amwriting

Bump in the Night (Part One)

Deepest apologies for the hiatus, but I come bearing gifts.“Bump in the Night” is a short horror story I was playing around with during my holiday. Enjoy the first part below. The sinister conclusion will be posted on a special Halloween update.

For best effect: read after dark, just before bed.

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Sarah opened her eyes. Her bedroom was dark. The only source of illumination was the white hue of her phone. Sarah reached blindly, knocking it off her bedside table to the floor. Now the room was pitch black.

She decided it wasn’t worth the effort of leaning out of bed. Text, email, whatever; it could wait until morning. Sarah only hoped she hadn’t damaged the screen. She closed her eyes and found the way back to her slumber.

Sarah’s eyes opened once again. The room was unchanged, it was impossible to know if she had drifted off for just a moment or a for an hour. Why had she woke again?
Downstairs, Sarah heard a bang.

She lay still in her bed, her breathing becoming a little less easy. She was groggy. Had there really been a bang? Even if there had been, it easily could have come from outside—a cat messing around in the garden or something.

There was another bang, and now Sarah was sure it originated from downstairs. Her heart thumped hard and a million thoughts swarmed around her brain.
It was probably too dramatic a move to call the police. She had only moved into the house a few days ago. Surely old houses were meant to have bangs and bumps in the night; it was more likely the noises were being caused by the boiler rather than some sort of intruder. Still…

She would call her Dad. He was a tall man, sturdy like an oak even in his aging years. If he thought it sounded serious he would bring her brother, perhaps. Hopefully, it would turn out to be nothing and they could all have a good laugh at her expense.

She reached for her bedside table but found nothing. A vague, tired memory of her dropping the phone hung somewhere in her mind. Shit.

She leaned up slowly in her bed, willing her eyes to adjust to the dark. Her bedroom door contained glass panels. An unusual decor choice leftover from the previous owner, but it meant she could see the landing and the top half of the stairs. There was nothing. Everything was still. Everything was quiet. As far as she could tell at least.

In her upright position, she reached over the side of the bed and patted the floor, keeping one eye on the stairs, just to be sure. Her hand found nothing.

She stole a quick glance at the floor. Yesterday’s clothes she had strewn about before bed, but no phone that she could see.

The stairs were still empty. She tossed the clothes across the room, expecting her phone to have somehow wormed its way under the mess. But there was still nothing.
Her phone was gone.

‘It can’t be.’ she whispered, double and then triple checking the floor around her bed. She strained her memory, yes, she remembered knocking it to the floor, remembered the hard noise it made as screen struck floor.

She abandoned her careful guard of the stairs and tore her bed apart. The sheets, pillows, the duvet. Each was checked and then discarded in the mad search, her panic rising. There was no question, the phone was gone.

Sarah jumped at the sound of another bump, this time louder than ever.

She slid as silently as she could from the bed, tiptoeing across her bedroom. The cold of the night assaulted her body, covering her in goosebumps. She picked through the mess she had made of her room until she found what she was looking for: her dressing gown. She threw it on and tied it tight.

That was one vulnerability sorted. Now Sarah scanned her bedroom in a vain search for a weapon. All she had was her drinking glass. If there was an attacker downstairs she would probably do more damage to herself with such a tool, but she took it nevertheless.

She tried to open the bedroom door as quietly as she could, but a damning creek from an ill-fitted door rang out for anyone to hear.

Sarah froze. She waited and listened but there was no further development downstairs.

She crept forward onto the landing, and, holding her breath, peered down the stairs.

Everything was still. Everything looked normal. Sarah’s hand holding the glass shook.

Step by step she made her way down the stairs. More and more of her new house came into view. The hallway looked undisturbed, the front door was closed, there was no hint of a light. All good signs.

Sarah walked backwards going further into the hall while still keeping her eye on the front room and the adjoining kitchen to the right. Carefully, she made her way a set of tools she had used the day before. A hammer lay on top. She replaced her drinking glass. The weight of the tool filled her with fresh courage. To her left was a doorway which led to the front door, a quick peek revealed this room to be empty. The front door was locked.

Sarah inched forward back into the hallway. From this angle, she had a clear view of the front room. She raised the hammer high and willed herself forward and into the kitchen.

Not daring to breathe, she sprung into the room, looking all around.
There was nothing there.

The backdoor was also still locked. After a cursory search of the few remaining rooms, finally, she started to relax. She checked the whole house a second time, this time turning on lights as she went until finally she collapsed exhausted on her sofa.

