Fan Fiction

Simon’s Mum. #SnowBaz1

Inspired by Carry On, the (absolutely perfect) book by Rainbow Rowell.

I’ve never done a #fanfiction before. It was kinda fun!

It’ll only make sense if you read the book.


I wake up panting, drenched in sweat. I sit bolt upright and check to see that nothing is on fire, and that my magic isn’t pouring out of me again. But then I remember, my magic is gone.

I fall back down on the bed and take slow, deep breaths, trying to stop my heart from pounding. The dream had been so real. It was urgent, important. It was about something I needed to fix. I close my eyes and try to remember. The Mage’s face swims before my eyes, “Give it to me, Simon!” He yells, “Don’t make me take it!” I look round and see Eb’s body, covered in her own blood. “Give it to me!” The Mage screeches at me. He’s shaking me but then he’s being held up and Baz has his fangs out and I am terrified he might bite the Mage and I will lose them both. But I can’t speak. My voice has been swallowed up by an ancient tape recorder Ebb is holding. She is clutching it in her dead hands. My voice is in there. But maybe it’s not. I think I poured my voice in to a hole? I look for the hole but all I see is Ebb. Dead. But then her face changes and she isn’t Ebb any more. She has long blonde curly hair, and eyes like mine. She has my face. She is even wearing similar jeans and she has a ball now, instead of a tape recorder. She is pale as a ghost and all I want is to save her but I know she’s too far gone. I crouch over the body, the Mage has broken free of Baz and is pulling at me, pulling me away, but I reach for the body. Suddenly her eyes open, and stare straight at me. “He said we’d be stars,” she says and the world disappears.

I open my eyes again, the room is dark but the street light outside casts enough light for me to see the door. I get up and make my way out. I move quietly through flat, trying not to wake Penny, she’s a nightmare when tired, properly scary. When I reach the kitchen, I gently close the door, turn on the light and reach for my coat. It’s hanging on a chair, still damp. I had walked for hours last night, I just needed to keep moving and without my magic I couldn’t fly, for fear of being seen. Thankfully the spell Penny had cast before she went to bed had held and so I could at least walk around, without my wings and tail being seen.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out an envelope with an airmail sticker on it. It’s a letter from Agatha. Well I say letter, it’s more of a note.


I think the Mage would have wanted you to have this picture of him.


(Well, I guess we don’t really have much to say to each other any more.)

Inside is an old Polaroid picture of the Mage and a girl.

I take the photo and walk over to the fridge. I mean to get a snack or drink but when I get there I stare blankly inside, not taking anything in. I close the fridge door and a shiver runs over me. I lean against the kitchen cabinet and I look at the picture again; it isn’t the Mage who draws my eye, it’s the girl. She’s pretty, not beautiful, but there is an attractiveness there. She has long curly blonde hair, soft loose curls, blue eyes and long strong arms and legs. She is sitting on the ground next to the Mage and beaming up at the camera. Something about her feels familiar. I wonder why the Mage never mentioned her. Was it too painful? Or were we never as close as I thought? On the back it says Lucy and Davy. Lucy. Lucy and the Mage. The Mage is young here too, and I guess he looks pretty fit and probably the happiest I have ever seen him. Happy for the Mage. But I don’t dwell too long on him, my stomach turns when I look at him and I don’t know if it’s grief, guilt, or anger that causes it. I decide not to think about the Mage. But I can’t not think about Lucy.

I don’t know how long I stare at the picture, but I become aware of a sound coming from the hallway outside the flat. There is a soft scraping noise and the sound of someone turning the handle. I reach for the door, (although I don’t have my magic, I don’t run from a fight and I’m pretty useful with my tail) and I pull it open with a bang. The hall is suddenly illuminated and the light lands on a large person creeping to the hall.

“For fucks sake, Snow,” gasps Baz, “I nearly died! Again!”

My heart is racing too, but it calms at the sight of Baz. Then a knot in my stomach tightens and I move back. He throws his keys into the bowl and steps into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. He’s flushed, and not just from the shock. Fed then.

