The 12 Blogging Questions Of Christmas – What Was Your Favourite Book Of 2018?

Blogging is all about interaction and community. During the course of 2018 I have stumbled across all kinds of varied, interesting people. All with relevant and inspiring stories. I’m hoping to find, and interact with, many more in 2019 and beyond. To encourage this intent, I’m going to run a festive themed blog series over the next twelve days which I have imaginatively titled…..cue drum roll……

The 12 Questions of Christmas!!!

Catchy, huh?

Each day I will ask a question. All you have to do is comment and engage with other like minded bloggers. Who knows, your new blogging best friend could be out there just waiting to hear from you. The Lennon to your McCartney, the Simon to your Garfunkel, the Sonny to your Cher. Okay then, maybe not the last one, but you get my drift.

So, without further ado, here’s today’s question.

What’s the best book you read in 2018 and why?

For me, it has to be ‘Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine’ by Gail Honeyman. Startlingly original. Dark, funny, quirky, heart wrenching. Just a few of the words to describe the debut novel which stood head and shoulders over anything else on my Kindle. With honourable mentions to ‘Dark Places’ by Gillian Flynn and ‘Bonfire’ by Krysten Ritter. Anyway, enough of me. Over to you….

I’m Very Very Tired – Part 1

Heavy legs this morning after yesterday’s run but glad I went out when I did, as we are set for another wet and windy weekend in Northern Ireland. It’s 9 a.m. here and still dark. Adam’s rugby has been called off because of the weather and I doubt we will be straying far from the house between now and Monday morning. Which suits me just fine, as I’m very, very tired.

More to follow….

How tired are you today?

Attitude Changes Behaviour

Adam’s rugby squad were visited by a motivational speaker yesterday. Sports psychology is big industry now and with the Ulster Schools Cup starting next month, it was a very appropriate time for such a visit. So instead of charging about on a muddy pitch, thirty teenage boys sat in a classroom and heard the following message – Attitude Changes Behaviour. Three big words.

The speaker told him that if they took nothing else away from the session, to take those three words. He spoke about walking out onto the pitch, as opposed to running out. Not looking at the opposing team, but focusing on your own warm up. And how victory started in the mind, before a ball had been kicked or tackle had been made. The brain is the most important part of any professional athlete. It all starts there.

The same applies to any walk of life. It all starts in the head and, if we confront any situation in life with the wrong attitude, then we are destined for failure. If we adopt a negative attitude, then more than likely there is going to be a negative outcome. I know this better than most people. My default setting is pessimism. Where I am concerned, the glass is invariably half empty.

I struggle with self confidence issues. When you have been plagued with OCD for the majority of your life, it is hard to think otherwise. You are your own worst enemy, an ever decreasing circle of self pity and negativity. If I can’t even defeat the enemy in my head, then how can I be expected to overcome the myriad of challenges I face in the outside world.

For many years I gave up. I allowed the enemy to wash over me and waved the white flag of surrender. I ran away, I gave up on my dreams and aspirations. Alcohol became a refuge, as well as a plethora of other addictive, inappropriate behaviours. I was a mess without a message. There was no hope, no glimmer of light. Only self enforced darkness. I stood on the edge of the abyss, staring down.

The penny eventually dropped. I run marathons now, I’ve written a book. I hold down a challenging, responsible job and have a great family. I’m still wary of new situations and people but I’m trying to instil the same positive mindset in our kids. If nothing else, I want them to avoid the many pitfalls and hazards which I stumbled over. I want them to be better than me, they can be so much better. I want them to attain their full potential.

I don’t want them to be like me, charging around in my 40’s, playing catch up and trying to realise dreams I had 20 years ago. I constantly feel like I’ve wasted time, that I’m running out of time. There isn’t enough time. My every waking hour is taken up with this. I have the attitude now, but my worry is that it’s too late. No matter how hard I work now, it’s too late. This is a ripe feeding ground for my old friend; OCD. It watches. It lurks.

Attitude Changes Behaviour. A phrase I had never heard before the motivational speaker visited Adam’s squad, but one which deeply resonates with me today. I have changed and I am continuing to change. The attitude has been corrected and healthier behaviours installed. I just hope I haven’t left it too late. But at least the kids have a future now. If nothing else, i have achieved that. A legacy I can live with.

Something Has Been On My Mind.

