Nano goss: first planning event


My goodness! We are having our first Sydney nano planning event, and we seem to have been inundated with new faces! SO. MANY. NEW. FACES. They had to add more tables and now we have taken over the booths as well. Apparently last year we had 14 people… we have more like 30 tonight! O.o I’m my little introverted self. I’ve been writing my planning notes for an hour and a half rather than talking lol it’s good though, as I’ve gotten all of my scattered notes written in my new nano notebook. I really should be more social.

Oh, apparently we have exactly 30 people! Elle booked for 15 lmao



As Bon Iver serenades,
The windows of the soul slam shut.
My head sinks into the pillow.

Planning Nano: a dystopian for 2011?


I think i finally have an idea for nano! It’s based out of an observation I had when I went back to Toowoomba & saw how nature bounced back. My brother took me for a drive up through Murphys Creek and told me every family’s story and also a bridge he made after the flash flood. My dad later took me for a tour of our property post-flood and I saw how nature has already reclaimed the land. So I guess I am writing a dystopian this year. Just for me, nothing to do with trends. I love dystopia and have since I was a child. I don’t write for an audience & have no plans to publish. I don’t care if my stories ever see light & would prefer they stayed in the gloam. So, yeay, a dystopian nano for 2011! Now I just need to flesh out my ideas ^_^

Writing Prompt: Light

Elle at my writing group gives us 100 word flashfic prompts. This week’s was light. I wrote others, but here is one. I was playing with dialogue, because it is my most hated part of storytelling. I try to get the cadences sounding realistic, but sometimes they sound contrived.


The light faded from his eyes, his smiled died.

“What do you mean, dead?”

“Dead means dead, man! Look it up in a dictionary!”

His shoulders slumped as he remembered Maxxie’s zest for life.

“But, but, she can’t be! When did this happen?”

“About five years. She died of a heart attack or something”

His brows rose in surprise.

“But I just saw her last week!”

“Blonde, in her fifties?”

“That is her.”

“Couldn’t have been her. I was at her bloody funeral. Maxxie Granger? Do you have the right woman?”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Yes… Yes, I do.”

The Importance of Unwritten Postcards

I love this essay. I love everything about it. I love how it is written. I love what it says. I love the experiences the author went through and how obviously they have created who he is, as a person and as an author. It is a good read if you have the time to sit down and read an essay on social media, travelling, change, isolation and how all of these shape and create ones sense of self.

I am an ink-stained notebook whore

I’ve been reading Chuck Wendig’s blog again, entitled How To Tell If You’re A Writer, and you know what? As well as being a funny fuck with a way with words, he just gets things. Things I never even noticed until I read his posts. I really recommend following Terrible Minds – only, of course, if you do not mind profanity and adult themes (hehe dragon sex) and, well, don’t take yourself too seriously. I don’t take myself seriously at all. And profanity and adult themes? Let’s just say my mumma tells me to mind my language when I talk to her. And yes, she has threatened to wash my mouth out with soap. A lot.

Anyhoo. Basically, Chuck Wendig is a legend.

I realised something. I may not have written much for ten years, but even when I wasn’t pen to paper, I was composing in my head. Sometimes I turned things into poetry, sometimes into art, but others? Well I wrote words upon my mind, dwelled on them, then let them float off into the aether. Words have always been incredibly important to me. I love playing with them. I love savouring them. I love saying them. I love writing them. I love weaving them. I just love words. I collect them too. I am sure some of you have noticed but I collect interesting words and phrases that mean something to me. It may be because of the way they sound (I love onomatopoeia and assonance), it may be word meaning, or it may just be that something about that word resounds in my being. Sometimes they are not actually modern english (“cwellan” is a good example – Old English for “to kill” and where the modern word “quell” originated from). Sometimes they are slang. Sometimes they are antiquated english. Sometimes they are culled from poetry or literature. They seem to worm their way into my writing, into my conversations. I can’t stop them. It is like the words have a life and a mind of their own. A soul. And those words (are they possessed?) sometimes fall upon a page and write themselves. Sometimes they talk to me. Sometimes I talk to them. Sometimes we have conversations (hopefully when no one can hear us). Sometimes everything meshes and I have something I am willing to share. All the other times, I have scratches on pages that I hide in books scattered around my room.

I still don’t call myself a writer. I get flustered when others do. But, I am one who writes. So that is who I am. I am an ink-stained notebook whore. I scribble stories on paper, I scratch them into my skin. I write.

NB: “an ink-stained notebook whore” is in reference to Chuck Wendig’s article, linked above. Also, in my circle? We call it a stationery slut.

Writing Prompt: Modern Fairy Tales (Part II)

The latest Spiders Group prompt from Elle is “modern fairy tales” – once again, of just 100 words. I wrote a modern Little Red Ridding Hood and decided to reinterpret others. I am having fun with the 100 word constraints, as I usually blather on like a fool.


A retelling of Snow White

The music pulsed around me like a living creature, the beat sent loving shockwaves through my body. Bliss. Pure bliss. My body undulated, moving with the crowd flowing around me.

Margaret came back with our drinks. “I picked up some goodies from some guy”, she proffered a green and a red capsule in her wrinkled palm. “I know you like red sweetie, you can have that one”

She smiled sinisterly as we swallowed our fun with a swig of vodka.

The music took me over again, and swallowed by a sea of bodies, I sagged into the arms of a handsome stranger.