Showing posts with label The Writer Diaries. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Writer Diaries. Show all posts

Sunday, 7 October 2018

Nerd Church - The Writer Diaries: The More You Learn About Writing, The Less You Seem To Know

It’s weird. It’s really weird.

The more you write, the less confidence you have in what you’re writing.

You notice every goddamn flaw like it’s screeching at you.

(If you’re writing horror, maybe it is. But I guess that would be the point, right? 😆)

Quill, ink pot, and hand-writing

The more you write, the more convinced you are that you’ll never be a ‘good’ writer – whatever the hell that is.

And then, with this weirdly inflated sense of imposter syndrome filling you, you try to seek out the wisdom of the all-powerful interwebs.

And that goes about as well as you can expect…

Sunday, 16 September 2018

Nerd Church - The Writer Diaries: 7 Radical Ways To Defeat Writer's Block

Staring at the blank page (...or screen...) we've all been there.

You need to write the thing - but the thing just doesn't seem to want to be written.

You have the Dreaded Writer's Block.

notebook and crumpled paper

But Writer's Block ain't welcome around here!

I don't put up with Writer's Block (that pushy little so-and-so) - and neither should you!

Wednesday, 18 January 2017

#DisabilityDiaries2017 | The Writer Diaries - The Challenges of Writing With Depression and Anxiety

(This post discusses mental illness, depression, anxiety, and brief references to suicidal thoughts.)

There's this myth that having a mental illness somehow makes you a better writer.

The tortured artist, able to bring forth the most beautiful art from their pain.

That myth is complete b*lls**t.

If anyone with a mental health problem is creating beautiful art or writing, it is in spite of not because of their illness.

For the love of whatever higher force you believe in, do not demean the efforts of artists and writers by saying that it's 'only' because they have mental health problems that they can do these things.

woman typing on typewriter

Because it's damned hard.

It can be hard enough to do the day-to-day things with mental health problems. Writing? Can be a constant f**king marathon.

Like a lot of people, I've always wanted to write.

Maybe 'wanted' is the wrong word - I've always written, because it's just a part of who I am. Call it a character trait if you like.

Now, I'm sure a fair amount of you will be familiar with the insecurities and worries of being a writer.

There's something about writing that is intensely personal, and you're putting it on display. Who wouldn't be worried?


When you have depression and anxiety though, all those insecurities are magnified.

There are challenges to writing, to wanting to be 'a writer' when you have these conditions.

Here are a few them:

(This is just my own experiences and opinions guys. Everyone experiences mental health problems differently. Also, self-care guys - if you have to stop reading for your own mental health, you freaking do it!)

1. Feeling you're not good enough.

I'm sure most people have thought this at some point when looking back at their own writing. I think it almost every time I read something I've written.

Worse, sometimes this can lead to a thought spiral: this isn't good enough and it's what I've always wanted to do, I can't do anything right, why do I bother...?

Sometimes it gets darker than that, but I don't want to bring you all down.

one yellow umberella amongst several grey umberellas

2. What if...?

When you have anxiety problems, 'what if...?' is a dangerous trap to fall down. It can keep you stagnant just because you're too terrified of either success or failure.

Yes, I have anxiety issues around success, as well as failure.

  • If people actually like what I write, what if I can't replicate that a second time?

  • What if I have to go to events and lit festivals? That would mean travelling, meeting new people, speaking about my own writing, ending up in the right place at the right time... all things that give me massive anxiety issues.

  • What if people don't think I'm worthy of the success?

Imagine these sorts of thoughts, spinning through your head faster and faster, as your breath gets shallow and you shake and start to feel dizzy. Anxiety is a b**ch.

3. Writing affects your mood.

I'm pretty good at listening to the warning signs when I'm reading something that is going to send my mood off-kilter.

...It isn't always what you think either - sometimes I can't read happy things because I think I'll never have that, and that has a bad effect.

But with reading, like I said, I've gotten pretty good at matching to my mood. It's part of the reason I read so many different books at once - I can match the book to what I'm feeling.

Writing? Writing is something I get lost in... and I don't always notice when it's affecting my mood.

sad girl

4. My motivation goes to sh**.

I nearly gave up on this post numerous times. If you're reading it, it means I somehow managed to a) finish it, and b) convince myself to actually publish it.

I will start writing something and just... give up.

I won't be able to convince myself to finish it. Why would I? It's never going to be decent enough for people to read anyway... See? That's the sort of sh** my brain throws at me.