I wrote some time ago that I was no longer going to write exclusively about Christian topics. I described myself as a Christian who blogs, as opposed to a Christian blogger. My reasons for this have been well documented so I don’t think I need to repeat them on this post. Suffice to say, I felt awkward and uncomfortable doing so, given my own fractured faith. Enough said.

At the time, I received a lot of support for my stance. From Christians and non-Christians alike. People replied that they respected my decision and the rationale behind that. Phrases like ‘refreshing honesty’ were thrown about and I felt vindicated. People understood, or at least I thought they did. I forged forward, content that all was well and I could focus on other topics close to my heart.

Very, very gradually though I began to realise that all was not as rosy as I first thought. Certain Christian bloggers stopped reading and commenting on my posts, others less and less so. It has been a trickle, as opposed to a flood, but a noticeable one, nonetheless. Like a leaky tap in the corner of the room. Barely audible but there all the same. Drip. Drip. Drip. In certain quarters, I have become somewhat of a blogging outcast.

It’s not as if I’m shouting atheism from the rooftops. I still consider myself a Christian, albeit a deeply flawed one. The majority of my posts contain a consistent Christian message. Love others. It’s just I choose not to deliver it as overtly as I used to, and as others continue to do. I don’t quote Scripture, although I still read my Bible. My faith is more private. I’m seeking to focus on my relationship with Jesus.

My daily views have dipped considerably and for a long time I was unable to put my finger on the reason for it. Or rather, I chose not to. I didn’t want to speak out loud what I’d been privately thinking for some time. Even less so, I haven’t wanted to air my thoughts. Yet, here I am, writing about it. It’s that whole ‘refreshing honesty’ thing again. I write what I see. I might be horribly mistaken. But that’s what I see.

WWJD – What Would Jesus Do, or rather think? I’m not sure what his views on social media would be. I know it can be a fantastic evangelical tool, if used properly. But I still reckon he would be old school when it came to missionary work. Walking the streets, looking the broken in the eye, loving the unlovable. Not sitting behind a keyboard, tapping merrily away. You can only do so much from there.

Don’t get me wrong. There are still a core of Christian bloggers who I read, and interact with, on a daily basis. They have always shown love in the way they support and encourage me, no matter what I write about. But I see a worrying trend amongst other Christians on WordPress to only interact with other overt Christian bloggers. Isn’t that kind of missing the point?

I saw the same thinking when I went to church. We stick to our own, we don’t reach out beyond our comfort zone. We smile politely and nod and say all the right things, but where is the integrity, the desire to get your hands dirty and mingle in the mire and the mud of the sinful. For that is where Jesus would be. Up to his knees in it. Be that on WordPress or in a doorway with an alcoholic, a drug addict, whoever needed him.

Everybody Hurts. Most of the Time

My neck hurts. This is a surefire indicator of stress. Here’s a true story. The night before I got married, I got a cramp in my neck. Since then, whenever I get stressed, I develop a dull ache in one side of my neck. Cracking it helps. A little. I have no idea if there is a physical reason for this pain, as I’ve never sought medical help. Maybe it’s all in my head. Or neck. Whatever. My neck hurts. No pain in the neck/marriage related jokes please. I’ve heard them all.

The cause of the stress? Undoubtedly the work report from hell. For there must be a hell. Otherwise, where could this report have been spawned? It is a 300 page, paper boomerang. It keeps coming back. Landing on my desk when I least expect it. Edits of edits. Ad nauseum. Maybe I’m too much of a perfectionist, maybe I should just let it go. Wash my hands of it. They know best. Did I mention that my neck hurts?

My legs hurt. Like, proper ache. At least I know the cause of this. I’ve ran the last three days and was contemplating doing likewise today. But I knew after yesterday’s 10K effort, that I needed a day off. I’m trying to run more consistently and my times have reflected that of late. Yesterday was my best 10K in many moons. It’s a great stress buster as well. My neck doesn’t hurt when I run. But now my legs do.

Swings and roundabouts. My father once said you can’t have a pain in two places at the same time. He might have had a point. So, there will be no running today. I’ll be back on it like a car bonnet tomorrow. Winter running is essential if I’m going to be anywhere near ready for my 10th marathon next year. So I grit my teeth, take the wind and rain, take the cold, take the pain, and get out there and do it.

My brain hurts. Who would have thought that the actual writing of a book was the easiest part? Now I’ve entered the murky world of seeking literary representation. I plan to query 10 of them in the New Year. That’s the shortlist. The long list I’m currently wading through nears 500 in total. From there, I’m seeking to whittle down those who I feel are best suited to my work. It’s hard work. My brain hurts.

