I am always looking for odd things within the normal. It is never good enough.

I am waiting for a plane to drop out of the sky. Is that too morbid? Hair made of cloud. Running so fast my feet lift off the ground, and I am leaping through the air. Not flying, no. Powerful through the kinetic force of my leaps and bounds. Why is a sunny day just a sunny day? It can’t be. There must be more to it than that.

What are brains whispering behind the closed doors of faces?

How many universes really exist, through the perspectives of billions of people.

Can the heavens and the earth sense our tread? And if so, are we hurting them?

A piece of heart. I pick up a ‘piece of heart’ with my toes when I am too lazy to bend down. It was a paper, but all the girls made fun of me. They said, ‘Eurgh you have real human hearts lying around your house!’ Cackling in that cruel way six year old girls have. Tears sprang to my eyes. I was only trying to be part of the conversation. I glanced at the boy who was my friend. He looked away.

A pair of knobbly, bright-red feet under a door.

A cluster of girls.

One brown face looking up at me.

‘What do you want?’

Hurt, walking away from the group I always associate with, because one newcomer decided she didn’t like this foreigner.

Or maybe it’s because I was weird.

But none of the other girls stuck up for me. None.


I feel like an outcast most of the time; but then I slurp some coffee and I am vibrant, energetic; ripples of laughter rippling outwards from my circumference.

Awkward silences. Lots of them. Lack of eye contact. Insecurity. Power. Speeding along country lanes; the sky is a different colour every single day.

If it wasn’t for the clouds, I think our sunsets would be monotonous.


But it is never any good. Not good enough.

I want an inspiration to seize my fingers, but I am learning that you have to create your own inspiration.

So this is mine, today. A mixture of memories and daily thoughts.

What inspires you? Do tell me. What makes your brain tick, your fingers itch?


Finding Inspiration

I have my timetable from work, finally. I am swamped. With no breaks. Busy busy. Every minute. Which is awesome yay.

But also means I do not have any time to think. Or any inspiration. So I am still uninspired. Which bodes terribly for the novel I am currently writing. With a deadline in December. I just don’t know how this is going to go down.

I know a girl from college who is a freelancing graphic designer. She designs so beautifully and uniquely. And I really desperately want her to design my book cover. But since I have made zero progress in the last two weeks, I might have no content to present to her for her to design anything!

I really must buck up, if I am to produce anything. And if I am to produce anything close to what I see in my mind.

Lately I have been watching the film ‘Coraline’ on repeat. The making of that film was extremely complex because it was all done by hand, everything, down to miniature knitters and a number of puppets with replacement limbs and different faces with an assortment of facial expressions! Can you imagine the laborious effort it took to create such a detailed movie all by hand? That is so inspirational to me. I watch it and I sometimes slow it down to see movements clearly because it fascinates me how they could pack so much fun detail into a two hour stop motion film. It stands out because it is so unusual, and the story behind the making of it is incredible too. You can read more here if you are interested.

Didn’t they get tired of it, or fed up? I know I would. Their dedication in the end produced something so beautiful to watch and re-watch multiple times.

So whenever I watch Coraline, I let the artwork seep its dainty tendrils into the folds of my brain and maybe spark something there. It almost always produces an idea or two.

So, this is what this uninspired girl has resorted to. Where do you go to find inspiration, when it evades you?


Why do you Write?


I love to write. I don’t know why. Usually I fall asleep telling myself a story. It has crackling characters, spitting with energy. They get up to an awful lot. It’s a bit like a soap opera that has been going on since I was about eleven.

It’s not really a soap opera, though.

Ugh. Who am I kidding. It is exactly that. How embarrassing to admit it. I despise soap operas.

Not that I judge soap operas or their people.

Who am I KIDDING. I do judge them. Terribly so.

I like to write because I feel like I can explore aspects of my personality through other people that I have created. I could also make them do things I could only dream of doing – although, if I really wanted to do those things I would jolly well get up and do them, but I’m too lazy, that’s what – so I just write about them doing those things instead.

I write because I could make my characters do things I couldn’t morally do, unless I am having an intrusive and unsociable thought.

