Tag Archives: Creative writing

The Power of Subjective Feedback

I had no idea until you showed me,

thinking I was only poppies and a pond like glass,

that I had such brilliant character within me.

Stepping aside, you spoke frankly and without fear

or judgment, giving me only your subjective perspective.

Now, I am more

than flowers,


and stone.

I am Mammoth,



Jimi Hendrix




Filed under Poetry, Uncategorized

Disturbed lover

Sometimes my relationship with writing disturbs me. It drags my mind into such focused attention that the rest of me gets lost.  If I sit this morning to write a couple of sentences, for example, will I remember to change out of my wet dog-walking grubs, have a much-needed bath and wash my sleep-ironed hair?  Will I notice my lunchless tummy grumbling at 2 pm, or my feet turning blue with cold from lack of movement at 4:00?  In spite of myself I go ahead, start the first two sentences, and before I know it, another tome has risen on the blank sheet like a rock tor on the moors – Alone in the silence. 

But not alone. 

Always – the lark, whose thumb-sized body disappears in the heights of sky,  whose voice fills acres of wind, surrounds me.  Always – the mesmerizing drone of winged heather and gorse pollen-gatherers; Always – the clop or thunder of hooves chasing trail; or the soft sound of muzzels nudging and munching the nourishing vegetation on the next rise, assure me that I am not alone. Amongst my moor-misted companions, I forget tedious responsibilities until the chill damp sends me home to a hot bath and a cold sink full of yet-to-be-washed dishes.

The writer in me struggles with this daily conundrum: Which life is real – the sink that calls my name more than three times a day demanding attention?  Or the screen and keyboard that replaced the broken pen and beckon, promising thoughts that drift from golden gorse to purple mounds and summer dew on silver webs?

Libby snores in answer behind me, her golden sides rising and falling with contented dog-walked sleep, bringing me back to the moment. My two intended sentences are complete and grown into several, and I realise with a satisfaction like a heroine-lover’s relief, that I’ve had my injection of words… yet, I want more.


Filed under Non-Fiction, Uncategorized


Choosing a title for my blog was like naming my child. Having some familiarity with her development inside my body, I thought it would be easy to name her. It was, at first.

Thinking she was a boy, my husband and I quickly settled on a boy’s name that rolled off the tongue, had no negative connotations for either of us, contained an attractive nickname possibility, and the initials promised an auspicious future, according to my numerology friend. When our ‘son’ was born, however, he turned out to be a girl, so another name had to be sought. A new list formed and grew; names were researched, discussed, considered and tossed. Finally, agreement was reached and our last creative act in the forming of our daughter’s fate (if you believe in such things being attached to names) was complete. The name felt right, as if she had always existed, and after the first few hours of knowing her, neither of us could imagine life without her and her name in it. It seemed as if she had always been there between us, waiting for us to make her happen.

This morning when I got over the initial stage fright of joining a public forum for my first blog, I faced once again, the same feelings about naming my child. The thoughts I write have been formed inside me; words made of bone, flesh, muscle and nerve. While I want to release them and give them an opportunity to express creatively that which they need to say in order to live, I’m also aware of my desire that they be accepted, respected and perhaps even loved by those who look upon them.

I see other bloggers with the eyes of a new parent who suddenly understands how other parents feel, and how precious their child is. Like taking my infant to pre-school and watching other parents’ worried faces as they drop off their toddlers. I catch their eyes and smile, hoping their child won’t eat mine, but become her first playschool friend. I let go of her hand, feel her excitement as she runs towards the playground, and the pen in my pocket – the one that I used to hold and control – breaks under the pressure of my worrying thumb. I finger the pieces unconscious of the freed ink spreading into cloth, while my daughter, freed into the world of her cohorts, runs to explore, challenge and enjoy.

As I labour these thoughts, nurturing the words, encouraging their growth, I reach the point where it’s time to let them go.  I release them in the hope that they will be accepted, respected and perhaps even, loved, by some. This broken pen writer has just given birth.

Photo courtesy of James Bruce, Timberscombe, Somerset, UK


Filed under Non-Fiction, Uncategorized