grunt to indicate that she was awake and saw the house. As we neared the house, she jumped from the sled while it was still moving and ran to scoot under one of the back windows, hidden, while I headed to the front door.

The house was empty, thankfully, and there were a few treats left in the cupboards as well as some not-long-expired sun screen that it certainly wouldn’t hurt to carry. It was a small mercy that what happened was so sudden that there wasn’t really a chance for society to melt-down, no riots, minimal looting… A small grace, really.

As I came back outside, I handed the girl a protein bar and she waited until we had repacked the sled with our new loot before hungrily peeling back the wrapping with dirty fingers.

Now that I knew the house was empty, I spoke to the child. “No water, I’m afraid. The people who lived there clearly hadn’t any time to prepare. I did get some boxed juice, though, and some more matches.”

I handed her the juice and she kept her eyes on me as she drank slowly, carefully, and handed me back the carton. I nodded as I placed the lid back on the carton and set it thoughtfully among the contents of the pack in the sled.

We had been travelling with each other since I had come across her in a similarly-abandoned house just three days before. I had tried everything I could think of to get her to communicate verbally with me but she simply wouldn’t. It was a little frustrating to not know her name but walking with someone for the first time in months was a sort of relief…. At least I wouldn’t be talking to just myself anymore.

Once the pack was settled and we had each availed ourselves of the outhouse on the property, we set off once more.

Along the way, as before, I quietly told the child stories about my life before we had met and what I had hoped to find when I finally made it home. I told her stories of my own childhood, things I remembered from when I was her age – it wasn’t difficult, it had only been five or six years but I felt I had grown so much in that time – I suppose I had.

We travelled this way for six more days – I told stories to a child who wouldn’t opine, a form of therapy, I suppose – and we found places of shelter, scarce foodstuffs, a couple of farmsteads that had pump wells from which we could fill our water bags. A few of the homes we were able to find shelter in for short times during the day but I was eager to get home and the places were unsecured from attack, so we moved on quite quickly. We never stayed the night in any of the homes, it was too risky.

And still we had not encountered any further human life.

By the time the seventh day with the girl came, I was desperate for her to talk. I had been asking questions all week in the hopes of drawing out a response but the child remained resolutely quiet. I was grateful, however, that she had at least deemed I posed no threat. That night we still slept as lightly as before, but we slept snuggled beside each other. The warmth between us was welcome and, I felt, added an extra measure of security as, when one of us stirred in the night, the other woke instantly ready for any danger.

We were about fifteen miles from home and I had been singing the girl a low, sweet song I remembered from when I was younger. I was startled when she grunted, just loudly enough that she grabbed my attention but not so loudly as to alert others. I looked to her, not slowing my stride, and turned to look where she was pointing.

We suddenly both stopped. Ahead, was a house, but that wasn’t what worried the girl. As soon as I saw exactly why she’d wanted my attention, we began moving silently, slightly sideways to the house, keeping it in sight but hiding ourselves from being seen.

Peering into the windows of the house was a human. As cautious as I had been when I first encountered the girl, we watched the human from a safe distance. I don’t know what the girl was thinking but I was hoping against hope. I’m not ashamed to say that I fought back tears when the human walked three times around the house, peering into the windows and sniffing the air before moving on. It didn’t try to enter the house. It didn’t remember how – it was no longer a part of this world.

That night I dreamt fitful dreams, several times waking to the sound of my own whimpering, the girl hovering over me, the look of concern and fear evident on her face. Each time, I apologised and tried to soothe her. Each time, I promised I’d be quieter. Each time, I woke with my heart pounding harder than the last.

For the remainder of the journey, I was too afraid to sing, too afraid to hope and too tired to try to keep up appearances for the girl. As we neared my home, my eyes weeping with relief, I turned back to look at the child who was suddenly no longer there.

The Countdown

“10!” The computerised voice boomed across the halls.

She whimpered as she lurched to her feet. She wasn’t prepared. She was never prepared for the countdown. Her bare feet skidded along the cool hardwood floor as she raced to find a safe place to be when the countdown ran to zero.

“9!” The voice again, slightly lower in volume this time.