And sometimes I'm just too damned tired.

5. I can't concentrate.

Sometimes I actually feel like I just can't think.

Depression makes your thoughts fuzzy and makes concentration difficult. So I will start writing something, and then just... not know what I was doing with it.

Or I'll not be able to get out what I'm thinking onto the page or screen because it just... gets lost somewhere.

So yes, writing is something I've always wanted to do. No, I'm not going to give up... but my writing doesn't come from my illness.

My illness has tried to kill my writing - has tried to kill me - on more than one occasion. Please bear that in mind.

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Wednesday, 30 November 2016

The Writer Diaries - Micropoetry, November 2016

Well, I certainly wrote more this month than I did last month.

I have no idea whether any of these are any good - but here you go anyway; enjoy! (Or not. Whatever.)

4th November

Princesses are flawless
Pale, weak, & soft
Born to be brides
Princesses don't kiss princesses;
Girls need to be princesses -

7th November

- because your hearts are sweet, aren't they? -
remember that people are people
Who love & live & hope & wish
Just like you

13th November

Fight for hope.
Fight for people.
You'll make mistakes,
Get up & do things better.
Treat people like people.
Love with your whole heart

14th November

People are fallible
They can be selfish
They can be short-sighted
They can be ignorant
The best ones try to do better
Even if they fail

16th November

We told you
That the fire
Was burning
You laughed
And stuck your hand in the flame
Told us to do the same.
Unlike you, we felt the pain

24th November

I see your face
In the weirdest of places
And it never seems
To be good news

24th November

I put my heart
Into it all
& how I tried
To make it count
But you can't please all of the people
All of the time
No matter how you try

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Wednesday, 26 October 2016

The Writer Diaries - Micropoetry, October 2016

So, October is on it's way out, and it's time to show you the micropoetry I wrote this month.

It's kind of been an up-and-down month for me, depression-wise, so sorry if these are kind of a bummer... and there are only three of them.


10th October
How do they do it?
The charmed ones -
While we strive, struggle, scrimp, save,
The universe re-arranges itself,
To better suit them.

13th October
I'm so tired
Of feeling so tired
Not knowing what's required
of me. What should I do?
What do you want from me?
I'm so tired.

23rd October
Running uphill just to stay in one place.
Tired of the struggle; of the fight; of the hate; of the dark.
Tired of being tired.

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Monday, 17 October 2016

The Writer Diairies - Learn to Love the Chase

Writing is hard.

You possibly know this - but writing is not an easy thing to do. Putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard is only a tiny fraction of the story.

(Ha, 'of the story' - I just noticed the pun!)

You've got to try and string these weird little symbols into words, and then those words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, chapters, a book!

And all of those little symbols comprising your paragraph, chapter, book, whatever, contain a plethora (woo! I have smart vocab dammit!) of worlds, characters, meanings, and cultural cues behind them. Sometimes the author writes subtext that even they don't know they've put in there.

And all of that takes time. It takes skill which you may or may not have (yet - skills are things you can build!)

I've been writing the 3rd part of my Cinderella posts (see part 1 here!) and it's going exceptionally slowly.

Because writing is a bit like whittling (not that I've ever whittled anything, so I have no idea where that metaphor came from.) A bit here, a bit there, and it can take forever.

But guess what? You have to learn to love that slow process.

You have to understand that it's ok for it to take a long time - as long as you keep working on it, it will be done when it's done, and not before.

You've got learn to revel in the thrill of chasing down the correct word. You've got to learn to enjoy weaving the words together, and letting your fingers dance almost rhythmically across the keyboard.

Because that's the way it works.

You can't create out of nothing - you have to love it, to care about it, to watch it sashay it's way into existence. If you don't love the process, you're not going to write anything worth while.

(It is however OK to also get p*ssed off at the process, and shout a string of swear-words and/or colourful insults at the screen. #TrueStory.)

You also have to understand that sometimes it doesn't work out - and that's ok too.

It's not going to work every time. But if you enjoyed the time you spent working on it, then it wasn't a waste - it just gave you something different to what you thought it would.

Maybe I made sense in this post, and then again, maybe I was talking cr*p.

What do you think? Is it necessary to enjoy the process of writing in order to be a writer?

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Tuesday, 30 August 2016

The Writer Diaries - Micropoetry, August 2016

Another month faffs off into the everloving history books, and I have more micropoetry for you :)

Hope you like!