He steps towards me and kisses me quickly. I shove my hands behind me, crumpling the picture in my hand. Crowley, I’m like a child caught playing with something he shouldn’t.

Baz steps back and looks at me puzzled.

“Are you OK, Snow?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just got a bit hungry and fancied a snack. I didn’t think I would see you tonight.”

“I finished my essay quicker than I thought,” he replies, still looking at me, his brows furrowed.

I don’t meet his gaze and instead duck round him to open the fridge again. I reach in with my other hand and under the pretence of looking for something in the back of it, hide the photograph behind some of Penny’s favourite cheese. I keep searching in the fridge, moving other foods round for no reason, but I can feel his eyes on me.

“Do you want anything? We have some of that posh ham you like,” I say, my head still buried in the fridge.

“Snow…” he says, and puts one hand on my lower back, “what’s wrong?”

I gulp. The cold from the fridge is seeping in to me, at least my face won’t be flushed and give me away.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” I rush. “Just hungry. You know me, I can’t cope when I am hungry.”

I move more things round in the fridge. “Hmmm, do I want yoghurt, or do I want pizza? I just can’t decide. Yoghurt is healthier-”

“Simon…” he cuts in. “Look at me.”


I slap a smile on my face and wheel round to face him. His eyes are narrowed but full of concern, his jet black hair is falling loosely around his face, and he’s hunched slightly to meet my gaze. As soon as I see him I feel like crying, he’s too much sometimes. He’s too trusting, too good, too much softness and too much love for me to handle. My face crumples and tears pool in my eyes but before they begin to spill, Baz’s arms are around me and my head is buried in his chest.

“I can’t…” I begin, “I don’t know how…” I sob.

He quietly holds me. He smells of smoke and the cold night air. But he is warm, and he is here, and he is mine. He puts his head on top of my own and we just stand there, me falling to pieces and him holding me together.

I have cried a lot in the year we have been together, killing the Mage and everything, well that wasn’t the best start to a relationship. But Baz never judges and, crazily, he still loves me. Powerless and everything. (He likes to argue that he is the powerless one, because I have all the power over him, because he is obsessed with me and has been for years. I argue that I am catching him up, plus I have no magic. I win. He says I won’t ever be caught up.)

I don’t know how long we stand there for, only that my toes go numb on the cold kitchen floor.

When my sobs subside, I don’t want to look at him, but he brings a hand to my face and lifts it up. He kisses my forehead and I close my eyes and drink it in.

“Can you tell me now?” He asks softly.

I don’t want to.

“Yes,” I say and step back out of his grasp. I rub my hands over my face, wiping away the tears and hassle my hair, it’s still all matted from the nightmare.

I open the fridge again and reach in for the photo. I hand it to him, without speaking.


I recognise the Mage at once, even without that ridiculous moustache he sported in later life. He’s younger here, with fewer lines and grey hairs, but his expression is still as serious, still as bitter. I wonder if he was born that way? The old anger rises inside me at the sight of my mother’s murderer, but I am aware that Simon doesn’t need my rage right now. I swallow it down and my gaze shifts to his companion in the photograph.

The girl I do not recognise, although she seems vaguely familiar. She’s pretty if you like that sort of thing, and she seems to hold herself in a strong, superior way. Her back is straight and her smile is steadfast. Where the Mage seems bitter, she seems joyful. Her eyes are an average blue, and her hair falls in bronze curls around her shoulders.

Blue eyes.

Bronze curls.

I look at Simon, who is looking at the photograph in my hands. I try to stop them from trembling. I look back at the photograph. It can’t be, can it?

“Who is the woman?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

Simon shrugs.

“Who sent you this?” I ask. If I keep asking questions maybe I won’t have to say what I am thinking. It seems too preposterous.

“Agatha,” he replies. “It came this morning but I was at Uni and then at work, so I only got it when I got in.”

“Has Penny seen it?”

“No. I didn’t know what to think, so I just went for a long walk.”

“You went for a walk? Where did you go?”