Her heart juddered in her chest. She had managed to find an area that wasn’t close to one of the speakers, which also meant that she was further away from the seemingly ubiquitous microphones. She carefully exhaled, trying to calm her pulse as she kept her pace.

“8!”

She skidded around a corner and ran straight into a giant wardrobe that had been shoved into the centre of its room. Her knee banged painfully on the expensive, antique wood but she wouldn’t allow herself to cry out. If he heard her now he’d know her exact location and she would be finished before the countdown ended.

“7!”

She hastily wiped silent tears from her face with a filthy backhand as she manoeuvred through another adjoining room and into one of the hidden stairwells in the walls of the ancient estate. She prayed she could get somewhere, anywhere within the main house because she was sure he was outside patrolling the grounds immediately before the countdown.

“6!” The voice boomed.

She groaned inwardly about having brought herself closer to a speaker and another microphone but she was far beyond lamenting about the fairness of his little “game”. Her stomach churned slightly at the mental image of what was to come if she didn’t make it – and the premise was simple. She had to run and hide while the automated voice counted down. She had literally only herself and her knowledge of having been held on the estate for the past ten years at her disposal… He, on the other hand, had tech, he had gadgets…. Cameras, microphones, night vision, motion sensors, pressure sensors – he had it all.

“5!”

Virtually tossing herself down a flight of stairs she landed with a well-practiced thump at the bottom and immediately rolled back onto her feet. The lean diet he kept her on added to the daily exercise she gave herself prepared her for his “game”, kept her mind and her body agile, ready for the fight. A fight she was getting better and better at winning over the years.

“4!”

She gasped – He’d changed the timing interval between the two announcements, making them closer together. This was an unwelcome new development and she momentarily fretted that it was because he was closing in on her.

“3!”

She refused to allow herself to consider it, however, knowing that the “game” wasn’t over until the countdown was finished. She pushed on, rushing from room to room in the cellar, past old, redundant boilers and dusty chairs.

“2!”

She was desperate to win the “game”. When she succeeded, he rewarded her by leaving her alone for the night. When he “won”… the reward he took for himself didn’t bear thinking about.

“1!”

She’d numbed herself to it years ago while he was rewarding himself, but she hadn’t yet been broken enough not to fight during the game itself, she would never allow him to break her. So she ran and ran, praying that one day her father would set her free.

“0!”

Girls and boys come out to play...

Girls and boys come out to play

The moon doth shine as bright as day

Leave your supper, and leave your sleep

And join your playfellows in the street.

An ancient song, I call to the children from the street – my voice soft, comforting, heard only by the innocent of heart.

They join me sleepily, rubbing their eyes, curious yet cautious smiles on their sweet faces. Nightgowns, pyjama legs and bare feet cross dew-covered lawns as they walk to join me. Quiet chatter develops as they recognise their neighbours, their cousins, their siblings, and their play begins.

Tag, hide-and-seek, hopscotch – we play them all and more.

Laughter floats like bubbles into the brightening sky and it’s time to go. Hours have passed in an instant and my belly hurts from the laughter. I rise to my feet and call the children to me one by one. A single kiss placed on the top of each head and I motion them along on their journey. When the final child is kissed, I join the children and follow them home.

Tomorrow night I will travel to another town in another land and take their children – as I have done every night since before time began. 

The Button Collector

When I was younger my mother had a cookie tin filled to bursting with buttons. I used to sit beside her while she crafted, my small hands buried in the buttons. I loved how they felt as they slid across my skin, the noise they made as they slipped and came together, passing through my fingers... I loved the way they would catch the light, rhinestones glinting, flat plastic faces reflecting my mother's work light. It soothed me.

It's no surprise, really, that I began collecting buttons myself.

It started with stealing one or two buttons from my mother's stash... Ones I didn't think she'd notice. I kept them in the back corner of my closet where I'd peeled back just the very edge of the carpet. I lined them up so that they were tight against the wall then laid the carpet back down on top of them.

I would drift off to sleep at night staring at my half-open closet door - not because I was worried about monsters but because I knew there was treasure in there, waiting for me, calling to me.

I began seeing buttons everywhere... One under a seat on the bus - a cool oval tortoiseshell button with only two holes... Another under a rack of dresses in our local department store - a plain black plastic one with three holes... They both came home with me and I added them to my collection.