(Also for some reason I seem to average four micropoems per month - random.)

9th August

My love, your hope.
Hearts tried to speak,
Yet never spoke.

16th August

We snipe at each other
Humans become trolls
Keyboards delete humanity for some,
But increase it for others -
Good web knights

20th August

Speed through a red light.
Go on. Go ahead.
But the flowers tied to that tree?
They're a warning,
Don't take them as a challenge.

22nd August

When I laughed
You thought that I agree.
I didn't want to show
How badly your words
hurt me.

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Wednesday, 17 August 2016

Cracked Glass Slipper: Cinderella Part 2

Missed Part 1? Check it out here.

Alright, my nerdlets, after some escaping from nuns, I have finally found time to finish part 2 of this (slightly cracked) fairy-tale re-telling.

I have no idea whether it's any good - I do know that it's random, because let's face it, I'm a random kind of gal ;)

Hopefully I've restrained myself with the everything italics! problem I had in the first part. (Sometimes I like to stress things... a lot...)

(Some mild swearing and references to the sexy times.)

Without further faffing then, here is Part 2 of Cinderella:


“No. Don't”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were going to,” Sin snarled.

Tom paused, “...Wouldn't you? You're dressed like a chubby six-year-old's idea of womanhood.”

Sin gave him a death-glare and crossed her arms over her poofy-dress clad chest. She stalked into Tom's front room, cursing that little old lady with every step. She looked like she'd just stepped off the stage after a freaking panto; urgh!

Everyone stared, of course. And Sin pretended she hadn't noticed. Because she clearly didn't care what these losers thought. Of course not.

Yeah, she definitely stood out in this crowd of nearly-naked half-drunk folk bopping (because that really couldn't be called dancing, could it?) along to some repetitive dance track that was doubtless one of Tom's faves. People filled pretty much every corner of his cellar-space. (Tom liked to have parties in the cellar. Apparently it made him look cool.)

She parked her satin (or was it silk? It could be freaking fairy-dust for all she knew,) -wrapped butt on a bar-stool propped against the corner. Tom thought bar-stools were classy. Seriously; he was officially a douche. Why had she ever thought that this relationship would work? Stupid move. Stupid, stupid, move.

She stayed there for a while, hoping people would confuse her with a large and very realistic doll – one of those creepy things lonely old men dress up and take to the supermarket in documentaries about kooky lifestyles (not that she was judging – it's just those dolls gave her the creeps,) …or maybe she'd just blend in to the wallpaper pattern. There was low-lighting in here, and she liked to look on the positive side. Occasionally.

Tom ignored her, in favour of 'dancing' with every other girl in the room. Dancing… doing everything but make a baby with… same diff as far as Tom was concerned.

Maybe he was trying to make her jealous. She actually didn't care. It was when he started dancing with Terri, whispering in Terri's ear, that she got up to get a drink. And if there was a little more vodka in her vodka-and-coke than she'd normally put there, then it was because of the whole scary-magic-grandma thing, and nothing to do with Tom's lips so close to Terri's skin. Nothing at all.

She was having a bad day. She had Rumpelstiltskin's elderly aunt to contend with, after all. Magic witchy ladies messing with her love life – pretty much anyone'd need a drink.



“Hey Terri,” and Sin managed an actual, genuine, smile.

Maybe the vodka helped. Maybe it's just that it was Terri, and she wasn't dancing with Tom any more. (Ok, so maybe Sin cared a little about how close they'd been dancing. Just a little. Barely any amount, really.)

“What the hell is up with the dress?” Terri's fingers plucked good-naturedly at the ruffles.

“That's a very good question,” Sin nodded mock-sagely, “and I'm damned if I know; I'm at this party against my will, in case you were wondering.”

“Yeah… Tom told me about...” she waved her hand vaguely in a swirly motion, indicating the mess that was Sin-and-Tom.

Sin had actually meant crazy-grandma-scary-magic-lady, but that was a whole other train wreck/possible hallucinatory episode brought on by a combination of stress and exhaustion; so she let Terri think it was Tom drama. Because, hell, Tom drama took up a lot of her general drama quota anyway.

“So the dress is a form of protest? A statement about what you think of Tom?” there was a gleam to Terri's dark eyes that let Sin know that this wasn't a criticism, “Because if it's a message… it's not a clear one.”