“Just around. I just kept walking.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

Simon shrugs again. (Not bloody this time, Snow.)

“Simon,” I press “why didn’t you call me?”

“You were busy.” He says, not meeting my eye.

That’s not it. He’s called before when I have been busy. The LSE isn’t exactly a doddle but it isn’t taxing yet either. I am only in my first year and so it’s not like I am writing my thesis. Sometimes Snow calls me at midnight just to check I am home safe. Which is ridiculous. I am a Vampire, one of the darkest creatures out there. I have super strength and heightened senses. London at night is my playground. Or would be, if I wanted to drink Human blood. Normally I just break in to Regent’s Park and drain a deer or a few rabbits. When Simon calls, he likes to say that he’s just checking I haven’t been ‘kidnapped by Numpties’. (Moron. That joke got very old, exceedingly quickly.) My essay is not the reason, and he knows it.

I decide not to say anything. I slowly place the photo on the counter beside me, lean back against it, cross one foot over the other, and put my hands in the pockets of my jeans. Then I just look at him.

I am fucked.

Simon looks around, still avoiding my gaze.

“And…you hate the Mage,” he continues, the silence and the lie weighing uncomfortably between us. He’s standing against the other side of the counter, wings low, each hand grabbing on to the counter top behind him. He can’t wear tops to bed, but he’s wearing my old red pyjama bottoms. His tail is swishing restlessly behind him. (If Simon ever had a chance of having a poker face, it vanished the day he created that tail.) “If that photo is what I think it is then…you might not want to…then you might be…you might not…”

I swallow and clench my jaw. He notices and his eyes grow wide, tears well up in them. It’s like gazing out to sea.

“You can go,” he rushes. “You don’t have to stay. I’d understand if you can’t…don’t want to… to look at me.” He says, facing the floor.

Sometimes I swear I could tear this boy’s throat out. Frustration isn’t even the word.

“For Crowley sake Snow, when are you going to trust me?!”

He looks up, his face full of shock and confusion.

“What?” he replies. “I do trust you.”

“Well obviously not,” I spit back, more angry than I intend. “You still don’t get it!”

“Don’t get what?” He asks

“This! Me! Us! How much I love you! You! You for who you are. Not what, but who! Why can’t you get that into your exceeding thick skull?!”

“But Baz, that photo-”

“Is just a photograph,” I sigh. “Do you really think a photograph could really stop me from loving you? Have you learned nothing about me this last year? Does the fact I have loved you since I was 12, mean nothing?”

“No. I just – “

“Didn’t think.” I finish for him. I let the sentence hang there in the air. He didn’t think, he never does.

He takes a deep breath and rocks back against the counter top. I realise I am panting a little.

“No,” he says steadily. “I just didn’t want to upset you.” He takes another breath and looks at me, eyes dry, his gaze steady. “I didn’t want you to have to deal with what that photo might mean. Not until I had dealt with it. Not in front of me. You might have needed time to process… to work shit out. I know you love me Baz. But that woman…Lucy. She looks like me. You can’t deny it. She looks like me and she looks the right age to be…to be my mother. She was the Mage’s girlfriend, they have their arms around each other! I didn’t want you to deal with the fact that you may be in love with the son of the man who killed your mum.”


Wanker. Doesn’t he realise that I love him too? For fuck’s sake.


I feel like a proper wanker.

I lift the photograph again and look down at the happy, smiling, strong woman, with the Mage’s arms wrapped around her. The woman who could tear my world apart. No. That man already took my mother from me, he can’t have Simon too.

I hand the photograph back to Simon, he takes it, puts it back in the Fridge and turns quickly to face me. (Idiot, he’s probably forgotten that it’s not actually a block of cheese. Or maybe he thinks we are safe from it, if it’s in there. He’s maybe been watching too much television.)

“Say something,” he pleads.

My head sags and I’m suddenly very tired. “I’m sorry,” I say “I shouldn’t have-” but before I finish my sentence he is close to me again. One hand round my waist, the other on my stomach. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I wanted to protect you. To protect us.”

