The Fiction Writer's Notebook

Sadly I didn't win the Mslexia Facebook Flash quickie but on the upside, I can now share my entry with y'all. Rules: 250 words on theme of 'opportunity' Tell me what you think in the comments below :-) When the posh white envelope landed importantly on the doormat I thought my dreams had come true. After months and months of trying and failing to find a job, here was an offer of one delivered direct. I took the job eagerly, despite not knowing much about it. But the money was unbelievable, and I was tired of living on cold beans and dry toast. My hunger for real food and proper coffee smothered the logical part of my brain; the part with concerns I should have listened to. I've been here a week and besides the gnarly old man who greeted me - and unbeknownst to me at the time, lock me in - I had seen no one. But I'd heard someone. A few someones to be exact. I've searched many times but found no one. Nor any traces of other people and that's what s

Another weekend, another city, another hotel. At first it had been exciting but as the weeks have turned to months, I've had enough. I'm bored of mini bars, bored of microwaved room service dinners, and so over airports. If I ever step foot in another one I think I'll go mad! At least the tour is nearly over. Just a handful more appearances and then home, NEVER publish a bestseller again. I don't mean that of course. I can't not write. It's the blood that pumps through my veins (and the daily vat of Starbucks). I just don't think I could go through this rigmarole again. A book tour of all the big cities and towns sounded like such an adventure. I'd see the sights, talk about my book, and get paid for it. Exciting, right?  At first, yes. But the novelty had worn off by the end of the 4th week.  I want to go home now. I want to see my husband, stroke my cat, and sit on the back deck with a cup of tea in MY mug.  I miss my life. This isn

I want to run but my brain has melted. Im pretty sure Im stuck to this spot. Im screaming inside my head for my body to move but its not doing anything helpful. Except drowning out the swishing footsteps moving towards me. Growing louder. And louder. I turn around as I hear the footsteps reach the landing behind me. I scream even louder at my body to move. I may even have screamed out loud but all i can hear is the blood whooshing in my ears. I feel hot and cold all at once.  He slows his pace as a wide devilish grin engulfs his face as he comes towards me.  I scream louder. And louder. And louder.  Nothing changes. I watch him get closer and closer and closer, until I can feel his coldness upon the back of my neck. a shiver runs down my spine and I feel myself falling. Falling. Quickly. Into darkness. My eyes flick open and I sit up, searching the gloom for him. But he’s nowhere to be seen.  It was another dream. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I settle back into t

I recently joined a new writing group and I had to introduce myself. Here it is: It's Christmas. I'm sitting at a smoked glass coffee table whilst my mum and dad are putting up Christmas lights. In front of me is one of those half ruled, half plain exercise books kids get in infant school. I am writing and illustrating a story about putting up Christmas decorations. I'm 5, maybe 6 years old. That's my first writing memory. I have been writing ever since. I'm 31 now.