Confessions from a charlatan…

I think the edict goes something like ‘I write therefore I am’.

So, if that is our ‘code’, our universally given and accepted ‘credo’ as writers and tellers of tall tales, then ladies and gentlemen, against that measure, I am a fraud.

It has been weeks, far too many weeks since I last typed one word after another.

Confession is good for the soul, and as such I must also add that I haven’t read anything in such a long time either.

I have no technicality to wriggle on.

I haven’t been knee-deep in editing, or indeed any other associated creative musings.

I have been, and I remain, absent from that wonderful dream sea in which I so often bathed…

It’s not that I’m stuck in self destructive cycle, more a peculiar rut of self-denial.


I have no idea.

Other than teaching the world to sing, I’d like to see my scribbles read and hopefully enjoyed. 

I know, understand, and accept that the road to such a goal is long, steep, covered in potholes, and that it has a troll with a penchant for bludgeoning travellers under each and every bridge.

Yet, it is a journey that up until now I have voluntarily and joyfully taken.

I have…

But now I feel empty, almost as if I am laying cold and naked on the floor, a husk of what once was so driven and focused – so singular of purpose…

So, if psychobabble colonic irrigation can wash that image out of your mind, can something similar work for me?

Is this just a glorified self-indulgent manifestation of ‘imposter syndrome’?

Or, have I indeed travelled my journey, finished my quest, taken this as far as I can?

Do I now say those immortal words ‘so long and thanks for the fish’?

It’s been a wild crazy ride; maybe indeed we are at journeys end…

Empty Nest

And just like that it’s all over.

The months of emotional investment just come to an end, the last correction is completed, and you stare blankly at the flashing cursor…

What now?

Book four is now complete, and until you eventually sell book one in the series, it will sit forever queued behind its earlier siblings.

And that family of 450,000 impassioned words are very frustrated!

Triumphs tears and disasters fill those accumulated phrases, words so thoughtfully chosen, individually picked, and carefully placed just where they need to be…

A tall tale complete, but alas not.

No story is ever happy until it has been read, until it has thrilled the reader, dared you to turn the next page, to not turn the next page…

Amy has travelled so far, and yet at the same time she hasn’t moved an inch.

Adventures have been had in Khartoum, in the high mountains of the Khyber Pass.  Electrical storms have been flown through, time folded, love found, and love tragically lost…

All though, to no avail, because no one knows.

Her tales are well kept secrets.

But they shouldn’t be.

They need to be told.

And I do her a continual disservice with each rejection letter.

She deserves so much better.

Maybe tomorrow, maybe…