I’m researching their likes, dislikes, blah blah blah. British, Irish, American. Male, female. Some seem lovely. Encouraging and understanding. Others less so. They portray themselves as gods and seem to delight in intimidating debut authors from their lofty literary towers. ‘If I don’t like the first line of your manuscript, then I probably won’t read anymore.’ One of them actually said that. Jaw dropping arrogance.

I’m about halfway through the long list. My short list is too long. Should I be spending more time on my query letter? Are my opening three chapters strong enough? Why am I thinking about the second book when there is still so much to do on the first? Will people get the humour? The anger? The hopelessness? I’m bracing myself for the worst, and hoping for the best. But my brain hurts.

That’s the icing on the cake. The hurt cake. Cut into it and you find all the other hurt. The worries, the frustration, the disappointment of everyday life. Family, faith, finances, friends. It goes on. Hurt is everywhere. Physical, Mental, Spiritual, it’s all there. Why bother? Why try? What’s the point? Well, here’s the point. Everybody hurts. Most of the time. But I’ll keep going. Because there is hope.

Yesterday was our daughter’s birthday. Our beautiful, brave daughter who has defied doctors and proved them all so wrong. She is worth the hurt. As are my wife and other two kids. I hurt for them. I run to keep the mental demons at bay. I work to pay the bills. I write to pave a better future for us. I hurt for them. Every day is a battle, but every day is an inch in the right direction. Proving the doubters wrong. Proving. Improving. Embrace the hurt.

Where are you hurting today?

Are you embracing the hurt?

The Try That Never Was

Adam was involved in a very tightly contested rugby match yesterday against a much bigger Belfast school. Privately, I wasn’t expecting the boys to win but they played out of their skins, and almost did. The final score was 17-14 but the score doesn’t fully reflect the courage, skill and work ethic the team put into the contest, which was played in wet, bitterly cold conditions.

The score also doesn’t reflect an incident in the first half when Lurgan almost scored a try which would have won the match for them. A kick through was chased to the line by a Lurgan player and member of the opposing side. As the ball crossed the line, both boys dived on it. From where I was standing, it was impossible to tell who had touched the ball first.

The referee was equally unsighted and asked the boys who had grounded the ball first. The crowd, all seven of us, collectively held our breath and I crossed my fingers and toes, hoping it was a score for the home side. At which point one of the Lurgan players, a good friend of Adam’s, informed the referee that the other team touched the ball first. The referee thanked him and the game carried on. No try.

It was a gesture of sportsmanship by a teenage boy which touched me. Rugby is massive in Ireland and our little nation has arguably the best side in the world, heading into next autumn’s World Cup in Japan. It is fiercely competitive at schoolboy level and played to an incredibly high standard. The top schools players normally end up playing professionally. Think college football and the NFL.

It is also a game where the boys are taught to play hard, but fair. They put in bone shaking hits, but afterwards shake hands and applaud each other off the pitch. The referee is always referred to as ‘sir’, and his decisions are final. The game teaches discipline, self control and respect. I often I wish I could display the same restraint on the touchline as Adam and his teammates show on the field of play.

After the match, I asked Adam his thoughts on the try that never was. He replied that they were mixed. While he desperately wanted to win, he admired his friend for doing the right thing, even if it meant defeat. The school principal later tweeted about the incident, stating that he was proud of his pupil for putting honesty before victory at all costs. It represented the values of the school and what they are trying to instil in their students.

I wondered if I would have made the same call. I’m not sure I would have. I’m incredibly competitive and not the best of losers. I so wanted Adam’s team to win, but it wasn’t to be. Yet, as I walked back to the car it didn’t feel as if the team had been beaten. Instead, there was a sense of pride and vindication. I know that, somewhere down the road, the team will be rewarded for what happened on the pitch.

What would you have done? It’s a tough one, isn’t it? The desire to win versus adhering to the rules. It’s so easy for our moral compass to spin out of control when the stakes are high. Dizzy with success, but left inside with an empty feeling and a bitter taste in the mouth. But next time I’m faced with such a decision I’m going to think back to yesterday’s match and the shining example of a 16 year old boy.

What are your thoughts on the try that never was?

How competitive are you? Are you a bad loser?

Have you ever experienced somebody cheating in order to win?

