Today is fit for a dreamer

Fae ID

Upon searching for potential character names for my new tale, I came across a website that generates your very own fairy name by typing in your real name!

Your fairy is called Feather Snowwand

She is a cleansing force and a peace-bringer.

She lives in high places where the clouds meet the earth.

She is only seen when the seer holds a four-leafed clover.

She wears pale blue like the sky. She has delicate pale blue wings like a cicada.

Get your free fairy name here!

Ahh...so sparkly. ♥

Child's play

Today I fell into a place where children's minds expand; they twist and turn through stories, their imaginations satisfied with adventures inked on fresh pages.

For my Writing for Children class, I have to read a children's fictional novel...something I haven't done since I was a child. And yet all these years of writing and reading, struggling to develop and perfect my technique to reach adequate adult standards, I have missed something quite wonderful indeed. Normally I'd bypass the children's section in bookshops, mainly because I'd find noisy, rambling tykes causing a ruckus while their mothers peruse the shelves for something suitable. But I strolled into Foyles this afternoon and thoroughly enjoyed my browse! To my suprise there were more adults in there than children even though it's half-term! The covers were shiny and resplendent, mythical creatures and enchanting worlds splashed across the walls of that corner...I made my choices after a long gander and I haven't been that absorbed in a long time.

Halfway through the Rebel by J.R Andersen, and I'm still entertained. This isn't supposed to happen, aren't I meant to feel like a 'big kid' that needs to look at more prestigious texts in order to better my writing? Well I say that I look at tube carriages now and nearly a third of the passengers have their noses tucked deep in epic children's stories...a market I can get on with perhaps? And yet I almost forgot that most of my enthusiasm for wanting to be a writer occured when I was a child; writing until I was told to go to bed; storing novel after novel on my computer and even further back, tucking away the typewriter carefully after heavy-duty use. I lost that enthusiasm as I got older and more cynical. Adulthood makes you question everything for the negative outcomes, children question for the excitement of the positive.

And so, from now on, you'll find me drawing out my characters instead of meticulously bullet-pointing them out, writing from the pictures in my head instead of constructing a 'logical' sketch and reading books about fairies and wizards instead of those that present us with the failures and woes of the depressing old thing we call 'life'.

I want to get off

Today took me for a major ride, one I paid for but got short-changed on. Whilst on it, my emotions got tested hard and there was a grey cloud hanging over me that threatened to rain so I tried to shake it off and reasoned out my karma to allow a tantrum to occur in my head.

I was cold. I was tired and my love for the world was questioned. Pettiness played its part and caused me more silence than I would care to acknowledge. But I tried to raise some noise by listening to Staind (not a good idea, considering that album takes me back to bleaker times) but others were feeding off my fumes on a tooth-pullingly long bus journey after having battled to get my oyster card to swipe. It didn't. I had money on it, but had to pay more to a bus driver that felt like exercising his authority on me.

I craved the silence while I rode through the grotty stone-laced town that is Mitcham...and when I got home it bullied me. Anger diffused fairly soon after once I cut the cord with the general public, allowing them to take their energy back and return me mine but that grey cloud still hovers...

I know it very well and yet it still plays tricks on me. I'm onto its ways but it still wants to prove me a point, even though I'd love to ignore it. I never can though. There's some sort of attachment to it. It'll drift away for a little while and allow the sun to greet me, but not without getting what it wants: my hands up in complete submission, for it replenishes itself with my dignity.