With her house now illuminated she was finally starting to relax. Her fingers crept into the sides of the sofa cushion. The search of her house hadn’t turned up her phone, but Sarah was glad of that—she would have felt pretty silly calling her Dad over nothing. She must have imagined dropping it in the night, she’d searched every inch of her bedroom with no luck. The only conclusion was that she’d misplaced it somewhere else. Wherever it had ended up, Sarah decided it could wait until morning.

***

Outside in the dark something stood perfectly still. The thing breathed in and out with a low rasp. The bright light from the house only helped shroud to make the thing less visible in the shadows of Sarah’s garden. Eventually, the house returned to darkness, and the girl made her way back upstairs to bed.

In its one hand, the thing clutched at a mobile phone with a deep crack down the glass screen. In its other hand, it clutched at something else.

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#2: The Ladder to Inferna

‘Tales From Inferna’ is an ongoing web serial. Part writing exercise, part homage to the pulp-fiction genre. Click here if you’re interested in learning more about the scope and goals of the project. Below you’ll find Issue #2, but be sure to start at the beginning with Issue #1 

ladder

Yura couldn’t climb the ladder any further.

‘Guys,’ he croaked, his arms shaking.

His companions pace quickened.

‘Guys!’ Yura repeated, louder this time.

‘Quiet!’ said the man furthest ahead, climbing ever faster.

They were leaving him. Leaving him to die. He could feel the miles of nothingness below, prickling his back, willing him to fall. He glanced downwards, wondering if he might have enough strength to climb back down. But that path was madness.

‘Mikki, please! I need help!’

The man furthest ahead continued to climb, but there was another behind him who paused.

‘We can’t help you, Yura,’ said Mikki.

‘I can’t climb anymore, Mikki,’ begged Yura. ‘Please don’t leave me behind. You’ve got to–’

‘Shut up!’ shouted the man farthest ahead. He was now out of sight, hidden by the darkness of the tunnel.

‘What our charming leader means is, any energy spent talking is energy not spent climbing. So unless you want to decorate the floor a nice shade of Yura, I suggest you get moving.’ With that, Mikki started climbing again.

Yura found himself all alone.

When Yura was young, he and his friends would play in the tunnels pretending to be hunters. Sometimes they would dare each other to climb the ladder. Yura was the only one who ever made it to the top. Back then the top of the ladder hadn’t been very far; a padlock and a metal grill stopped anyone who shouldn’t be there from climbing too high. To a gang of children though, it was as if Yura had touched Inferna itself.

But this was no longer pretend.

‘Yura!’ came a voice from above. ‘We’ve found the last hatch,’ said the voice again. It came from the leader of the expedition, Koko. ‘Get your arse up here now.’

Yura began to climb, each movement a trial. His body protested in agony, any moment now it would fail and he would plummet to his death.

As his grasp started to waver, two pairs of hands seized him and hoisted him upwards through a narrow opening.

He collapsed. He heard his pulse thumping in his ears, and faintly, the sound of a hatch being closed.

They were so close.

He wished his old friends could see him now: Yura the hunter. It still hadn’t sunk in. He was going to have the adventures they had all imagined, live the life they had dreamed of once upon a time.

‘You still with us, kid?’

Yura opened his eye to see Mikki and Koko standing over him. In the dark, with their identical suits and masks, it was impossible to tell them apart.

‘I’m ok,’ said Yura smiling, holding up a thumbs-up. ‘I am ok.’

Koko shook his head. ‘This isn’t playtime. We’re here to do a serious job.

Yura saw Mikki roll his eyes. ‘I know the circumstances aren’t ideal, but it’s the kids first day. Let him have a little fun.’

‘We’ve got hundreds of miles to walk,’ Koko started. ‘Rough sleeping. Nothing but disgusting liquid nutrients to keep us going. All to find a needle in a haystack. Not my idea of fun.’

‘Come on,’ said Yura, smiling. ‘Any day walking on the surface has got to be better than a day down below.’

Koko was silent, for a moment. It was only now Yura realised how thick the mood had been.

‘Let’s not forget why we’ve been sent up here. Amorak is dead. A man I once considered a very good friend. For some reason it just had to be me they sent to find his remains.’ said Koko. ‘So no, to answer your stupid question. The days up here are not “better”. I, for one, want to get this done and go home. Shape up and take this seriously, or maybe you’ll die up here too.’

All day Yura had worn an excited smirk, only now did he realise how it had been grating on Koko’s patience. The verbal walloping caused his face to yo-yo from a deep shade of red to a sickly pale white.

