My Magnum Opus:

Is it? Is my work going to live? I wanted to be a writer, that’s all, I wanted to write about it all – everything that happens in a moment – the way the flowers look when you carry them in your arms, how it smells, how it feels. All of our feelings – yours and mine – the history of it, who we once were, everything in the world, all mixed up, it’s all mixed up and how we want it all and . . . I failed!”

Virginia Woolf – The Hours (Mrs Dalloway)


From the very core of my being, as a writer,  I can relate to this sentiment wholeheartedly. How we make ourselves busy, going about our lives thinking we’re doing very important things and how one day, any day now, the masterpiece will get written and everything will slot into place like a jigsaw puzzle.  But … then the realisation. This is my very important thing. This is my Magnum Opus. My wildest dreams came true the day I birthed my children into this world (and as I stood there outside the door anxiously waiting for my grandson to be birthed). This is my true calling and vocation and today is the day that my life changes forever 🙂

collagefam345ty collage tome

Do you ever feel like …

… people are pushing you to your limit, constantly trying to squash your power or criticise you and set you up behind your back? It’s because you need to develop a fighting spirit: there’s no point being in a boxing ring if you’re too afraid to throw a punch. And I’m not talking about physical violence either, I’m talking about life.

(or it’s an alien species from another planet messing with your head – one or the other) 🙂

alien gif

Everything I know about writing practise…

I learnt from my mother: nothing, absolutely nothing stopped her. Not husbands coming and going, poverty, sickness, a house full of children, friends & relatives dropping off the perch all around her. The show must go on … she said 🙂 Thanks mum!


The Artist’s Way:

She gave her only tomato to her son,

It’s ok,

She’d forgotten how they tasted anyway,

Her poor, thin body was eating itself,

But her audience liked her poem,

So that was something,

Can one live off adulation alone?

crone by leon rogers


Winter dreams:

The way we were – dream theme song

She hears snoring in the next room,

But there’s no-one there,

Is it the ghost of him, him, him or him?

But before that she had awoken from a dream,

About her lost love,

It had the saddest theme song,

But even before that,

Before sleep,

She had written a poem about her dead brother,

This dark night of the soul,

Is taking ever so long,

And she still feels nothing …

girl leaving gif carmen aragon


Your Cleansing Grace:

It’s as if you feel unworthy of my love,

When the truth is that every man gets compared to you;

I went with him, because he reminded me of you!

Because, the garage door was down!!

And the car engine was running!!!


It was like living on a rollercoaster inside a maze,

But then came the realisation;

Do you think you can take me down that easily?


I go within to transform what you did to me,

Into prose and poetry,


Gratitude my friend,

For such a cleansing grace,

I am broken, but not dead,

Not yet anyway,


Watch me rise!

defender of rights, slayer of bad deeds yet still awaiting her love



Friends for life:

There will come a day,

When all of those people who were there for you,

Have gone – fallen by the wayside,

And that’s when you have to make do with you

And just hope like hell that you’re someone who you can tolerate,

Because it’s a long, insufferable life if you don’t like the company of you.

Bathe yourself in self-love, wrap yourself in barbed wire,

Place yourself at the uppermost part of the ivory tower,

And then take your key and unlock your imagination because it will be your companion for life.

girl and lost hatawa kyty3oba


The Highly Creative Person and how to cope with them:

Do you love a highly creative person?

This article gives excellent insight into what it’s like to love an individual like this and how to encourage them to get on with their work 🙂

artists way

Sleeping with scissors:

Her beloved – dead and buried in the ground,

Sleeps in the next room to her,

To keep an eye on her.


She doesn’t like the growling in the night,

So she sleeps with scissors,

But apart from that, sublimely peaceful.

man colour



A quandary, a quandary:

Hermits would rather write,

Far into the night,

And watch their words take flight.

And pickled men will lose the fight,

When they see that she won’t bite,

She wants their sex, But that’s not right!

Unless she slaves for them in the daylight,

Dragging up their brats,

With all of her might,

So stick to writing on this night!

she reads his words again before saying yes to herself and then falling to sleep