“I know,” I whisper back, “but Simon…”

“But we should have dealt with this together,” he finishes.

And that’s it. Together. When we do things together, everything makes sense, it’s easier to see how to do things, fix things. I sag into him and he into me. We are holding each other up and if one of us was to move, the other would surely fall. I place my head next to his and bury my nose in his neck. I breathe in his scent, bacon and cinnamon buns.

“Baz?” he says softly.


“Do you want a sandwich? We really do have that ham you like.”

I breath deeply and stand to look at him.

“Is that why you were out of bed? To make sandwiches? Crowley Snow, how are you not the size of a house by now?”

“I keep active,” he replies, his eyes twinkling at me and a wide grin spreading across his face. I raise my eyebrow at him, smothering my own grin “ I don’t know what you mean.” I say in mock tone.

“Oh really?” he replies and he pulls me in to a hot and heavy kiss. My knees buckle slightly, even now, after a year, his kisses still slay me. He pushes me back against the counter and I hear a plate fall, smashing on the floor. I don’t care. We keep kissing like this until the door bursts open (maybe even off its hinges) and a harassed and tired looking Penny is standing there. She is wearing a Unicorn onesie and a look that could kill.


I pull away from Baz and turn to face Penny with the most apologetic look I can muster.

“Sorry Penny,” I say, not really sure how to explain.

“I am going to spell your both mute and stupid in a minute, my Struck Dumb lasts for hours! I may even get a whole day without you flirting!” she finishes with a bluster. Her hair is wild and her face is creased on one side. She looks unbelievably cute. (Well, if you discount the murderous look on her face and the fact she just threatened to curse us.) A second later, Micha appears behind her, he’s over visiting for Christmas. He gently takes her hand and leads her back to her room, she scowls at us the whole way, but at least she doesn’t do any magic.

I breathe out and look up at Baz, stifling a laugh.

He takes out his wand, points it at the plate and casts “Back to the start”. It flies through the air and appears beside us, completely fixed. “Come on,” he says “Let’s get you that sandwich and go to bed.”

I frown slightly. I don’t relish the idea of sleep, the sight of a dead Lucy, (maybe Mum?) covered in blood on the ground, swims into view again.

Baz sees the frown and waits, his head tilted to the side, his eyes fixed on mine.

“I didn’t really want a snack,” I explain. “I just couldn’t sleep.” Realisation dawns on his face and he wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me into him. “What was it about?” he asks softly.

“Her. Lucy. The Mage. You. The night he died. The night Ebb… She was Ebb. Ebb was Lucy.”

Baz breathes deeply and I feel him exhale, his breath tickles my ear. He doesn’t say anything, there’s nothing to say.

Then I feel him lightly kiss my neck. I close my eyes and let out a little moan. I like him kissing that mole as much as he likes to kiss it.


I kiss my favourite mole and then I open the kitchen door and, taking Snow by the hand, lead him back to his room. He hesitates in the hall.

“I really don’t want to sleep yet,” he protests quietly, still scared Penny will strike him dumb.

“Who said anything about sleeping?” I say over my shoulder as I pull him in to the room.


I can’t believe it’s dawn. Light is creeping in to the room now, replacing the harsh yellow street light, with a softer shade of cream. The bed is in the shade, where the light never reaches, but I watch it creep across the floor on the other side of the room. We haven’t been to sleep. Baz seemed to take my unwillingness to sleep as some sort of challenge. He has his arms draped over my shoulders and I have my head resting against his chest, my legs intertwined with his. (If you saw our legs I think it would be hard to work out which leg belonged to who, well apart from Baz’s are pale and mine are covered in moles.) I wonder how long we have been awake. How long we have kissed and talked, giggled and whispered, and how long we made love for. I’m tired now, and feel so content and safe, that I know if I fell asleep, my dreams would be filled by a grey eyed vampire, wearing dark blue jeans most probably. I’m just on the verge of sleep when Baz whispers, “I’ll help you,” and he says it so softly I think I may have dreamed it.

