Free write: 1

I can’t sleep. The cursor winks at me from blank white as I try to write it out but fail. No matter what I do I can’t bring life to this page. The white hurts. It tastes like the sun, sharp and kind of acidic, like my mouth when nausea hits. Maybe changing the colour will help? 

Beige doesn’t seem to be doing much better. Characters are there, behind the page, suffocating. They’re trying to claw their way to the surface. They can’t. I can’t let them. I won’t let them? They wouldn’t like it on that page anyway.
It’s hard to step out of mediocrity when you don’t believe you deserve it. Months an idea can stir, wanting release, craving it, but those months will be lost in mediocrity. It won’t be any good. You’re no good. You won’t do it justice. You can never do it justice. It’s good in your head, but no one outside will ever want it. No one outside will ever want you. 
The beige smells like great-grandma Halina’s flat. It doesn’t help at all. Maybe this yellowed parchment texture will help? It seems organic enough. Sometimes paper helps. A notebook, perhaps? The soothing scratches of pencil on paper. The pencil moves itself. Maybe I did the wrong degree, my pencil asks me as it forms a face, tired by years of expectations never met. But you don’t deserve to meet those expectations, do you? As much as much as you want to go above and beyond you hold your own ankles while everyone else works for their success.
Mediocrity becomes you, my dear. It looks lovely on your tired face, illuminated by the clinical glare of a sleepless night. All of the sleepless nights. You could go on, do something productive. Instead the glare makes you a phantom, a floating head in the lonely dark. Are you really crying if no one can hear it?
Nobody wants to hear about how you can’t deal with wanting to succeed. It’s conceited. You either do, or don’t. You’re cocky for leaving things till the last minute, expecting to do well. But you don’t. You want something to hate yourself for. You see that mediocrity, that failure, within your reach and you want it for yourself. You allow yourself that brief happiness when, somehow, it goes well but you question why. Did you really deserve it for that half-assed piece of work? It’s useless, awful. No one would really ever want to read any more. Ever. It’s cheap, uses too much of everything everyone’s ever heard of. It tastes of salt. 
I stare at the page. Glance at the time. Less than twenty-four hours till submission. I supose it’s time to churn something out. Find something else to hate myself for. So I finally write.


On Blogging…

Social media really has never been a strength of mine. I create the accounts, keep them up for a while, then magically forget about their existence for a gosh-darn lifetime before remembering them again. Whether it be a blog, a Twitter, or a Facebook page, they’re all bound with the same fate.

This realisation (or, more accurately, admittance) has made me think that maybe, just maybe, I should improve my social media presence. So, from here on out I will aim to post more regularly, if only one of these little scribbles to update what’s been going on. I feel like, in this day and age, it’s probably the best way to connect with a majority of people.

I hope to see you readerlings more often!!


Otherwise known as National Novel Writing Month, but I think the shortened version sounds adorable when said out loud, so that’s how I’m titling this post.

For anyone who doesn’t know, NaNoWriMo is an annual creative writing project which can be found at, where creative writers from around the world go to write a novel in the month of November.

The given aim for the end of the month is to have a 50,000 word novel written… That’s about 1667 words per day. And this year I have decided to participate.

It’ll be a huge challenge for me, as I have never written any story above 3000 words, but I shall try my hardest to finish this thing and to get my butt out of this terrible procrastinating habit I’ve been nourishing for the past few years.

So! Wish me luck with this! I will probably be writing updates on here from time to time.

The Problem with Word Limits (plus a consideration of a future piece)

For one of my final pieces during my first year of uni,¬†we were given a very brief… well, brief for a story. It was so brief a brief that we were literally asked to “write an original piece of prose” and given a 2500 word limit. Now, it’s not that I had a problem with the lack of specific instruction on the piece as it allowed for all of us to write about exactly what we wanted, but after speaking with many of my peers I realised that the word count was what held a lot of people back.

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