The Coffin Couch

Now I don't know about anyone else, but there's no way you'll find me curling up on this couch with a good book.

Deliciously creepy, yes. Warm and inviting, no.

Whilst it would be right at home in one of my short stories and even the novel I'm working on, its just not a desirable spot to kick back with a good book. Especially if you nodded off and fell into a nightmare about being buried alive.

Paris, France

A friend of mine is going to Paris in a few weeks and to say I’m envious is putting it oh so very lightly. I’m a deep, deep shade of green.

I’ve been to Paris twice now and by far it’s my favourite city of all the places I’ve traveled. When I’m there I just want to soak up the culture, breathe in the city and wander the streets. I would quite happily give my right arm to live there, even if just for a little while (well maybe not my right arm, but I would love to live there). I’d live in a gorgeous little top floor apartment in St Germain or Montmartre with polished floors, antique furniture and flowing white curtains, looking out onto a cobbled street that bustled with people.

Everything about Paris is enchanting. The architecture is perfection, the food to die for, the history and art an obsession of mine. I could spend my days roaming the streets exploring, plotting stories and people watching while drinking coffee in the cafes, soaking up the culture and romance of the city.

In the meantime, I sit in my humble abode, glowing green with envy, daydreaming about when I’ll return to Paris.

I Am Not Here

I am not here but this is where I want to be right now - curled up with a good book, a gentle sun warming my skin. I could alternate between reading, dozing, and daydreaming - some of my favourite things to do.

There would also be a gorgeous man to bring me drinks and adjust the cushions when they slip down and provide me with whatever else I might fancy.

Instead, I am at my desk battling the cold, hoping my toes will soon thaw out so that I can actually move them again in order to stand up and get a coffee which will warm me through for all of two minutes.

Ah, there go those daydreams again.

Quote

I love this quote:

Writing:
Often it is the only thing
between you and impossibility.
No drink,
no woman's love,
no wealth,
can match it.

~ Charles Bukowski

Planet of the Cats

Feral cats are taking over the complex where I live.

And they particularly love to loiter in my backyard.

It all began with one knocked up mother cat who decided she rather liked our cosy little place in the world and she moved right in. She’s since had two litters of kittens and on any given night our complex is overrun with little creatures of various colours (and she's a good breeder - had two LARGE litters, mind).

It’s Planet of the Cats - they appear from nowhere and then scatter off again. No one, and I mean, no one (f*#%ing Body Corporate – there’s a spot for them in my next book), will help in removing them from the complex which is extremely frustrating because I don’t like cats (let alone spitting and hissing feral cats) and it’s a no pets complex.

I’m a dog person and would love to have one if I was allowed but again, no pets allowed. No pets except feral cats, it would seem.

A group of us have gotten together and are making a stand to the Body Corporate. The cats have to go.

Of course my friends, who know how much I loathe cats, find it extremely amusing that said litters of cats like to hang out in my backyard.

Daydream Believer

I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve been in trouble for daydreaming: at school, in office meetings, when someone is trying to tell me something. But to me, and I’m sure to many others, it’s as vital as breathing. To let my mind wander is sometimes a dangerous thing, but that is part of the appeal.

Sometimes I’m reminiscing the past (good and bad) and sometimes I’m caught up with a story and get carried away with that. Then sometimes just one thought, a glimpse of something, a noise, a song will carry me away and I’ll be gone again, my eyes glazed over (so I’ve been told) traveling through the dark recesses of my own mind.

I’ve had a teacher rap her knuckles on my head to bring my attention back to the class (may you burn in hell, she who cannot be named, and who most definitely has a role in one of my stories) to a previous employer telling me in an office meeting that anytime now would be good for my answer (oh yes, there’s a spot for him in a story too).

I just love to daydream and even better, I love daydreaming to music.

Songs in the Key of Inspiration

When I'm writing I always have music on. The thing is, usually it's the same song. I've had ideas for whole books from one song, and that's what I play over and over again when I'm writing. My neighbours probably beat their heads against the walls and weep bitter tears of frustration after they've heard Seven Nation Army for the fortieth time (what I was listening to while I was writing a novel last year – editing process coming up (unlucky neighbours!!)), but when inspiration knocks, you don't slam the door in its face.

While writing The Mind Shadow, a short story I recently sent off, I was listening to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, which I find deliciously haunting. While writing Sister Sunday, I was listening to Chick Habit by April March. For the short story just published, The Lost Hope of Ella, I was listening to People Are Strange by The Doors. And for the short story I’m currently working on, The Cherub Villain, I’m listening to Paranoid by Black Sabbath.

I guess it's lucky they were short stories. Bring on the edits for the novel.

The Dollkeeper

They find me.

I discover dolls at the markets, old dolls, creepy dolls with beautiful haunted faces and bright inquisitive eyes. Recently I was at the markets and found a blonde doll with grey/green eyes. The elderly lady selling her informed me this particular doll was made in Italy, and indeed she was - it was stamped on the doll's back.

A month or so ago I picked up a doll with the most piercing cerulean eyes. Some people won't look at her because she's too creepy, but I think she's lovely. And she's quite happy among the small collection I have in my writing room, all of them commanding attention in their own ways. I don't go looking to buy dolls, they just seem to find me, and now they live in my writing room, all lined up in a row, watching, waiting, hoping to be included in a story one day.