I’ve Written A Book. Now What? – Beta Readers

I’m a happy wannabe author today, having received final feedback from two of my loyal beta readers, Katie and Shae. To say I was pleased with their e-mails is probably the understatement of the decade. I would have jumped in the air and clicked my heels together, but I’m just back from a 7 1/2 mile run so thought better of it. I’ve ended up on my backside once already this week, thanks to an unfortunate encounter with a banana skin.

Both Katie and Shae have waded through all 88 chapters of ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square.’ They both deserve a medal or, at the very least, a round of applause. I really appreciate the time they have given up to read the book, and the care and detail they have taken in providing constructive and honest feedback. I intend to use it to fine tune KSC even more, before I begin querying literary agents in the New Year.

I was filled with trepidation when I first became aware of the beta reading process. The thought of giving up my labour of love to other people was deeply worrying. What if they hated it? What if my dream of becoming a published author was shot down in flames before it even got off the ground? Thankfully, that wasn’t to be and I can now blow a hearty sigh of relief and look ahead.

I struggle with self-belief, and the beta process has proven to me that the last year has been worthwhile. That KSC is not a heap of garbage, and my crazy tale of supernatural beings battling it out on the back streets of Belfast has some merit to it. My heroes are credible, especially Meredith Starc who quickly became the darling of my beta reading community.

I have also stumbled across a villain who drips evil, in the shape of the malignant Augustus Skelly. I have loved writing Skelly probably more than any other character in the book. I’ve only scratched the surface of what happened in the Square on that muddy, bloody afternoon over 200 years ago. There is much more to come and Skelly has plenty more tricks up his sleeve for Kirkwood and Co.

Then there’s Harley Davison, the youngest and bravest of my heroes. She may have the most unfortunate name of all time, but the ‘Rainbow Girl’ means so much to me, being based on my own teenage daughter, Hannah. Hannah has more courage and fight in her little finger than I have in my entire body. I only hope an iota of that comes across in the character of Harley.

The unsung hero is the city of Belfast, where the majority of the book is set. I walk it’s streets every week day and it is the sights and sounds of this beautiful, tragic city that I yearn to convey to you all via the pages of KSC. It’s murky bars and murkier alleys, the humour and resilience of its people. It is a city emerging from a very troubled past into a brighter future. But it still bears the scars.

KSC is currently with my editor, Laura. Another wrench for me, but I need her skilful eye to polish this rough gem into the finished article. I cannot stress enough to those of you setting out on the adventure of writing a book, the value of having it go through the beta process, and then be professionally edited. It’s frightening, but so worthwhile. Dreams do come true. Just ask Kirkwood, Meredith and Harley.

All comments regarding the above post are most welcome. Thank you.

#PitMad On Wordpress

On Twitter yesterday, writers posted book pitches along with the hashtag #pitmad. The idea was to promote their work and garner support amongst the writing community. If you liked the pitch you hit the retweet button. I’m fairly new to Twitter, but decided to give it a rattle anyway. I got 4 retweets! Well, two if you don’t count Fionnuala and Hannah. It’s a start, I guess.

I’m not sure if there’s a similar phenomenon on WordPress, but I do know that there’s no more supportive social media platform. So, why don’t we try it? If you would like to promote your blog, book, poem, short story etc then simply do so in a short post, then share the link with me. I’m not sure what sort of a response I’ll get, but I will then reblog a percentage of them.

Please don’t be offended if I don’t reblog your post. It’s only a bit of fun, after all. Alternatively if you like the idea, but perhaps don’t want to participate, then reblog this post and share the love with your blogging community. I look forward to to being inundated with your offerings. What better way to start a dark and chilly morning here in the frozen wastes of Northern Ireland.

Only People In The Movies Slip On Banana Skins

Have you ever watched an old black and white movie where one of the characters slips on a banana skin and then launches into mid air before coming crashing back to earth again. Cue howls of laughter. Oh stop, my aching sides. I always thought such scenes were confined to the silver screen. Surely such idiots didn’t exist in the real world. Until two days ago, that was.

I was walking through the city centre, on my way to the train station, minding my own business, when suddenly I was propelled skywards. In a scene more befitting of a slapstick version of ‘The Matrix’ I found myself experiencing a weird, out of body sensation. I realised I was in mid air and hung there, awaiting gravity to do ‘its thang’ and return me to terra firma. I didn’t have to wait long.

My right hip collided painfully with the pavement and I lay there, dazed and confused, staring at the offending article. A banana skin. I was more embarrassed than hurt. It was a busy street and I cringed, expecting howls of laughter or, at the very least, a stifled snigger. Nothing. I waited some more. Life continued on around me, as if I was invisible. Had I imagined the entire episode?

