It is a very odd thing when you go back and read stories you wrote a while ago.  You remember all the effort you put in to finish them, then are surprised to find you don't understand something or can see a clumsy word.  When someone else comments, that is even more illuminating, when we see ourselves as other people see us and how our impression lingers.  That reminded me of an occasion where someone I met lingered rather too long...

The man didn’t know where he was going so took his time.  His memory worked through the senses, until at last the smell too had gone.

Lots of writing activity means no time to update the blog.  My first play is finished and posted (posted! In a post box!) to a competition.  I'm preparing a short story for a writing group and a new version of the synopsis of the novel for an agent.  Plus, I've just signed up for NaNoWriMo - or National Novel Writing Month, which sets the target of a 50,000 word novel in November...hey, for me, it's more doable than growing a moustache...

Writing, she thought, is being able to take out on your characters what you would like to happen to others.  On a page, the bleeding began…

We are not that far from the primeval, as you realise just how much the weather affects mood.  Even though I've had a great day, got lots done, I've felt a gloom from staring at grey skies.  

A day of persistent rain.  Golden leaves were washed towards the gutter, where the colour bled down the drain.  She had to hold her hopes tightly.

Why haven't I blogged for a while?  One reason (but one that I never allow myself to use) is that I haven't had time - sorry, not valid, if you really want to do something, you make time.  Then is it because nothing has inspired me?  More valid - I have really got my teeth into the new job and hence creativity is now flowing that way and less into the writing.  

Ideas buzzing so loud that she was surprised others could not hear them.  She gave them characters, but the plot ended up as a bottom line.

Today I started on the redraft of the novel.  It's the eleventh and, like the eighth and tenth, will be quite a radical change (others were just read-throughs).  I wonder when it will be finished?

The pile of paper in front of her echoed many previous piles, long gone.  It’s message was evolving, but still recognisable.  Next time, she was sure.