Koko stormed ahead to the next room, muttering.  

‘He’s moodier than usual today,’ said Mikki, offering a hand to help Yura up.

‘I didn’t mean to upset him.’

‘You haven’t done anything. You’re excited to see the surface, no shame in it. The dead bloke we’re looking for, Amorak, is a sore subject with Koko.’

‘Why?’ asked Yura.

‘It’s a whole thing, let’s just leave it at that. Come on, before he explodes again.’

The followed Koko into the next room. One much larger than the tight tunnels and shafts the three had been navigating for most of the day. At the far end of the room, Yura eyed a giant metal door and did his best not to smile.

Koko was kneeling on the floor, spreading open a map. He patted the edges down as they bounced free and let out a frustrated sigh.

‘This is us,’ Koko said, pointing to a section of the map. ‘We’ll hang about here for a bit. It’ll get cooler when the sun starts to set, meaning the suits don’t have to work quite so hard—meaning we’ll save some fuel.’

‘Are you writing this down?’ said Mikki.

‘I… I didn’t bring a pen.’ said Yura.

‘He’s joking.’ muttered Koko stone-faced. ‘He does that.’

‘Oh crack a smile you moody old git,’ said Mikki.

Koko ignored him. His finger slid across the map, resting on a series of crudely drawn houses. He then traced it back an inch and tapped the spot. ‘This is as far as I’m hoping Amorak got. If he made it any further I doubt we’ll ever find him.’

‘We’ll find him,’ said Yura. ‘His family is counting on us.’

Koko and Mikki exchanged a look.

‘What’s that?’ asked Koko.

‘His family? We’re bringing the body back for them surely?’

‘Oh Yura,’ said Mikki chuckling. ‘You sweet innocent babe.’

Yura frowned, confused.

‘We’ve been sent to get his suit. Not the body.’ said Koko. ‘One of these suits are worth a hundred of me or you. The ugly truth of it is…by this point, with nothing powering the suit…there’s not going to be much left of him. You’ll need to prepare yourself.’

Yura didn’t understand. He’d seen a dead body before. Life below in the Empyrean was cramped and people died all the time. How fragile did Koko think he was?

‘I can cope with a stiff.’

Mikki and Koko exchanged a look which filled Yura with unease.

‘He won’t be stiff.’ said Mikki quietly,

‘Huh?’

Look,’ started Mikki uncomfortably. ‘Sitting out there in that ungodly heat. By now there’s a good chance he would have…liquefied.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah,’ nodded Mikki. ‘What’s more, if we find him we’re going to have to open his suit and, err, tip out what’s left of him…’

‘It won’t look pretty,’ Koko continued, ‘it’ll smell something fierce as well, that filter in your mask isn’t going to do a thing about the stench. I tell you this because if upon seeing the remains you throw up inside your own mask—you will not get an opportunity to take off that mask until we return. That is going to be one shitty walk home for you, lad.’

Yura’s stomach churned. He felt like he was going to throw up right now. Was he even allowed to take his mask off now? He’d been told to put it on before they’d started climbing. Yura swallowed hard and tasted bile slide back down his throat.

‘Paints a picture, doesn’t he?” smiled Mikki.

Koko carried on, explaining the finer details of the journey they were about to embark on, but Yura’s attention was gone. He could hear the surface calling him.

He’d waited so long to see what was left of the earth.

‘Turn your suit on.’ said Koko finally. He approached a control panel on the wall, and the hum of a huge motor roared into action. ‘It’s time.’

Yura’s heart thumped hard. He did his best to feign a grim look of determination.

The doors opened, slowly at first, then suddenly all at once. The dark, grimy room became illuminated.

There was a terrible light, and Yura found himself blind.

Issue #3 due out in October

Finding a Place to Write

A year and a bit ago I and my fiance moved into our first home. It took a while to get settled, but we’re finally happy with the place.

OK, I’m happy. The other half is still moving things around. I don’t really like change, it’s a whole thing. I’m getting off point.

The biggest challenges I faced include replacing a built-in-fridge, getting a second-hand futon (fully-assembled!) up a very narrow set of stairs, and of course, finding the perfect spot for me to sit down and write.

Your writing space can mean the difference between sweet success and that other, dark, harrowing thing.

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Failure, that’s the word

Traditional writing advice suggests your work area should be free of distractions, but not barren enough to stifle your creativity. You should be comfortable, but your space also needs to be practical.

