On Creativity

buy vermox It’s a funny thing, creativity. Maybe you’re lucky and have it blooming from your fingertips, and you get to pick the cream of the crop. еnsure Maybe you’re frustrated, and it’s trapped and building up like water in a hosepipe with a knot in it.

print phenergan elixir uk Mine is elusive. I never thought it could be governed by rules. But lately, I’ve come to understand two things about it. First of all, it’s so very true what they say – that creativity is like a muscle. It does need to be exercised, and the more it is exercised, the stronger and more flexible it becomes. The other thing: I know that my mind and my body need to be in their best form for creativity to sprout.  Since in moments of darkness my creativity cannot bloom, I must do all I can to prevent those moments of darkness from closing in. care These are lessons to myself.


Embracing Change

online dating no second dates I read in an article the other day that studies show we still take in less information when we read from e-readers compared to paper books.

quiero conocer chicos de puebla Now, I’m not exactly someone who speeds ahead, leading the charge for the new. You certainly won’t find me queuing up outside an electronics store to be one of the first to get their hands on the latest trending gadget. But neither am I someone who clings doggedly to the past, in fear, or out of nostalgia. I recognise the need to embrace change.

world of tanks kv-1s matchmaking I love books. I love holding them, turning their pages. And I love the way magazines smell. But what did I do after reading that article? Went and downloaded three new e-books, of course. I’ll just make sure I concentrate extra hard on taking in what they have to tell me.



rencontre fvjc Daniel is poised on the edge of the flat roof. His view down – way down – comes to an abrupt end some ten metres below with a smooth expanse of freshly set black tarmac. “Daniel!” His mother calls, the only one left to stick by him. “Come away from there, darling.” Her cry is plaintive, scared; pathetic. “Please.”

view website He looks back at her, but it is a brief glance, and meaningless. His attention returns to the ground below, his vision spinning with an almost intoxicating desire to fall… to fly. Another cry from his mother, and he is wrenched sharply from that lulling, tantalising possibility into a jagged-edged place of fear and dread. “Please, Daniel.” She sounds exhausted.

vivastreet rencontre le havre But it’s like the time – although he was too young to remember, really – his devout aunt had taken him into the Notre Dame Cathedral during the Vespers service. They’d crept in late, and she’d told him to be silent, but that nasty urchin lurking inside of him had wanted out, and he had let forth an inhuman wail at the top of his lungs, lapsing into a fiendish giggle as she dragged him out by the collar, blushing under the glares of the congregation.

sistema latinoamericano de citas It’s like the time he’d just reached out and run his hand up the branch of the monkey puzzle tree in his nana’s back garden, even though he knew why it was called that, knew it would hurt. He does remember that, remembers watching the blood ooze up through his skin, hoping the urchin was satisfied with these ruby jewels he held out in his palm.

you could try this out And it’s like the time on the beach, when he dropped the rock on his father’s sleeping head. He really should have known better at that age, but always, always, there was the urchin that inhabited him, his whiny demands derisive, relentless until Daniel eventually gave in. His father’d gone to hospital for that, and Daniel to his room for a month.

A breath susurrates coaxingly around him.

Jump, whispers the urchin.

Daniel thinks how odd it is that the urchin’s whisper is only that, a whisper, yet it can drown out his mother’s pleas, which should be deafening from the terror and love in them.

Jump, murmurs the urchin.

Approximately ten years from now, in a flash of clarity, Daniel will remember this moment suddenly, and look up from the passage he is reading on the theory of relativity, out onto a calm expanse of impeccable lawn dotted with zombies and their minders, and wonder if there is an answer in it for him.

In twenty years, Daniel will find himself vomiting into a cracked toilet bowl, the result of participation in yet another drug trial for which he did not entirely, not explicitly, give his consent.

Jump, hisses the urchin.

Jump, mocks the urchin.

And Daniel jumps. In that brief, beautiful moment between sky and earth, he exults in the bliss of the silence that fills his ears.

This story was written as an inspiration piece for Mash Stories, a short story competition which gives writers 3 random key words or phrases, and a 500-word limit, to create their best pieces of flash fiction. The key words for this piece were: monkey – cathedral – relativity.


Motivation vs Time

The other day, I was asked how I motivate myself to write.

Ha! I nearly spat my drink across the table.

Because, even if I lack the means to motivate myself to do anything else in life, writing is the one thing I don’t have – have never had – a problem with doing.

Sitting at my computer, or at my desk with a pen in my hand, does not and has never scared, intimidated or not appealed to me. In fact, it’s as near my idea of the perfect way to spend my time as I can realistically come up with.

Time, I said. Time. That’s the issue here.

How, in today’s setting of having to earn a living, manage a household, use but not allow yourself to abuse social media, network, read, exercise and have something resembling a social life,  I asked, does one find the time to write?

Answers on a postcard, please, because I’m sure you don’t have time to write a letter.



‘And don’t forget,’ mum was yelling on her way out, ‘you both have appointments at the dentist on Friday!’

‘Just go, already!’ we yelled back in unison from either corner of the house. We heard the door slam, then calm slowly descended as the dogs and the dust settled.

‘Don’t forget,’ I grumbled, heading downstairs, ‘Half-bowl morning and night for Hector, full bowl for Hutch—’

‘—but only in the morning.’ Drew met me in the hallway – my twin, non-identical but still able to complete my sentences, and not just those drummed into us rote-fashion by a mother leaving on the trip of a lifetime.

‘Blah, blah, blah,’ I added for good measure. We laughed at her, though really we were proud: last year, the news of her disease had transformed her. Where others would have crumbled, she became a fearless explorer. She’d already travelled to The Yukon to witness the aurora borealis; now she was on her way to Arizona for the American Astronomical Society’s Annual Meeting, telescope in tow. Her flight to a Nagano observatory to see the Andromeda in a few weeks would complete her Trio, and then, she said, she would settle down and deal with her final months in a more conventional manner.

Her example was impossible not to follow: insistent, infectious positivity. We’d grown up on it, but last year she’d lit the nitro and really kicked it up a gear. At only fifteen, we’d been praised by the doctors for our outlook. But to be honest, now it was mostly her meticulous planning that was holding us together: there was simply no time for misery.

*     *     *     *     *

Later, the kitchen TV was droning the early evening news while we messed around with dinner, a die-hard habit from when granddad was still with us.

‘Where’s the appointment card?’ Drew asked me. He was at the fridge, leafing through the thousands of notes and reminders stuck to it.

‘No idea,’ I replied absently, following recipe instructions with a floury finger.

‘Need to know what time on Friday.’ He always was the more organized one.

…continues on whether Russia’s democracy—’ sound from the TV cut suddenly.

—We’re just getting news in of a train crash near Heathrow,’ a familiar news anchor’s face appeared. I froze mid-stir, looked across at Drew to see that he, too, had paused to stare at the TV. I went cold as footage of a mangled train rotated on the screen. The reporter was talking over pictures of a battered, shredded tube of metal, bent up unnaturally like a broken bone poking through skin.

Drew cleared his throat, tried to speak. ‘Where did mum put her itinerary?’ His voice came out much more quietly than usual.

We looked at each other. Then I dropped my spoon, and we were scrabbling through the papers on the fridge, emptying drawers, frantically trying to find the detailed plan of her journey that she said she’d leave us.

And just then, the telephone rang.

This story was written as an inspiration piece for Mash Stories, a short story competition which gives writers 3 random key words or phrases, and a 500-word limit, to create their best pieces of flash fiction. The key words for this piece were: Andromeda – democracy – dentist.