Eventually, my collection outgrew the space I could get away with on the floor of my closet so I started taping them to the back of my dresser. Neat rows of buttons adorned the side of my dresser that only I saw. Before the collection got too big, I used to count them all each night before I slept and, as I drifted off, my attention now on that chest of drawers rather than my closet.

Sometimes, I would see buttons on people's coats or their clothing while I was out with my mother and I would be transfixed. A sparkly button could make my whole day and going a day without seeing a button that I deemed interesting could certainly ruin my mood. I'd be thunderous until we reached home again and I could escape to my room and my treasure.

When my mother died, I made sure that I got all of her buttons, but it wasn't difficult - neither of my brothers were interested.

My collection grew and I started housing it in a glass-fronted cabinet so that I could look at them all the time. My brothers think I'm weird but they no longer lived in our mother's house so their opinions didn't matter. I was alone there with my treasure and it was just how I liked it.

Going out to do things like grocery shopping I began to realise that the lovely buttons that I saw on other people weren't being appreciated the way that I would appreciate them if they were mine. It's wretchedly unfair so I started carrying a small seam ripper with me. I was on a personal mission to liberate unappreciated buttons.

I became quite adept at "accidentally" bumping into someone and freeing a button from their coat or sleeve. I made it into something of an art - I was like a strange little pickpocket except I never stole anything of value to my "victims", never any money or anything like that. Just buttons. Buttons they didn't even know were missing until it was too late. Buttons they must have presumed fell off of their own accord, as buttons are wont to do sometimes.

It's been a few years since I've seen any interesting buttons. I guess that's to be expected where I live now but it saddens me. I still collect them when I can but my collection is super small.

I only have three buttons now and when I'm not in my room my buttons are hidden in a pair of socks. I keep them tightly wrapped in my fist when I sleep. I dream of them. I dream of buttons, of course. I try not to dream of the woman whose beautiful button took my treasure away from me...

She was standing on the platform, waiting for her train - I had followed her into the station from the coffee shop two doors down. She had the most amazing floral buttons on her dress and I couldn't tell if they were acrylic, resin or glass but they were stunning. Hues of pink and purple petals set off against a dark green background - they perfectly matched her summery dress. I had been waiting for my moment for some time when it finally came. Her train was approaching and I slipped my seam ripper into my hand, gripping it tightly, keeping it firmly concealed. Because the platform was packed for rush hour, I knew this would be easy - I'd done it hundreds of times before.

I approached the woman as she bent to grab her bags in readiness for boarding the train and I rushed forward, pretending I was eager to be one of the first to board the train. She was significantly distracted. My hand moved in a practised motion and in one swipe the button between her breasts was mine. I pocketed the coveted button.

But she had felt her dress pull apart and she jumped back slightly, startled. I never understood how, but at that instant, as the train pulled along the platform, she was suddenly shunted forward and into me. I put my hands up to protect myself as she crashed into me and we fell to the platform.

My chest felt warm and wet and I couldn't work out how or why as I started trying to push the woman off of me when I realised people were starting to shout around us.

I couldn't hear what they were saying but there was so much warm water on me that I began to wonder if the woman had peed herself.

When I finally slid out from under the woman and stood up the shouting turned to screams and I heard the words "She's got a knife!". I looked down at the woman, confused - If she'd had a knife, I would have seen it. I'd been watching her quite closely and she definitely didn't have a knife. I knew they weren't screaming about the woman on the platform but I was then confused as to why she was still down where we had fallen together. She wasn't moving.

It didn't matter, I had to get out of there. Knife person or not, I definitely needed dry clothes.

As I approached the barrier to leave the station I turned to look back at the platform. I wasn't holding my seam ripper anymore, I must have dropped it. It was OK, I had several more at home but I wanted to see the woman whose button I had taken. I wanted to make sure she had made her train. I didn't want her to be late.

She was there but she still hadn't moved.

And there was a wet patch all around her, spreading out from under her on the platform.

As I walked back to her, I noticed that people were moving out of my way, some were running. The whole thing was very confusing.