“What?” I reply, lifting my head and looking up to him. His eyes are closed but he’s not asleep and his next line comes out clear as day. “I’ll help you find your mum.”


My Dearest Edinburgh

You have my heart. 

I am never more me, than when I am here. 

But, fuck, you can be hard work sometimes. 

As with all great loves, ours is a tempestuous one. 

The volcano on which Arthur sits may be dormant,  but its lava bubbles in the hearts and minds of your people. 
You are not paved in Gold, Edinburgh, you aren’t even paved in haggis, neeps and tatties, or shortbread and bagpipes, as the tourists are lead to believe.  You are paved with blood, sweat, and tears; with anger, love, beauty and passion. You are paved in friendships, in loving words and hateful curses. Drugs, sex and alcohol are awash in your vains. Yes voters, no voters, no-fucking-idea-voters. 

You are brand new apartment blocks built next to derelict land. You are a World Heritage Site and the Pubic Triangle. To some you are buildings, to some you are friends, to some you are love and to some you are life. 

The Stockbridge Yummy Mummies, the homeless of Princes St, the Hibis and the jambos, and everyone in between can call you home.

You, Edinburgh, are broken promises and the land of dreams. You are the land of Harry Potter and Rebus. 

You are a horror story and a fairytale. 

But I wouldn’t have you any other way. 


Bras may be evil. Just sayin

Say what? Two blogs in one day?! Well, shut the front door, isn’t that a rare treat.

Don’t fear, I’m back to school tomorrow and so normal silence will be resumed.

I am just writing this because I have had an epiphany.

I was looking at my timetable for tomorrow and was starting to experience an anxious feeling creeping up me. My breathing was getting shallow, I felt like I couldn’t breathe and my head was all disorientated.

So I took my bra off.

Boobs be free!

I still feel a bit anxious about tomorrow, but at least I can breathe a bit better now.





Hello Dear Reader Pals.

Long time, no blog.

I know, I know, I have been pure neglecting you.

Now, don’t be like that, you know I love you.

It’s just I haven’t had the time or brain power to write anything. Time has been running away with me lately. And not just leisurely jogging, its been going at a full pelt, down hill, with the wind at its back. Honestly, if you saw my hair, you’d realise how fast it has been going. I look permanently windswept.

I guess the main influence on my time has been the fact I started a new teaching job a month ago. (Jings, was it only a month ago? It feels like several life times.)

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love this job. I love the kids and adults I work with, I love the chat and the banter, the learning, and the way little people’s brains work. But man! Has this job consumed my life. I leave my house at 7:15am and leave school around 6pm, still with the feeling that I am not ready for the next day. I wake up thinking about the kids, I go to bed thinking about the next day. I even spend most of Saturday morning thinking about them. As I said, consumed.

But today… well today is a wake up call. My little Poppy is in the vets, having a (hopefully) minor operation on her Dew Claw. I dropped her off at 8:45am and will pick her up at 2pm. I can’t face going home to the flat without her, so I’ve been sat in the Costa across the road from the vets, all day. This is maybe extreme behaviour, but I don’t care, this is my wake-up call.

I had lost sight of the life I wanted to shape for us when I left my old job. I need to remember why I took this job. I wanted more time with her, not less. I want to go on adventures with her. I wanted to write, with her by my side. My little furry, mischievous, muse.

This contradiction is causing me to feel a bit anxious at the moment. I want to be both present and appreciative of the now, yet I feel better when I think about the future I have planned and the approaching holidays, because I can spend them writing, with Poppy at my side. I spend so much time working yet am constantly aware of how the time I have with her is slipping through my fingers. I love to write outside, like I am now, and she loves to be outside, sniffing, peeing, and chasing things. I want to do more of that. I want to play with her more and let the joy she brings me flow into my writing, freeing me up from the anxious brain I get when I am a) not with her and b) not writing. I can’t even talk about how I feel when I am c) not writing and not with her.

