Strange verses

When I was a child, I was told that my father wrote poetry. Strange poetry, my mother said, that no one can understand. He’s not very good, she said. It’s all just very strange.

I never really knew my father. I never read his poetry.

Yet here I am, writing strange verses. They aren’t very good, I am sure my mother would say. Because it is all very strange, and no one understands them.

Busy busy, no time to waste!

I have had a number of blog posts almost written this last week. One about the most marvelous wild raspberry jam I made, and one about a this year’s disastrous blackcurrant jelly (it didn’t set, so basically I have lots of sweet blackcurrant sauce). And a couple of cat posts for Katzenworld!

But alas, I have been unable to write properly since I got back from the Netherlands. The reason is no great unknown –  next week is Medieval Week in Visby and I am busy sewing. While navigating a chaotic world of panic and anxiety, as I’m still not really recovered since my last downfall. So basically my days at the moment look something like… this:

Breakfast -> short burst of sewing -> mini panic attack -> short burst of sewing ->anxiety attack -> short burst of sewing -> go outside to pick some berries in attempt at not panicking again -> panic anyway -> collapse, feeling like I just ran a marathon.


Yeeah, it’s not great! But it’ll be alright. I’m so far pleased with how the sewing project is coming along, and I think I’ll manage to finish it before Visby. (It’s that or go nekkid! I can’t fit in my old clothes at the moment. *sadface* )


So now, blogging will have to wait. Or well, I did manage this little update! That’s a success, I believe. Now I need to get back to sewing, wish me luck!

What it looks like

Yesterday I pulled a couple of poems out of my bag, and actually showed them to someone.


She stared at the words on paper, stared and slowly nodded.

“This… sure looks like poetry to me,” she said. ” I mean I don’t know anything about poetry, but this looks like it.”


Hardly high praise, but it’s enough. Considering what pieces I chose a perfectly valid response could have been “This is gibberish” or “What have you been smoking?”, so that it’s even recognizable as poetry is a bit of a victory.

The words fall short, though. To call the pieces ‘poems’ feels entirely inadequate. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that few would understand them either, though a sad fact it is. Regardless of what you think of the result, I need to keep writing.


Words of mine, though not my own. They are important.




Emails for breakfast, lunch, and dinner

Ages and ages ago I posted this little post here, about what I called the ’email technique’.  And here I am again, amazed by how this humble method works in my favour and wanting to share it with the world.

I write stories, I always have. But unfortunately I also suffer from absolutely crippling self doubt and most often the stories are never finished, because before the end I have convinced myself that it is so poorly written, so terrible in every way, that I’d be a fool to continue.

Others I will tell, don’t worry about the quality! Just write, if you love writing then carry on anyway. A first draft is always crappy anyway, that’s why you have the second draft and the third. So don’t worry, just write.

I can tell others but I can’t seem to tell myself. But even so I keep coming back to the computer, writing and writing and writing again. It’s been going on since I learned to write and it will probably go on until I am no more. It would however be fantastic if I actually managed to finish my stories. The dream is of course to be published but for now I’ll settle with that more humble goal – to finish a story.

So, what about the email technique?

In essence it is my way of making myself carry on, and not get caught reading and re-reading what’s already written. Yes eventually I need to edit and rewrite, but not now. Now I just need to carry on, and so this is perfect.

I write to myself. Short passages, sometimes just a sentence or two, and click send. Once it is sent (to myself still) I can leave it at that, move on with what comes next. Yes it is painstakingly slow but… is it? I’ve written far more this way, though each segment sent is tiny the process prompts me to continue, and so I end up with more than I would have if I had set out to write a page or two in one go.

Of course I cut and paste it all into a proper document as well, but not every day and I try not to actually look at it too much, it’s just a precaution to keep the entirety safe.

And with that it’s time I get on with today’s work. There is much to do so I better get on with it. But before I start I will send myself an email. Just a few sentences to keep the ball rolling.

It had never been their intention to see her permanently damaged, the teeth had been an unfortunate accident. Ellie sucked on her own and imagined them missing. The thought made her cringe. Poor girl. 



Beauty, power, grace

“Come,” the old woman said. “I’m going to show you something. Show you someone.”

I was not afraid. Not even when the colours of the world faded and everything seemed to shrink. No, I realized. It wasn’t the world shrinking, it was me. Slowly falling back, collapsing with my back against the wall and my hands still firmly clasped by the old woman.

We were dead.

“Now we can go and see her.”

Her. I never was told her name. The priestess of Death. Priestess? No, when I laid eyes on her I knew she was more than that. She was the Goddess herself. Hair as black as charcoal reached just below her shoulders. Sunkissed skin was soft and healthy. The grace and seduction of a dancer oozed from her every motion. The authority of a Queen shone from her eyes. Clad in gold and clad in blue, the most royal of colours.

She was beautiful. Painfully beautiful. 

Our spirits like forgettable mice scuttled around the corners of the building. Not to be noticed, not to be seen, just to witness. It was a dangerous game, getting this close. But I was not afraid, only fascinated by the beauty, power, and grace which was hers.