Hauling myself gingerly to my feet, I checked all was in order, desperately avoiding eye contact with any of the pedestrians hurrying past in either direction. Too late. An old man caught my eye. Oh well, at least he had the compassion to show an interest in my well being. I braced myself for an embarrassing conversation about how I was fine really, no harm done, thanks for asking anyway, etc etc.

‘You slipped on a banana skin,’ he cheerily announced, before continuing on his way, a broad smile on his face. ‘Er yes, I was aware of that,’ I sourly replied, not sure if he was extracting the urine or somehow thought I was unaware as to what had happened. An old lady then distracted me, by asking was I alright. In the the meantime, 8,473 other people had scurried past, unconcerned as to my plight.

I thanked the lady, muttering I was fine, before fleeing the scene as quickly as I could, given my aching hip and bruised pride. In hindsight, I should have disposed of the banana skin, to save somebody else a similar plight, but at that moment in time, all I wanted was for the ground to open and swallow me up. Later though, I thought about it more. Are people really that uncaring in today’s society?

Okay, I wasn’t badly hurt, but I could have been. Bar Olly Obvious and the old lady, it was as it my aerial antics had been invisible. Are city folk that conditioned nowadays to avoid interacting with other people, for fear of being stabbed, mugged or otherwise harmed? Where have all the Good Samaritans gone? Would I have ran to someone’s aid if I witnessed a similar scenario? I’d like to think I would have. Does that make me a minority of one?

Life is full of banana skins, scattered along the road we travel, just waiting to trip us up along the way. It’s inevitable we will all come a cropper one day and find ourselves flat on our backs, staring up at the sky. It’s then that we need people around who love us and will help us back onto our feet. People who will always love us, no matter what the circumstances. People who hang around, when the going gets tough.

We need those people. We also need to be those people.

Have you ever slipped on a banana skin? Or witnessed someone else? How did you feel? What did you do?

Have you the people around you, who will step up to the mark, when you need help in your life?

I’d Like To Thank My Family, My Agent….

Oh hang on I don’t have an agent. Well not yet anyway, but I’m working on that one. Yesterday, Fractured Faith passed 8000 followers, a milestone that has been looming on the horizon for some weeks now. As I have written about in previous posts, there are mixed feelings about this achievement. I won’t go over those again. Let’s just say I’m happy, but a little nervous.

I worked out yesterday if everyone bought a copy of the book when/if it’s published, I could give up my job, or at least take a career break to work on the second book. It’s a pipe dream, I know, but a nice thought all the same. The blog is the platform for the book so I’m committed to maintaining the former, in order to give the latter a chance at life. It’s swings and roundabouts, the chicken and the egg, yadda yadda.

That aside, I’d like to thank you all for your continued support and encouragement. At least once a day, I receive a comment that makes it all worthwhile. A comment that dispels the inner demons of doubt and disbelief. Here’s to the next thousand, I think. Now, unfortunately, I’m off to the day job. Needs must and all that. I’ll see you all on the other side. Thank you again, my fellow bloggers.

Where Are You God?

It was a frosty start this morning as we arose to face a dark and dreary Tuesday. The car thermometer informed us it was below freezing as Fionnuala drove me out to the train station for my daily commute to Belfast. Ahead of us was another busy day. The weekend seems a long way off, and tends to be even busier than the week itself. The Christmas break can’t come quick enough.

My local train station in the morning resembles the American evacuation of Hanoi. Utter chaos. Woefully inadequate car parking facilities mean vehicles are abandoned on the road, as school children and office workers converge on the tiny stop. The mighty minds at Northern Ireland Translink have also cut the number of carriages, meaning getting a seat is nigh on impossible.

We cram onto the train, jostling for position and breathing space. I’m convinced I will be asked one of these days to sit on the roof, more akin to Mumbai than Moira. Everyone looks suitably miserable on the journey into Belfast, the majority with their noses buried in their phones or other electronic devices. Eye contact is kept to a minimum and Heaven forbid you attempt to strike up a conversation.

When we arrive in Belfast, it’s a stampede onto the platform and every man and woman for themselves in the dash for the barriers. Where sour faced staff await us, begrudgingly inspecting our tickets before allowing us through and onto the hustle and bustle of the city centre and beyond. Despite the lights being up, I don’t think the festive spirit has gripped the city yet. I’m not sure if it ever will.