I want to bring her joy too, see her tail wag round in circles instead of side to side like ‘normal’ dogs. Do you know she smiles when she is happy? It’s true. Last Christmas, when I was taking photos of her for our Christmas card, I overheard tourists saying “That dog is smiling!”.

Most people don’t understand why, or how, I invest so much love and affection in an animal, after all she is ‘just a dog’. I have no words for those people. I could try to convince them, but they will never truly understand, it’s an indescribable feeling of love, devotion and responsibility. Actually I do have some ‘choice’ words for those people who think she’s ‘just a dog’, but this blog would need an age restriction on it, if I was to type them.


The Crazy Dog Lady.



Moniack Mhor

I’ve just returned from what I can honestly proclaim to be The Best Week Of My Life.

It was perfect.

It was inspiring, hard work, honest, and beautiful. I have never laughed so much in my life.

And now I am a different person. I don’t know when it happened, if it was a slow process or happened one moment over breakfast, but I am completely and utterly changed. I don’t remember what or who I was before, I just know that I am no longer them.

What brought about this change? Well the clue is in the title my friends, I went on a writers’ retreat.

“How much can a hippy dippy writers’ retreat really change a person?” I hear you counter.

“A shit load!” Is my reply.

I no longer feel alone. I no longer feel afraid to be me. I no longer feel frightened to write two words for fear of getting it ‘wrong’. I no longer feel as if I am wrong. Or to blame. Or not good enough. Not driven enough. Because you know what? When it came to it, I put my all in to this week. Everything thing I had. Every hope, dream, fear, memory, problem and funny word. It all went in. And I survived. I grew. I changed. People saw me, the real me, and they liked what they saw.

I was a caterpillar, I am now a Painted Lady.

But my metamorphosis is not yet complete.

This is just the beginning.

Below is a silly poem I knocked up this morning, thrown together over breakfast when my heart ached for the beautiful place and people I have just left.

Moniack Mhor

Monaick Mhor has changed us,
It lit something up inside.
Once you’ve found your people,
There is no need to hide.

Being surrounded by all sorts of folk,
With stories in their hearts
We came from all corners of the globe,
It’s traumatic to be apart.

When people like your writing
They clap and make a fuss.
Suddenly the stories you should write,
Well, they become a must.

The scenery was astounding
With rolling hills and glens.
The beauty was an inspiration,
Coursing through our ball point pens.

Jenny and Melvin were more than just tutors,
They were mentors, friends, and kin.
They were open, honest, and vulnerable,
And helped us reach the same within.

Through the week they pushed us,
Worked our fingers to the bone.
We were all in it together,
My heart had found its home.

But now this chapter ends for us,
Aghast our faces do look.
But fear not my dear writer chums,
This is not the end of the book.

Moniack Mhor July 2017




Yep, it’s one of those annoying gratitude posts that “mindful people” post all the time.

I’m not mindful.

I’m not zen.

I’m not “full of light”.

I’ve had a shit weekend where I was offered a job I can’t take and then made to feel trapped. All because of money.

So let’s focus on what I do have. It’s meant to make you feel better, right?

Here goes.

I’m grateful for Poppy dog and the fact that she is OK after her recent bout of illness.

I’m grateful for my family, nut jobs that they are.

I’m grateful for my friends, who are there if I need them and wouldn’t see me homeless.

I’m grateful for warmth.

I’m grateful for pajamas.

I’m grateful for books and book stores.

I’m grateful for the help the universe has given me thus far (#abithippydippyiknow)

I’m grateful for music, especially the ginger genius that is Ed Sheran.

I’m grateful for old TV shows and animated movies.

I’m grateful for cups of tea.

I’m grateful for biscuits.

STOP! If you list all the food you are grateful for this will just look like a shopping list. 

Oh… Yer you’re right.

Excellent. Carry on. 

I’m grateful for sunshine and soft breezes.

I’m grateful for the sea.

I’m grateful for my car, Joy.

I’m grateful that I can pay the bills.

I’m grateful for the money I do have.

I’m grateful that I get to live in the beautiful city of Edinburgh.

I’m grateful that my friends trust their kids with me.