My own search hits a few different rooms, which I’m now going to take you on a journey through, but where I finally end up might just surprise you.

The Study

The new house came with a study? Problem solved, right?

Not quite.

“Study” is actually a pretty generous euphemism we use to avoid telling people, this is where we keep all the video games and the second Playstation. Study just sound more…adult.

The best part is the previous owner had this cool multi-coloured mood lighting installed which helps set the tone for whatever I’m working on.

It does have a desk, but it’s littered with all sorts of gadgets and games, all fun, but not exactly conducive for productivity.

I used this room for a bit, but the numerous distractions and the lack of desk space was killer in the end.

Final Score: 5/10

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I was going to provide actual pictures of these rooms, but that would require cleaning

The Conservatory

The conservatory makes for a beautiful writing space. It’s where I envisioned myself getting to work when we were buying the house. Whether looking at the nice view of the garden or having the blinds drawn to create a cosy atmosphere, the room is just brilliant to write it.

But damn it, it’s just not meant to be.

The room has some hella-comfy chairs, but no desk. That means any writing means having a laptop on my lap—and that means less time writing and more time spent worrying about the damage I might be doing to my fertility.

Final Score: 0/10

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Not worth it

The Dining Room

The dining room is…serviceable. It has chairs, a table, no immediate threats to my swimmers. Nirvana right?

It’s practical. But so is an ironing board, and neither set’s my world on fire.

Final Score: 6/10

The Kitchen

Yes, this is where I ended up. Hang on, hear me out – it’s cooler than it sounds.

There’s a corner of our kitchen with a breakfast bar we seldom used. I was walking past one day…and inspiration hit.

Think about it. It’s close as you can be to all the local amenities. Snacks and drinks on demand. Plenty of desk space. There’s even a shelf overlooking the garden I’ve decorated with some notebooks and ornaments.

I’ve got a miniature zen sand garden I can rake when I’m stuck on a paragraph. A little quill and ink pot (stylish but not for actual use, I’m a lefty). A raven figurine I think I got from a Game of Thrones Monopoly set. The whole thing is pretty chill.

If you haven’t got your own writing space, take a look at your house with a fresh pair of eyes. The kitchen was the last place I expected to end up, but now I couldn’t be happier with my little corner of the world.

OK, the stools could be comfier, but hey, they keep me humble.

Final Score: 9/10

What does your writing space look like? What have you decorated it with? Do you put more stock in comfort or practicality? Let me know in the comments.

– H. L

How it Feels to Finally Finish Something

Last night I finally finished the final draft of my entry for the writing contest I mentioned a few weeks ago. A short story a little less than 2000 words might not sound like much, but it’s the first creative project I’ve completed in five years and I could not be more chuffed.

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My mind right now

I won’t hear any more about the contest until October, but rest assured I don’t intend to take it easy until then.

I’m writing my first novel! The project is still in its infancy so I’ve not got any specific details to share at this point, apart from the fact that I am very excited.

I finished the first chapter over half a year ago, and I found myself baffled by how easy it was to write, and how pleased I was with my own writing, two things I don’t get to experience often.

Despite this, I didn’t pick the project back up after that first chapter. But, now that I’m making more of an effort to make time for my writing, it’s full steam ahead. As I said, still very early days—but at least the train has left the station.

When it’s finished I intend to shop it around, and then possibly go down the self-publishing route if I get no takers.

My long-term goal is now getting this book to completion, but I have lots of other things I am working on in the meantime, all of which revolve around this blog.

Tales from Inferna is an ongoing web serial; part writing exercise, part homage to the pulp fiction genre. You can read more about the project at the link.

Formally launched this month, Issue #1 is available to read now, with Issue #2 on its way at some point in September. A must read for any science fiction, horror or dystopia fans.

inferna

How did the world end up like this? How did we survive? Most importantly, what’s hiding in the sands?

I am also putting the finishing touches on a flash fiction which I’m keen on hosting on a different writing blog for some cross promotion. I’ve got my eye on a place, but if you’re reading this interested and you have your own blog feel free to contact me and maybe we can get something set up. The easiest way to reach me is on my Twitter @Handsomelies

I need to give a warm thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read and get involved with the blog this past month—the likes, comments, and new followers have all been incredibly encouraging, and have kept me going whereas other times I’ve quit.

Let me know the content you’re enjoying, the stuff you don’t, and anything new you’d like to see. I am determined to make something of this place and this is the time to help shape its future. Do you want articles like this writing tutorial or more feature pieces such as when I blogged about my notebook addiction? Maybe you like the mix.