I write because sometimes I have a lot of feelings and they want to manifest themselves into words. I sit back and survey these words and I think, ‘gosh, Lenora, that is exactly how I was feeling, you got it so right.’

Of course, that is only true for me. For somebody else reading my words, well, it might just be a clutter of irritation, or inconvenient confusion. Take your pick.

Then I generally have a cup of tea because tea and words get along like peanut butter and jam. (Very freaking well is how they get along)

I love words. I love how some people can twist and shape them into intricate chains that inspire fireworks of thought in my brain. Wow. That string was so amazing, how did he do that? Or, my gosh, that phrase was arresting, was she descended from the angels, to speak to my soul so?

Wordsmiths are kindred spirits. I think people who write so well must be earnestly passionate. Not sexually (although, maybe, right?), but their minds must be enigmatic. Electricity. Like a Mr Rochester (oh, I didn’t like him though.). Or.. or… well, a Mr Bhaer! Or a Ned Worthington (from What Katy Did Next). I fell in love with Ned Worthington and I still secretly harbour a literary affection for him. If I were fictional I might be awfully horrid and try to steal him from Katy. If he looked at me I would probably faint. Don’t tell my husband.


So, dear reader, why do YOU like to write? I am sure everybody has different reasons. Please feel free to share, I am so curious.

Pud Muddle

I am drowning

under a pile


complex literary analysis.

I don’t



I don’t



Wordsworth’s inner life.

I really am

Trying to rouse interest.

“Oh, look,” says my


“Your mother loves Grasmere.”

Struggling to find

something in common


this poem.

That she does,

that she does.

Do it for her

at least.

But I don’t want to.

Coffee is not helping

not a smidgen.

Nature is beautiful

I try to tell myself

Of course it is,

Of course

But I don’t care for William’s


of it.

Perhaps I might,

if I wasn’t forced to analyse it

using intricate terms

that I can’t pronounce.







Which sounds like it should be Plaice

Like the fish.

But it isn’t.

And I haven’t the



what it could be.

I have this awful deadline

which smells of rotten fish.

Or Plaice.


I don’t


I really


Want to sleep

and be cuddled.


Is Torture.


This Transient Worry

Good evening.


Tonight I am writing a screenplay called ‘A Transient Guest’, even though the ‘guest’ in question (who is actually a dead girl) is not transient at all, but haunts the entire 15 minute film with her accusing presence.

In fact, if it wasn’t for her encompassing, haunting presence, the film would have no substance at all and would cease to be a story and instead be a string of scenes of a lonely boy walking around through the years.

It’s sad because I love the title, but can’t let a good story be moulded around a title that is so mismatched to the story.

Do you think it would be good to leave the title as it is? Would its vagueness cause  people to wonder at my pretentious daring and muse over the ‘transiency’ of my ‘guest’, or would it just be arty, ostentatious and irrelevant?

Should I change it to something more suitable and in turn, more mundane, and have it be glaringly obvious that I was just too pooped to find a decent title?

Decisions, decisions.

Either way, my tutor will receive it tomorrow and judge it to within an inch of its poor struggling life, and I really must have something remarkable to present to her, otherwise I am a useless writer and might as well employ my energy elsewhere.

I had a notion

To create something really remarkable. But then I realised that actually all I had were the faint echoes of a vocabulary that once packed the shelves of my brains. Now a few words lie peppered around, some discarded in cobwebbed corners, others seizing their bags and donning their hats, not giving me a second glance as they walk out the front door.

They say there are some skills you never forget; how to ride a bike, how to swim, how to canter on a horse. Unfortunately, words are very easily forgotten.

You might meet a word one day, delight in its absolute unique wonderment. You might use it tirelessly in all your sentences, rolling it over your tongue, tasting it sweet and sour and bitter and salty, in all the seasons and in every situation imaginable.

After a few weeks when the novelty of the word has died away and a new one has taken its place, it is stacked away neatly in one of the many word shelves in your brain, to be picked out at a moment’s notice, and inserted gracefully in conversation or writing. It would adorn your creativity, deck your work for conquest. It would be your crown of inventive acumen.

You would, in short, have so many words at your beck and call, to use when you desire. Your work would only require imagination to spur it on.

