Dark matter

What does this writer do when she’s not writing on this blog?

OK, I’ll start again, because writing about myself in the third person feels decidedly icky!

If I’ve reinvigorated this blog, why aren’t I writing on here very often? You might well ask. I’m not resting on my laurels, far from it! Here’s what I’ve been up to (aside from my day job, because bills still need to be paid).

Back in 2014, I started writing a dystopian novel. I had a germ of an idea and then it became a project I wanted to take in a specific direction in honour of my late father who had died the year before. I made it too big, too important and in the end, I had to put the work to one side – I was in danger of writing myself into a breakdown.

A few more ‘life’ events happened – these things tend to hunt in packs, like rabid dogs or zombies, don’t they?

Here we are in 2020. I’ve dabbled on here a bit, but something made me pick up my abandoned half-formed thing and inspect it. Bit by bit, I started to see my way towards a finished project, and bit by bit, I finished the first draft – at 6.37am on 28th December 2019 to be precise. I gave myself a bit of a break and have now started my first edit. I’m excited to be at this point so unexpectedly quickly. All being well, I want to have edited and polished my novel sufficiently well to pass to beta readers by the end of this year.

Mixed in with that, a random idea has also borne fruit – it basically started with a question – I wonder if Instagram has a writing community? I posted a first image on 18th November – my feet photo that you see on this blog – and it’s snowballed pretty quickly. I’m somewhat stunned to have around 900 followers already! If you aren’t on Instagram I strongly encourage you to try it out – the community there is lovely. I’ve made some good friends over there.

So, there we are. That’s what I’ve been up to, as well as reading a lot.

If you want to pop over to Instagram and say hello, I’m @freyathewriter over there. May as well keep the theme going, right?

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Luft

They burned books in the hallways. I could smell it, the pain, the anger, the protest as the words scurried out of the open windows, sucked out into the great, black yonder by the treacherous summer wind.

I had expected more of Nature. After all, She had suffered enough over the millennia, as Man chewed Her up and spat Her out. But no, here She was, aiding the destroyers of the only beautiful thing that we had managed to create without destroying Her.

But. Maybe that was the point.

Helping Man wreak his own destruction.

Checkmate.

 

XOXO

Joy, from the rock band The Carburettors, appears to be a real rock chick. Yes, she looks the part with her neon pink curly hair that can only be  described as dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards-scruffy, black kohl eyeliner, cleavage-revealing vest top, a biker jacket several sizes too large and actually ancient rather than artfully so, a barely there black skirt and tights with runs that speak of hard and long use rather than attacked with a kitchen knife. She is all that a fan would want and more.

Sadly for her band mates though, her heart isn’t really in it, not any more. She’s had enough of groupies and drugs and sex – always the wrong kind of fans, always the saddest of sex. She wants, at the grand old age of 27, to write the Great American Novel. She reads them all, any time she gets the chance and has even been known to read Allen Ginsberg over a hairy shoulder whilst the latest enthusiastic almost-twenty-something guy is doing his best to protract his painfully sweaty three minute performance into something more meaningful and long-lasting, man.

And then she meets the bartender from Seattle. She is stunning, Amazonian, and knows exactly who she is and where she’s at. Disturbingly and more importantly, she has the measure of Joy in moments. She plays her far better than Joy plays her electric guitar, which to be fair, is certainly saying something.

Joy knows she is in thrall to this woman. She knows that if she lets go completely, her Great American Novel will just become another shattered Great American Dream. She has to get away, and fast. But it takes months – hardly fast, at all. Because, unlike most people of her background, she doesn’t own a car, never had. She’d run away to the band at the tender age of 14, before her doting parents could fund her teenage future and her rite of passage of Drivers’ Ed and all that goes with it could grant her freedom. So, she learns to drive, painfully slowly. And all the while, her lover locks all the doors, pins her down and makes Joy hers. Completely.

Joy is 29 now. Still in the band. Still aching to write. Still nothing more than the words ‘Chapter One’ at the front of her notebook. Still in thrall to sex and luv and come to bed eyes.

Ex Oh. Ex Oh-what the fuck…