This month is the most I’ve written in years, touch wood, I’d like to say I’ve finally got my groove back.

How has your month been? Let’s celebrate some successes and bury some failures. Hit me up in the comments below.

– H. L

 

Author Stats of an Amateur Writer

#Authorstats is a wonderful hashtag I discovered the other day – published writers are sharing the statistics of just how many years it took them to succeed. All of the garbage books they had to write, all of the rejections they conquered, every step of the arduous journey which kills off so many in the first couple of steps.

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This graph represents the number of stock photos I look at over time

When you start writing it’s not finding the time to sit down and get words on paper, it’s not learning some of the finer details of grammar, and it certainly isn’t thinking of ideas. The single hardest thing an amateur writer has to contend with is the malicious voice that lives within all of us:

You don’t know how to write. Delete the whole thing and start over. In fact, don’t bother. Your writing has no message. Your characters are pale imitations. Your dialogue doesn’t sound authentic. Have you even formatted it properly? Is any of it even formatted properly? Learn how to do that, and all the other stuff you’re not sure of. Learn all of it perfectly before you write another word. You’re going to embarrass yourself otherwise.

For me, that voice froze me solid for almost five years. I hear it every day when I’m at work in my office. It’s often the first thing I hear when I wake up, and after a bad day, it’s the last thing I hear before I sleep.

Today, I’m going to give you my author stats. Unlike the great inspirations, my story doesn’t come with a happy ending, because spoilers, I’m not a published writer. It’s not wasted time though, the last eighteen years have helped me find my formula, not for success, but for perseverance.

If you make it to the end, I’ll even share it with you.

2000 – I’m eight years old, and I’m in English class. The teacher got us to write a story. The first constructive feedback about my writing I remember: Have you ever thought about writing a story without guns or knives? I was also chastised for drawing periods much, much larger than they needed to be. Intellectual snobs.

2001 – I write a rap, not featuring any guns or knives. The teacher loves it, so much, in fact, they tell me they’re going to put it on the school website. I don’t have the internet, but I’m given a printed copy, and to my horror, I see some the words have been changed to help the piece flow better. I asked them to change it back, but I lose my first editing argument.

2003 – My sister gets a computer for Christmas. It very expensive, and she’s not really sure how to set it up or what to do with it, and bless them, neither are my parents. Eventually, I find some sort of word processor on the thing and I’d use it to write. One day my dad discovers a poem I’d written about marching soldiers. He tells me it’s bloody good, and him saying that sure made me feel bloody good.

2004 – One of my friends gives me a floppy disc with a story he’d written. I find this act of transfer amazing, and I’m quick to reciprocate, for a brief time we start swapping stories.

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We were just like cowboys around a campfire, only with floppy disks and without the constant fear of dysentery

2005 – My parents enter the 21st century and finally get the internet. Like any teenage boy with his first access to the web, you’ve guessed it, I engross myself in reading and writing Harry Potter fanfiction.

2007 – I move on from fan fiction and, amazingly, begin an even more embarrassing hobby, the world of fantasy wrestling leagues, or e-feds, as they were known. For those (everyone) not aware, an e-fed was a roleplaying website where you would create a wrestling character, be booked in matches against other people, and for some the reason the winner would be determined with a writing contest, of all things. Think Dungeons and Dragons, but for wrestling nerds.

2009 – I enter a local writing competition, you can read more about this one here.

2011 – I’m a year into studying a Business degree at University, I’ve not written anything for a long time. The malicious voice has seemingly won. I don’t know it yet, but a lack of a creative outlet is making me pretty miserable. I go into my second year determined to join a society, and I find a small improvisation drama society. The voice is hating this, it’s determined to convince me I’m an imposter in a sea of creative types. It urges me to quit before they find me out as the fraud I am.

But I don’t quit. I don’t quit because for the first time in my life I am surrounded by people who are nurturing and encouraging my spark. Instead of expelling me, they welcome me with open arms. I start performing comedy, I start acting, I start writing again. The voice isn’t quieter at this point, it’s gone.

2013 – I have the winning pitch, and so I’m selected to write and direct the societies of end-of-year production. It’s a tremendous amount of responsibility. It’s the biggest show they put on all year; the whole thing is a whirlwind which definitely deserves a blog post of its own in the future. The show ends up being, in my opinion, a modest success.

2014 – University is over. I move back home, away from my friends, away from their encouragement. I job search, I start work, I stress. I gain weight.