The walk to the office is equally grim. It’s as if the number of homeless people in Belfast multiplies by the day. They huddle in doorways and shopfronts, cocooned in blankets, but still shivering against the biting cold. I walk past and onwards to my warm office, where petty office political wrangles await. Want to fully expose yourself to the lowest human qualities? Greed, arrogance, deceit? Work in an open plan office for a year.

It’s at times like this I ask, where is God? For I don’t see him on my daily commute. Instead, I see a world I’m not particularly proud to be a part of, a world that seems to be spiralling out of control. God has been very quiet in our lives of late. Hopes have been dashed, prayers gone unanswered, and obstacles loom up in every direction to frustrate and restrict us. I still believe in God, but I do wonder at times. Where are you?

Then, Fionnuala pointed out the sky to me this morning. She was looking up, whereas I was glumly staring ahead. That sums up the two of us quite well. The photo below doesn’t do justice to the majestic orange and purple hue, framing a crescent moon, kept company by a lone star, blazing brilliantly over the gloomy earth below. I wonder if the Wise Men looked upon a similar sight as they journeyed to Bethlehem.

The sight gave me hope. Hope that there are better times, and that God has better plans ahead for us. It certainly doesn’t feel that way, at present, but I guess that is what faith is all about. Without hope, we are lost. We need to believe in something, otherwise life is pointless. We need guidance. A single star in a chilly morning sky might not be much. But for me, today, it was enough.

What do you believe in?

Life is Meh. But At Least We Have Doughnuts

I pride myself on being positive when I blog, but when I sat down to write today, I was struggling to find anything. The well was empty . The last few days have been quite disheartening for us, with very little seeming to go our way. Fionnuala saved the day, though, by bringing these bad boys home for from a shopping trip to Dublin. Everything seems (slightly) better after a Krusty Kreme Doughnut.

What treat makes your day less meh?

It’s Not Online Stalking! It’s Research!!

Now that the book is written and nestling in my editors inbox, I’ve been twiddling my thumbs about what to do next. Well, that’s not strictly true as it appears writing the actual novel is only the tip of the iceberg. I’ve now entered the wonderful world of submissions to literary agents. Which brings me to the title of this post. I’ve started to follow a number of them on social media. Because, it appears, that is the ‘done thing’ to do.

In the New Year, I will start to submit the manuscript to a number of these agents. Between now and then, I need to draw up a shortlist, agents who are seeking the type of book I’m pitching. There’s no point singing the praises of my urban fantasy book blockbuster to someone who is only interested in period romances. It’s like trying to hammer a round peg into a square hole. With a lettuce leaf.

Most of these literary agents hang out on Twitter, so I’ve set up an account to study them in their natural environment. I want to learn what they’re looking for, who they already represent, what colour their underwear is, stuff like that. Ok, I made the last one up, but you never know when such information can come in handy. At the end of this process I should have a list of agents who I can approach.

In a past life, I had a Twitter account with 8500 followers. This was during a particularly bleak period of my life when I was more interested in likes and follows than I was in what was going on around me in the real world. So, it is with some trepidation that I am returning to the world of the little blue bird. It brings with it some memories I would rather not revisit. Yet, here I am.

Seems, not much has changed. A lot of tweeters still post religiously requesting retweets, follows and er…..little else. I’m giving such people a wide berth, seeking to focus on legitimate authors, agents and publishers who all share a love of the written word. I have a grand total of 102 followers! Not quite the dizzy heights of 8500, but I’m happy so far with the niche I’ve carved. I’m focusing on quality, as opposed to quantity this time around.

Now, WordPress is an entirely different social media beast from Twitter. From my experiences to date. bloggers appear much more genuine, supportive and dare I say it….real. But the 8500 figure has always bothered me, increasingly so as Fractured Faith nears 8000 followers itself. I don’t want to get dragged into past mistakes I made on social media. Following people, just for the sake of it.

I care about my followers now, and I want to conduct myself online in a manner where I interact with fellow bloggers for genuine, as opposed to shallow, reasons. I see blogging and the book as a pathway to a better life, as opposed to the drain hole I was being sucked into in my Twitter heyday. I want to construct a future, where previously my destructive urges held sway.

I’m back stalking the Twittersphere but in an entirely different guise. I slip, I stumble, I get horribly lost, but I refuse to give up. I refuse to give in. When my son loses a rugby match, he comes back fitter and stronger for the next game. I’m aspiring to be the same, but with less mud and bruises. Look out literary agents, I’m coming to get you. And no restraining order is going to hold me back this time.