I’m grateful that I can write. No matter where I am I can write and it brings me joy.

Hey, look at that. I do feel better.


My So Called Creative Life

I hope you like the title. It’s a wee tip of the hat to anyone over 30 who watched TV during the 90s.

My So Called Life was an American TV show,  staring the very young and brilliant Ms Clare Danes of (now) Homeland fame.

Its main theme was “teen angst” and spent every episode exploring all things “teenager”. This was great, when I was a teenager. Don’t get me wrong, Clare Danes’s life was nothing like me own. The North East of England in the 80’s and 90’s was nothing like LA, surprising at that may seem. But it was…relatable escapism. It had “universal themes”, such as love and family relationships.

I want to pitch an idea to TV land out there, I want a show that deals with Adult Angst! Where is that show? Where is the show that deals with how adulting is hard? There are splitter shows which seem to deal with elements of adulting, such as family life (Outnumbered) or single life (Girls, Sex and the City), but where is the one about how all of it is hard?

family+love+work+bills+expectations+OTHER PEOPLE = hard.

Miranda maybe comes closest to exploring how navigating grown up life is hard, but she’s a wee unique character in herself and her issues seem to stem from the fact that she is…well…Miranda. Plus it’s funny. It deals with angst in a humorous way, which is perhaps the only way to deal with it once you pass 30. There’s nothing enjoyable about watching a woman in her 30s slowly drowning in a vat of wine, whilst sobbing about lost loves. My So Called Life, however, was a drama, the angst wasn’t glossed over, it was meant to be relatable to what young people go though, how it’s “such a hard time”.

Maybe we do need the show where woman drowns in vat of wine sobbing over lost love, because loads of folk in their 30s would relate to that.

I here by give TV land permission take this idea and run with it. You can have it.

You’re welcome.

I just have one stipulation. Once it’s ran for a season, there needs to be a spin off, because, let’s face it, who doesn’t love a spin off?

The title?

My So Called Creative Life.


“But why,  Jo?” I hear you ask, inquisitively.

Well, Dear Reader Chum, this spin off is needed to help creatives everywhere! My head is,  quite frankly,  mince. My bonce is done in. My brain is fried. My noggin is a bogging. And what has caused this complete mind melt? Not a super hero villain, like in the good ol’ days, nor has it been caused by a Vulcan (#propernerd), no no no. My heid is burst by trying to live a “creative life”.

In my sweet little dream life I live this beautiful creative life. I write, I illustrate, I host writing workshops in my beautiful home with added guest accommodation. I run, I do yoga, I meditate and practice mindfulness, I have dealt with a my money blocks. I’m loved by another creative soul and on windy driech days we make home made soup and bread together. At Christmas all our friends come to visit and we play games and go in long walks. We have lots of dogs but Poppy dog sticks closest to me and silently judges the other pups. Doesn’t it sound lovely?

The reality though, My So Called Creative Life is confusion and slog. I’m slogging away and thinking constantly about slogging at other bits and pieces that need slogged at. It’s not even meaningful slogging. I’m just doing stuff in the hope it gets me to where I want to be, that by sending the messages to the universe that this is what I want then it’ll bring it to me. Poof! Tada! Here I am Jo! Your magical wonderful life! Cooweee!

Maybe I should “trust in the universe” more? I have tried, I’ve got the books to prove it.

I’ve reached a point now where my brain is full and my to-do list is out of control. It’s like I’m on a bus making a shopping list but I’m terrified that I’m going to miss my stop and so I keep looking up and round and then losing the place on my list.

I keep thinking if I could just leave work and work at full time at writing then I’d get somewhere. But er… hello! bills need paying and food needs buying. So I’m stuck.

I feel like I’m swimming against the tide.

I know I’m meant to write. It is the only thing that feels right to me (well apart from the fact that I’m meant to adore and love the pooch, but that’s easy) and I know I want to be fit and healthy and loved and own a home of my own… but I have zero clue on how to connect the dots. How does one make a successful creative life when you are on your own?

I think I’ll just go play with the dog.