2015 – The voice is back. Thinking about joining a local drama group? They’re filled with an older crowd, you wouldn’t fit in. You were never any good at acting anyway, everyone was just too nice to tell you otherwise. Even if you could act, you’d need to lose weight before you got back on stage. The show you produced and directed wasn’t even good. You were an imposter. Quit these dreams and live in the real world already. Quit. Quit. Quit.

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Quit

2016 – I quit.

2017 – I create this website. I write the first post, ‘A Moment in Inferna.’ I think it’s OK. But try as I might, I can’t seem to write anything else I consider better than awful. I start looking at it again, and I wonder if my first post was OK at all. Actually, I start to think it’s quite bad.

2018 – Well hey, you made it. My sad, sole post was the only thing posted on this blog until three weeks ago.

The voice is still there. I didn’t fix it, because I don’t think it’s something that can be fixed. You have to accept and ignore it and move forward.

It’s nagging me even I as write this sentence, to delete this whole post and start again, or even better to quit the whole damn thing. 

I’m not going to though, not this time.

I’m energised. I have big plans for my writing and for this blog, and for the first time in a while, I’m getting stuff done.

It’s time for that formula I promised. Not for success remember, but for perseverance:

Fear of Unfulfilled Passion > Fear of the Malicious Voice

Something for you to think about until next Friday. Now, how about you give me something to think about, or even better something to blog about, in the comments below.

– H. L

My Struggle with Notebook Addiction

No, not the film.

I’m addicted to notebooks.

Family holidays when I was younger inevitably led to the souvenir shop. It’s a place you’re probably familiar with; it’s filled with mugs, coasters, key chains with your name on them, a general assortment of fine crap. My personal favourite, to the ever disappointment of my dad’s wallet, was notebooks.

An empty word document on a glowing computer screen can be intimidating. We’ve all thought the flashing cursor was mocking us at some point. It breeds doubt, insecurity, and fear; at times it can be a petty, evil little thing. I hear the guy who invented it actually end up being arrested for elder abuse.  

old man

Charles Kiesling invented the blinking cursor and he was actually a wonderful family man, this is also not a picture of him, it’s a stock photo that’s free for me to use without any legal repercussions

I find a notebook to be different. It’s a blank canvas, an invitation to create, the promise of endless possibility and freedom.

You know, on paper.

I have a lot of notebooks, and I’m ashamed to say there’s little to nothing in all of them. It sounds very vogue, but I think I’m more in love with the idea of a notebook, rather than the notebook itself.

Truth be told, there is (as often is the case) a dark side to my addiction. If only abandonment was the worst of my sins when it comes to my innocent paper-filled friends.

I actually treat them quite cruelly. The sad same story happens again and again and it’s only now, writing this blog, that I can see the error in my ways.

I complete the first page with meticulous care and a steady hand, like you do with the first page of a workbook in school. Inevitably though, I’ll make a mistake; a smudge, a misspelling, some abandoned idea. This is where the crazy starts. I think to myself; crossing out is messy. I’ll just rip that page out. I’ll be careful, maybe it’ll give the book something of a shabby chic look.

It doesn’t. It always, always, always, looks like crap. Often it’s a fatal decision that just destroys the entire book. To avoid crossing out a simple mistake because I think it’s messy, we now have other pages falling out, jagged protruding staples, and the book spine equivalent of sciatica.

notebook

No, I clearly don’t buy the books designed to have pages ripped out. They don’t look as good. Shut up.

Cards on the table: I’ve very recently bought another notebook. I was shopping with my friends, and one caught my eye. We all bought one, we made a pact to fill them in a year, or suffer each others judgment and scorn. But how exactly am I, the Patrick Bateman of notebook writers, meant to accomplish this? My notebooks have a worse life expectancy than a mayfly.

The answer, I’m actually pretty proud of: I intentionally trashed the first page.

Well…I say trashed, the first page is an agenda of what I want to do in the next year with my writing and with this blog, and number two on that agenda is:

2.) Not destroy this book because of one mastake

That is a bonafide spelling mistake. It happened, I didn’t tear the page out, I didn’t destroy the book, and the world didn’t end.

That’s the self-sabotaging out of the way, now I’ve got a year to fill this bad boy up, and I sure could use your help. I’ve had a google and I’ve entered into a world with terms like morning pages and dream journals, but I know I’ve only scratched the surface.

Do you own your own journal? Do you have any ideas what else I can do with this sexy thing? Please shoot me a comment below.

– H. L