As I knelt down to ask her if she was OK, to ask her if she needed any help, I saw my seam ripper. For a flash I was excited. I didn't want to lose a seam ripper.

But my excitement was short-lived as I was abruptly tackled from behind. As I fell forward, smashing my face into the platform, I realised that my seam ripper was embedded in the neck of the woman with whom I had fallen. What a silly place for her to have put it!

It's OK.

I have needed to write this for myself for some time now.

I hereby give myself permission not to write.

Yes. I am allowed to not write.

How scary is that?!

Since this time last year, I have taken an unintentional hiatus from my writing - and felt wretchedly guilty about it the entire time.

I stopped taking a specific medicine I was on for reasons in October of 2015 and have struggled since then to get my head back into the process of writing. It's like that part of my brain has been temporarily suspended. (I say "temporarily" because I do plan on resuming the medication in the medium-distant future.)

I am tired of feeling guilty for not putting words down, creating those magical sentences that seem to come from thin air... I'm tired of wondering if I'm good enough, if I'm actually a writer if I'm not actually writing. Well, I am and I'm not. I am a writer. I am a writer who is currently not writing.

And I am OK with that.

Or, I am trying to be OK with that.

Because it's a choice. I have chosen to take this particular path at this particular time in my life and, if a temporary side effect is that I don't write for a relatively short while in the grand scheme of things while I take this journey, then that's OK. It will be worth it. Hopefully.

But most importantly, in the mean time, I won't feel guilty about not writing. It's OK that I am not currently writing. I am doing something else. Something important. And the writing will be there when I am ready and able to get back to it.

Two distinct writing styles... Which do you use?

In my, so far very short, time as a writer, I have come across two distinct styles of writing.

(I'm sure there are others, but if they don't fall into these two categories, I don't know of them.)

One of the styles largely makes use of the writer's immediate imagination. There's little, if any, forethought, and the writer simply writes as the story appears in their mind.

I started writing my first story this way. It came to me suddenly, unbidden, ready and willing to be transcribed. I write that story as it is told to me by my protagonist and this seems to work for us. In between storytelling sessions, I take the time to investigate and understand the rules of his world and the nuances of the locations, the people, the climate, making careful notes throughout. And then it's back to chronicling his story.

The issue I find with this style of writing is that things are not always revealed in good time. I sometimes learn something new and have to go back and re-work what I have already transcribed as it changes context or wording ever so slightly.

Most significantly, there was a semi-major re-write of the second setting of the story when it occurred to me that it was too similar to the setting in a rather famous set of stories involving a young wizard. Thankfully, my protagonist seems to concur that the events could have happened in this other location!

Because of these issues, the 'simple chaos' of how I receive the story, I am facing many roadblocks when it comes to developing how it is told. I have approximately 40K words transcribed (and copious notes) but I've revised them a couple of times and I haven't finished the re-write of that setting issue yet so the story itself is sort of stagnating. It's a little sad, but I'm not entirely worried as it's a beautiful story (of course, in my own humble opinion!) and it will be told. Eventually.

But this 'struggle' does make me wonder... What would it be like to write with a plan. What would it be like to write knowing, not the details of the story, but the journey those details will need to take, ahead of time. What if I plotted it all out. What if I had a plan?

This is the second style of writing. Writing with a plan. Writing with an outline in mind (or on paper). Knowing the timeline of the story before the details are known... Is a very different style to the one mentioned above.

I think the second story I am writing will follow this. I hope, anyway. It's a much simpler story, in that I'm not creating any new worlds in which my protagonist exists. The rules are known, there are the same rules I follow in my life, and for that, I think that elements of writing this second story will be easier. I just don't know if this style will suit me. I don't know if it will suit the way I tend to hear stories.

Perhaps, the issue I am facing with my first story lies in that the world itself is what complicates matters, not my style of writing, so I may not find it any easier or better when writing my second story as the world is much easier to get to know. Only time will tell.

I think I will attempt to get some understanding of where the second story unfolds, though, before delving into the details, just to see if it helps or works differently for me.... Or, in fact, if it's even a style of writing that I can use!

So, how do you write? Are you a by-the-seat-of-your-pants-er or do you take a more structured approach?