“Ahhh, it's obviously to let me know she needs to be treated like a princess!” Tom interrupted, swinging an arm casually around Terri's shoulders.

“Which you suck at,” Terri snapped, pushing his arm away, “because you're a douche.”

Sin grinned, and then tried to hide hide her smile behind a hand. Tom didn't have an answer.

Terri was right, of course, but Tom clearly had expected Terri to just go right on ahead with all his Prince Charming crap, and just deal with it. But it turned out Terri had claws. Good on her.

“Jeez Terr,” Tom shrugged, “no need to be so sensitive.”

“Cut the crap, Tom,” Terri replied, “All you've been doing all night is trying to get in people's pants and make Sin jealous. Why she keeps coming back to you, I'll never know.”

“Did you get your period or something?”

“No, I'm just angry at you, moron. You treat Sin like she's worthless, and I'm just sick of you trying to be a macho-guy, or a cool-guy, or whatever the hell it is that you think you're doing when you treat people like trash! Call me when you're back to being you, Tom,” she flung her bag over her shoulder like a soap-opera-diva, “Coming with, Sin?”

“Uh… yeah, ok.” And, slightly gob-smacked, she followed Terri out.


Somewhere along the way, Tom'd become the kind of guy who gets his kicks out of breaking a girl's heart. It was like he wasn't the kid she'd known since they were ten. It was like underneath it all he'd become cruel – icy.

Only most people didn't see the ice. They saw Prince Charming. They saw the smile, the nice house, the good job, the handsome face, the success at such a young age when everyone else was barely scraping by. They saw the man who was truly flattering when he noticed how pretty you looked, and who could plead with you for something he wanted until you wondered why you were denying him in the first place.

These people didn't see Sin's face when he did everything but have sex with other girls right in front of her – when he was whispering stupid stuff in Terri's ear and getting way too close for comfort.

It was Terri who noticed Sin sitting in the corner in that ridiculous dress (did Tom make her wear it? He'd manipulated her into coming to this party, so Terri wouldn't put it passed him. Maybe he told her it was fancy dress and he had the perfect outfit… what a jerk.)

Maybe it was the dress that made Terri finally snap, maybe it was that destroyed look on Sin's face… maybe it was the fact that Terri knew all about every single one of the times Tom'd pressured Sin into going out somewhere, only to cancel at the last minute, or told her her clothes sucked in front of other people, or told her she was needy or…

Whatever it was, Terri'd finally had just about enough of what Tom was putting Sin – beautiful, funny, strong, smart, Sin – through. And the way he bragged about it – to Terri herself, of all people (did he know she'd had a crush on Sin, once upon a time? Probably. It was just the kind of cruel game he'd play) – it kind of made her want to punch the smile off his face.

Honestly, why had she waited this long to do something about it? Same reason Sin didn't just tell him off, she guessed (Sin would tell anyone else off, after all,) - Tom was a master at making you think it was your fault. He enjoyed messing with people – at least, that was what Terri'd ended up believing; he messed with you, turned you inside out, then acted like it was all your fault.

Sin stopped walking. And kind of stared at an empty parking space just down the street from Tom's.

“Sin…?” Terri asked, “What are you…?”

“Nothing,” Sin laughed, “there's nothing there!”

“Well, that's not true,” Terri corrected, moving forward to get a better look at the spot, “There's a… is that a pumpkin? What the hell?!”

Sin sat down on the kerb, heavily, and laughed with tears in her eyes.

What do you think? Please sugar-coat criticism ;D

Monday, 27 June 2016

The Writer Diaries - Micropoetry, June 2016

Here we are my dearest nerdlets! The little scraps of micropoetry that I've written this month, all wrapped up neat 'n' tidy in a blogpost!

(They're kind of sad poems... sorry about that! In my defence, more than one was written in reaction to various things going around me, and in the country in general, when I wrote them.)

8th June

Goodbye little bird,
I promise I loved you
I promise I cared.

Goodbye little bird -
If I could've made it so,
You would've been spared

11th June

Empty shop, empty shop, empty shop.
Reduced bank hours,
Downgraded post office,
One train an hour.
Empty shop, empty shop, empty shop.

15th June

The sky is crying -
It throws down its tears,
So we can know,
That it cries too.

16th June

A bright light burned out today
As it left it lit the way -
Said love not hate is what I say,
Hatred will not win the day

23rd June

You think you know me.
How I wish that were true.
You claim to know me.