Why do you have a social media presence?

Can You?

Northern Ireland seems to be in a state of permanent darkness at present. When I wake up it’s dark, cold, wet and windy. I go to work and sit in an office all day. With no windows. Then I come home. It’s dark, cold, wet and windy. The only time I encounter daylight is on my lunchtime run. When it’s slightly less dark but still cold, wet and windy. Has the Arctic Circle been moved south without anyone telling us?

These conditions affect us all but at least I have a warm house to go home to at night. On my walk to and from the office I feel sad for the growing number of rough sleepers who I pass. I stopped the other day and gave a few pounds to one of my homeless friends, Inesa. She was huddled outside the train station with her dog, Poppy. Poppy is in immaculate health. Shiny coat, wet nose and well fed. Inesa, not so much.

You see, Inesa puts her dog’s health before her own. She told me she has had a flu for three weeks and her boyfriend, Vladimir, was too ill to venture down into the town from the park where they sleep at night, when they don’t have the £40 needed to stay in a bed and breakfast. Inesa is too scared to stay in a hostel because of the hassle she gets from another girl, Maria.

Maria told me a different story, of course. The truth is an evasive commodity and I have to take everything I’m told with a generous pinch of salt. I’m minded to believe Inesa, though. She is always sober, polite and humble when I see her. She never asks for anything and when I do offer to help, she always accepts it reluctantly. She once told me she felt bad taking money from me, as I have children to look after.

Inesa is on a journey, as am I, and our paths have chosen to cross on the drab streets of Belfast. The aforementioned Maria is the inspiration behind the character of Meredith Starc, in the book I’m just finished, but there’s a dash of Inesa in there as well. Meredith also has that humility and pride, despite her circumstances. I told Inesa this once and she laughed with genuine delight, that she would end up in a novel.

I was running along the Lagan Towpath yesterday, accompanied by two rowers who cut a swathe through the water to my left. All three of us were working hard. I was pumping my legs while their arms strained to propel themselves along. It was a fairly even contest. At times I was ahead of them, while on other occasions they forged into the lead. But, we were all heading in the same direction.

My prayer and hope today is that Inesa, Maria, Vladimir and all the other rough sleepers in Belfast, continue on their allotted journeys, with brighter times ahead. And if this post can prick the conscience of one person today to show kindness and love to similar folk in their own town and city, then my work is done. They deserve better and I know I can do more. Much more. Can you?

Who Would Win A Fight Between Donald Trump’s Hair And Tom Selleck’s Moustache?

Living in Northern Ireland, a country obsessed with politicians who are utterly incapable of agreeing about anything, you would think an educated, intelligent young man about town like myself would have more than a passing knowledge of the subject. Well, yah boo sucks to you, for I have very little interest in our learned leaders. As they are, by and large, buffoons of the highest order.

I don’t understand Brexit other than it appears to preoccupy the majority of the United Kingdom. Hard borders? Me no understand. Nor do I care to. No, whenever the news is on, I tend to zone out and focus on matters utterly irrelevant to what is actually being said. This happened earlier today when I watched an interview of Donald Trump on the White House lawn. He was about to get into a helicopter.

Firstly the background noise suggested that he was standing quite close to the helicopter for he could barely be heard about the sound of its rotor blades. He was shouting, something else which he tends to do a lot. I couldn’t tell you what he was shouting about, but I’m sure it was very important and probably involved the Russians or the Saudi Arabians. Possibly both.

No, there was only one question burning a hole within me. Why doesn’t somebody tell the helicopter pilot to turn the engine off.? That way, there would be no need for POTUS to bellow like an angry hippopotamus and become so red faced I feared he was about to suffer an embolism. You would think he could hold fire a few minutes, to allow the most powerful man in the free world to speak in more measured tones.

Equally disturbing was Mr. President’s hair which has always fascinated me. It has a strangely mesmeric quality. Whenever it appears on my television screen, I am hopelessly glued to it which is all the more ironic given it’s attachment to Donald’s skull. Yet, in the face of high powered chopper blades, it didn’t budge an inch. Not an inch, I tells ya!

Is there where the NASA budget is currently being siphoned off? To fund top secret government research into industrial strength hair products. I suspect this may lie at the heart of improved US-North Korean relations of late. Kim Jong-Un anyone? Never a hair out of place. I’m right you know, I know I am. Putin has no need for such products. Never mind the hole in the ozone layer, if it even exists that is. More hairspray please.

