Have some music whilst you read:

Actual content time!

I want to get back into writing again. I went through a period in my teens during which I churned out a plethora of what I affectionately term shit poetry. I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t written about faeces.

After realising I was awful at my “art” and so very,very angsty into the bargain I gave up almost entirely. Well, apart from creative writing assignments that would actually gain me marks (I got a first with one of my pieces last term – maybe I’ll stick it up here at some point). Now I’m aching to get back into it properly.

This realisation brings with it a filthy little revelation.

I enjoy lurking on ‘Worthy of Publishing’ and dredging up poorly-written, as-good-as-plotless pieces of fiction on purpose. It’s extremely therapeutic. I feel better about my abilities because of it.

So, now that you know I’m a dirty little schadenfreudette, let us proceed with the point of today’s enthralling tale. An alarmingly large number of these literary abominations begin with the following sentence. Bar my quotations marks, the average standard of grammar is included for realism and your entertainment:

“it was a cold dark night . suddenly i heard something outside my window”

And I got to thinking, ‘What would I write after that?’ And instead of quaintly terrible shadows on the walls and bumps in the night, this ridiculous piece of silliness came into being:

‘I leapt out of bed and charged at the window, seizing the large brass fireplace poker on the way. With a shriek like a hellbound demon, I wrenched open the window and jabbed the poker out into the thick evening gloom.

The result was a cry of anguish, followed by a rustle of leaves and the dull sound of a body colliding with solid ground. Gingerly, I edged out onto my balcony. Squinting in the gloom, I peered over the stone ledge.

“What the HELL was that for, Juliet?” angrily demanded Romeo, nursing a black eye.’


…Yeahhhhhh, I need much practise before I start writing fiction for real. I have no shame in stating that I’d like to write as part of my career one day. However, I feel I use TOO MANY DAMNED COMMAS, and thus, I will continue to scribble and underline, to type and to delete, to save and save as, for the forseeable future.

Now, for the promised bit about the train: why are rail journeys undertaken on Sundays always at least an hour longer? It’s highly irritating. But worth it, for I will see friends again, and consume the fermented grape until my vision is poor and my personal space bubble is no more. Good, sweet times.

The only other really interesting thing I stumbled across today was this wonderful set of failed romances. I’m a sucker for such things.

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