Monday, 13 June 2016

The Writer Diaries (Or, I Try To Come Up With Excuses)

OK, what excuses can I possibly have for not writing more of my 'Cracked Glass Slipper: Cinderella' instalments?

(Just as a reminder: I had this brainwave a few months ago, that I was going to write crack-fic-style fairy-tale retellings, starting with Cinderella.

And I did actually start with the first part of Cinderella! It just... didn't actually go further than that.)

Well, it could be that I was kidnapped by a herd of travelling nuns, who forbade me from writing random retellings on pain of having to clean the loos.

Or I may have been blackmailed never to write about Sin again by Time Masters/Lords (dependent on your geek-ly preferences) and threatened every time I try to open the word document (or, y'know, start a document for part 2... oops!)

Or I may've decided to become a guru in the art of spoon-bending, and left for an exciting new life!

Or it could just be that I got distracted by shiny things, self-doubt, and life-stuff, and forgot all about it...

I'm sorry!

I do fully intend to keep going! It just may take a little longer than I originally thought it would...

But in the mean-time, you can remind yourself of part one here. :)

Monday, 30 May 2016

The Writer Diaries: Micropoetry - May 2016

Just a couple of micropoetry poems for you this month - clearly I've not been in an overly poetry-ish mood.

(Just as a reminder - this is the micropoetry that clutters up my Twitter profile over the course of the month. I stick it here because otherwise I'll use it in the stream of tweets-and-such.)

Hopefully the quality makes up for the quantity (a girl can be overly-optimistic and hope, right?)

Anyhow, these are my four little brain-creatures - see what you think:

8th May

Oh but I did see you.
You never noticed me, did you?
Again and again I saw you.
You never saw me.

11th May

The stars are there -
You can't cover them;
They're still there.

You blocked out your shine.
But I'm light. I'm a star. In the dark.

23rd May

My heart is hammering
for attention.
At least I know,
that it's still beating.
Still here.

23rd May

They gave her to the birds, the moon, love -
They did not know
Her names were more than words.
Names gave her away
But she gave herself

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Wednesday, 30 March 2016

The Writer Diaries: Micropoetry - March 2016

So, I came across micropoetry when faffing around on Twitter... and me being me, I kind of dove right in there.

Of course, then I figured out that since I tend to write directly into the tweet box (I know that's not normally how it's done but meh, that's the way I roll sometimes,) I was seriously in danger of losing the random bits and pieces of micropoetry I throw onto Twitter in the general clutter of my timeline/profile page/whatever it is you call it on Twitter.

Just to keep something of a record of my random writings then, I figured it'd be a good idea to collate them once a month into a Micropoetry Wrap-up type-thingummy.

Here's what I wrote in March (and one day in February,) -

February 29th

I think my heart is breaking darling
but I don't know why
every time I refresh the page the words remain

March 3rd

Were ones of regret.
She gave her children everything
And they never loved her.
She still loves them.


March 4th

The Truth? The Truth is
That you never knew.
Every breath in my lungs?
It was for you.

March 8th

We still face
Obvious & subtle discrimination
Major & minor inequalities
Every day,
Needing to scream - this is 2016!

silhouette woman

March 11th

do this
do that
end up being judged
whatever you do
just the way things go

March 12th

tomorrow I will see you
I wonder if you'll recognise
the one you left behind to die
guess I'm stronger than you thought

March 13th

do you feel sometimes
like people need to learn
that there are other people in this world too?

March 17th

Hello, my dear Shadow Man!
Yes, I love you still -
Though I can't see my Shadow Man,
I know he's with me still.

night sky

March 18th

I asked for your #heart,
You told me no.
Don't go, dear Shadow Man,
Please don't go.

March 28th

I throw words out into the dark
Like tiny fireflies
Hoping to spread light

March 29th

I love you, dear stranger,
Just for being you.
Wherever you may be,
You may count on the love
Of a stranger like me

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Wednesday, 9 March 2016

Cracked Glass Slipper: Cinderella Part 1

Already read Part 1? Check out Part 2 here

This could go great, this could go terribly... but for better or worse, this is the first part of my 'Cracked Glass Slipper' posts.

So, here it is, part 1 of Cinderella. I hope I manage to make you laugh (or at least chuckle, please?)

Cinderella, Part 1

girl blonde

"Whoah, whoah, whoah! You have got to be kidding me."
The old woman didn't answer. Just smiled genially... like she was Julie Andrews or something. Sin hoped that she wouldn't start singing – that was the last thing she needed.
"Seriously – who spiked my drink?" Sin's head was spinning; this was not normal.

