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It appears I have lost my words. I’m sure I’ve just left them somewhere, carelessly abandoned without thought. I’m sure I shouldn’t really panic too much, knowing they’ll turn up like an odd sock at the bottom of the wash basket, and I’m certain that it is probably a good thing they’ve chosen this moment to go missing.


Simply because there is everything and nothing to tell here. As usual. Too busy you see, too busy to hunt for the words myself so I’ll presume they are where I left them, even though I can’t recall where that is.

So excuse me for a while until I find my words again, and if you do spot them roaming around please tell them to come home. Thanks.

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Autumn Muse

The once billowing grass is gone, shorn from existence, ripped from green to dirt by savage machinery. Under dripping trees at the edge of the field stands the farmer, admiring the close crop of the land as it ripples towards the horizon across the furrows of once turned soil.

Standing at the top of the hill he turns from the chilled air sweeping through the valley to survey the rest of his land. An oddly shaped patchwork this, bordered by stone and scrub as it climbs and slides across the terrain. The cool breeze dances on stalks and leaves, the beginnings of autumn burning spots of gold and red, glimpses of light through dense trees herald another cycle as the leaves slowly start their long tumble to the ground.

And that’s it, that’s all I’ve got. I have no story, no characters, no plot devices, no he said she said. No pace, no direction, no structure nor prose. I am mute until inspiration returns, until the muse once more lands gently on my shoulder and generously bestows her charms and inspiration.

Her visits are fleetingly random, endearingly erratic and completely at her whim. You cannot depend on her to arrive and remain, and deep down as you know that to make such demands would be the end of it all so you stay your course, riding the waves as best you can.

Such is the way of things for this most complex of spectres; she is the free spirit of whimsy, the demanding guide, a strict mistress when she calls, a caring spirit when she leaves, a raging torrent and calming stream. You cannot use what she gives without permission, and cannot call on her, beckoning her to your aid. She is not under your control and needs only the slightest excuse to float away.

The mundane returns and she loosens her grip, slipping away as I type. Dust trails of inspiration whirl as she departs.

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No read-ey, no write-y!

Dearest Reader,

(Yes, that’s you)

I’ll keep this as simple as I can.

In my previous post I stated, quite clearly, that I would be taking “the opportunity to confirm that I will not be starting to write a novel (or even a novella)”. I realise my mixing of positive and negative actions in the same sentence may have confused your simple mind, for that I am sorry. I am certain you already have enough difficulty and confusion in your life and I apologise for rendering your simple mind asunder with my badly crafted sentence.

I realise my education places me at an advantage, how quickly it is that I forget that not everyone can read whilst sitting on the loo, I can skim through a magazine in no time, picking out all the best bits with ease. I occasionally read the words too. Yes I should remember that you may not be as smart as I, and that not only do you have to remember how to tie your shoelaces every morning but that it takes you several minutes beyond that to realise that you are wearing slip-ons.

So please let me clarify my statement, and allow me to re-iterate for those of you who apparently cannot read. The statement I made is thus, clearly and unequivocally, I AM NOT GOING TO WRITE A NOVEL (OR EVEN A NOVELLA).



I’m ashamed to admit that even my own parents (who are teachers for godssake!!) failed to properly read that announcement and continue to encourage me to do something I have stated, repeatedly, that I am not interested in doing. These are the types of parents you see in documentaries on Channel 5, and if I let them have their own way they’d no doubt have me attending some horrid pageant for 30-something sons, reciting my own paltry and pathetic attempts at poetry.

You may now be considering pointing an accusatory finger in my general direction, so I will concede that, maybe, perhaps, I could have emphasised my point a little better but the underlying lesson that I will take from this sorry debacle is that my faith in you (yes YOU) dear reader has been mis-guided. I have been presuming all along that you can read and, alas, it seems you cannot.

It makes me wonder what the hell you’ve been commenting on these past nine years, if you’ve been unable to properly parse and process the eloquently crafted prose laid before you. What kind of imbecile are you?

This entire sorrry episode convinces me that I am correct (I usually am) and so I will be sticking to my aforementioned, and since clarified, announcement which I shall repeat here in one final attempt to get the message across.


After all, if you lot can’t even be bothered to read things on my blog properly, why the hell should I write a bloody book!

Yours condescendingly,


P.S. There are several grammatical and spelling errors throughout this post, but I’m not expecting you heathens to spot them.

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