But if you leave those words lying around for too long, collecting dust, unused and uncared for, they will eventually seek use elsewhere. They will seek another creator’s work, and you will see them in the crisp new pages of somebody else’s book.

The same could be said for knowledge. Knowledge is something that inspires creativity. Thinking the same things everyday, doing the same things everyday, watching the same things everyday is not enough to expand your mind. You would need to read in depth, and explore many subjects, and cross the boundaries of topics, join them together, like golden threads running between, creating new things which are built of old.

Knowledge which is not refreshed becomes old and outdated. It disengages people and eventually disengages you from life and from motivation.

I reached for my words, I reached for my knowledge, and found nothing. I think it’s time to cross some new boundaries.




I want to sit hunched over my desk, writing passionately by the light of my cosy lamp with the patchwork crocheted quilt my aunt made me as a wedding present draped comfortably over my shoulders. A steaming mug of strong, unsweetened green tea by my side as the words flow from my fingertips.

I can’t, though. Work calls to me, my hours of scheduled online teaching. My university course clamours for my attention, emails from tutors about weekly deadlines and complicated assignments setting alarm bells in my brain, forming a buzzing background noise which eats away my focus on anything else I might be doing.

I want to write all night then fall asleep in my bed, kept warm by a sleeping Damian. I want to wake up late and start writing again, or flick lazily through an interesting magazine, or have a gripping book in my hands, my fingernails squeezed white against the creamy grain of my novel.

I also want to curl up into a ball and cry about non existent characters, and contemplate life as it cycles slowly by.

I could lose everything in an instant. I am mourning losses which haven’t occurred. Imagining accidents which haven’t happened and may never happen. Worried daily and nightly about the people I love, thinking each time I say goodbye to them that it might be the last time I do so. Wondering, where is my catch? Is it my premature, rare female baldness? Is it my ability to feel so alone in a world full of people?

But life must go on. People must get out of bed on cold morning when they don’t want to, their bodied perfuming their morning rituals while their minds are still cozied up in their beds. People must tend to other people, complete their jobs, earn their living, else the world would come to a slow grinding halt, and things would fall apart. What is keeping this world together is the average, daily person, waking up each morning and forcing themselves to go to whatever it is they must go to. The mother to her child, the businessperson to their meetings, the builder to their construction site, the engineer to their factory or field or office. Men, women, young, old. All these cogs in the machine of earth. All these souls walking steadily to their destinations. Some may be struck down suddenly, others have become too weary to go on, their bodies withered and frail, their limbs trembling. And the smallest of us are still learning about the world, their minds an endless abyss of joy and wonder, laughter and fascination, feeding their minds so that one day they too can start the long weary walk to There.

Where is There? What are we all walking towards?

A feverish excitement has taken over my limbs, rendering them shaky and frightened, lost because they don’t know the source.

Well I can’t help them. I don’t know the source either.

On Writing

I think that sometimes I think I am a good writer, when in actual fact I must be amateur at best. The false confidence I get from thinking that way means I do not practice my writing, or carry on with any of my writing projects, because I put it in my head that I will eventually publish a book one day.

But, dear readers, the fact of the matter is very clear here: I will never publish anything if I never write anything, and if I never write anything, I won’t be a ‘writer’, I will just be a ‘dreamer’. Just like an artist is no artist if the artist isn’t creating any art.

I love writing. I write to quench the thirst my soul has to explore things one can’t touch. Do you, as a writer, write daily? Do you challenge yourself to write things, even on the days when writing feels like piling broken bricks over each other with nothing to hold them together, and watching helplessly as they topple all over the place?

Here are some of my favourite quotes about writing:

“Start writing, no matter what. The water doesn’t flow until the faucet is turned on” – Louis L’Amour

“Words can be like X-Rays if you use them properly — they’ll go through anything. You read and you’re pierced.” – Aldous Huxley, Brave New World.

“Imagination is like a muscle. I found out that the more I wrote, the bigger it got.” – Phillip Jose Farmer.

“You can’t wait for inspiration, you have to go after it with a club.” – Jack London.

Feel free to share your favourite quotes about writing. Happy writing to you all!