Because that sports car? Right next to where they stood on the kerb? In front of her modest front door? - It hadn't been there a minute ago. It had been a pumpkin – an honest-to-God, ever-loving, pumpkin!

Who the hell makes luxury vehicles out of vegetables?!

"Am I having a breakdown? Or a stroke? A psychotic episode? Is that what this is?"

The old lady shrugged, "Possibly. I'm not judging. You taking the car or not?"


The woman looked genuinely confused, "No?"

"Ten minutes ago that thing was a prototype Jack-o-Lantern; I doubt it's gonna be up to safety regs. Or, you know, the laws of physics... and reality, and stuff."

"Oh," she looked kind of pensive, "no-one's ever made that point before."

"Well, what do people normally do? Just take the car?!?" Sin's face twisted in disbelief.

"Well... yes. Of course in the old days it was a carriage, but, yes – they always take the car," if anything, the old lady was starting to look a little offended.

Sin didn't know how to respond. This whole thing was just... there weren't words. Not repeatable ones anyway.

"Look, dear," the woman said, and the innocent-little-old-lady act was getting old fast, as far as Sin was concerned, "you have to get to that boy's house! And the best way to do that is to take this car – after we've got you some appropriate clothing, of course."

"And why do I have to go to Tom's house? And how do you even know about Tom?" Sin crossed her arms, tapping her foot impatiently: she wanted answers – now.

Ah, the day had started so well. True, she'd found Effie drooling on the sofa, again. And Abbie had taken her car without permission, again. But, you know, that was normal. Expected, even.

Abbie was always taking her car. Effie was always crashing on the sofa after one too many vodka shots. Just the hazards of sharing a flat with your step-sisters. Simple as. Especially with Effie still in uni... student life and all that.

And of course she loved them... they just drove her completely around the bend. They wouldn't bug her so much if she didn't love them, after all. That's just the way it goes with family sometimes.

True, she'd had to clean up the cereal massacre someone (Abbie? Probably Abbie.) had left in the kitchen. Then she'd had to make way for Effie's hungover sprint to the bathroom and ask the usual 'Are you ok?' style questions while pretending that she couldn't hear the icky noises her sis was making (yuck, yuck, double-yuck!) But hell, it was Saturday, and Sin honestly didn't care about anything beyond lazing around in her PJ's. Nope, no dark clouds – not today!
woman wearing rings


"It's how it's supposed to go!" man, little-old-lady was pissed; and she still hadn't answered Sin's questions.

Sin wasn't really a 'supposed' to kind of girl. Call it a flaw. Call it a strength. She didn't really care.

"Bite me," she snapped, and turned to go back into the flat; she was done with this.

The old chick grabbed her arm. Hard. Sheesh, was grandma on 'roids?

Sin turned back to glare at her... and stopped. Her heart fluttered. Oh man, she must've drunk something really bad. Because no way was this real.

The old woman was... crackling. No other word sprang to mind (to be fair, her mind was a bit occupied right now.) The old lady's white hair stood on end, flying out behind her. Her eyes were angry. Sparks flew around her – actual, honest-to-God, sparks – green and blue and purple.

"Holy crap!" Ok, not the most eloquent thing Sin could've said – but give her a break, it was kind of a unique situation.

"Sorry girl," the old woman snarled, "we're on a deadline... Bloody millenials"

When the first text had come through, Sin had been happily tucking into toast on the sofa. She didn't answer. The second text came ten minutes later. She didn't answer that one either. Nor did she answer the phonecall that came twenty minutes after that.

She was completely sure that her care-free, dark-cloud-less-Saturday, did not involve a conversation with Tom.

Nope. Not going there. Nope. Not going to answer the phone Tom, no matter how many times you call.

She answered the fifth time he called. The conversation went pretty much as she expected – much swearing (her,) some begging (him,) and an invitation to the birthday bash he was having tonight. She told him she'd rather stick her head in a blender. He asked her to give it a shot. She said she'd think about it. They hung up.

Pretty much how all their conversations seemed to go lately.

"Am I in a dress?"

"Well, how else would you go to the party?"

"I look like a six-year-old's princess fantasy threw up on me."

The old woman shook her head, "Some people are just impossible to please."
What do you think? (Please couch criticism in politeness and courtesy - I bruise easily.)