The only man who even comes close to matching Trump with regards follicular matters is Tom Selleck. He of Magnum P.I., Friends and most recently, Blue Bloods. Quite frankly, the man has most magnificent moustache I have ever set eyes upon. His face furniture is unparalleled. I’m convinced he got the Magnum gig, due to similar helicopter/hair related issues as referred to above.

Which brings me to the heart of this post. Never mind international trade treaties or gun law restrictions? The real debate is – If Selleck and Trump were to go toe to toe in a wind tunnel then who would prevail? The immovable barnet or the unstoppable lip caterpillar? I ask that you give this matter your urgent consideration and comment below. The world thanks you.

I’m On Twitter. I Think.

I’ve made the decision to open a personal Twitter account in order to promote my writing. It’s early days yet but I’ll be tweeting bite sized versions of the usual nonsense you find on the blog every day. If you’re on Twitter, pop over and say hello. Or follow me even. My username (is that even the right word?) is:

@stephenRB4

Just click on the hyper link to follow me there

Help Required

Now that the manuscript for ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square’ is with my editor, you would think I could slow down and take a break. Er….no. I’ve decided to give the traditional publishing route a shot and see what all those lovely literary agents think of my work. In order to do that, I have to submit query letters, a book synopsis, stuff like that. Does this madness never end?

I need YOUR help, good people of WordPress. So, pay attention please.

Do you know any reputable literary agents currently accepting submissions for Urban Fantasy novels?

If you don’t, I’d be grateful if you could reblog this to your community as maybe someone out there might be able to help.

Thank you in advance

Stephen

Kirkwood Flies The Nest

Yes. It’s finally happening….

Later today, I will be e-mailing my editor, Laura, the latest (5th but who’s counting) draft of my book. It weighs in at a whopping 125K words and 425 pages, but I can do no more with it. Time for ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square’ to fly the nest and venture out into the big, bad world. It’s also the reason the blog has been reasonably quiet this last while. Needs must all that.

While Laura works her magic on the manuscript, I will be refocusing on preparing my query letter and book synopsis. I’ll also be targeting via online research the literary agents I would like to approach. Then I’m going to cross my fingers, legs and toes and hope for the best. What’s the worst that they can say? We hate it? It’s rubbish? Well, we shall see. But at least I can say I’ve achieved my dream of writing a book.

Thanks to everyone who has supported this far on the journey. Further updates to follow.

It Was Too Good To Eat….So I Ate It

I was in a coffee shop the other day and was drawn to this bad boy. A raspberry and white chocolate scone. An uber scone, a scone to end all scones. Thankfully the calorific content was nowhere to be seen, as it lured me onto the rocks of decadence. I was powerless to resist and, before I knew it, the scone was on my plate and destined for my stomach. Scones like this are the reason I run 40 miles a week.

I’m happy to report it tasted just as good as it looked although, if I’m honest, it barely touched the sides going down. I was tempted to go up to the counter for a second one, but at the last minute resisted the urge to make an utter pig of myself in public. Self control and Stephen are not normally on speaking terms, but on this occasion I reined in my baser cravings and stuck to the one serving.

I’m not very good at saying ‘no.’ I’m a creature of excess. When I drank, one or two beers wasn’t enough, I had to keep going until I passed out, making a complete idiot of myself in the process. When I took up running, I wasn’t happy at reaching 5K. I kept going until I crossed the finish line in my first marathon. And then ran another eight. So far. Number 10 is planned for next year.

The good thing about running is that I can pretty much eat what I want, within reason. My thighs might ache, but it’s worth it when you can look forward to edible treats at the end of the day. In the bad old days, I would binge eat and then crash diet, surviving on toast and Diet Coke. This behaviour was all tied into my OCD, resulting in bizarre eating habits which I found incredibly hard to shake.

Many people see OCD as a controlling mental illness and, to an extent, it is. Victims are shackled to an ever decreasing circle of unwanted obsessive thinking and irrational compulsions. We also lose control, though. Control of our lives as we succumb to the routine, always the routine. It takes control of our lives as we simultaneously lose control. It tricks, it seduces, it tears us to pieces.

OCD promises release and relief from its mental anguish if we only wave the white flag and surrender to the compulsion. The thought of even momentary escape from it, is tempting beyond belief. We are dragged, kicking and screaming, into its hungry embrace. Like my raspberry and white chocolate scone, that next pint, that next whatever my obsession of the week was, I couldn’t say no.

It was too good to eat, but I still had to eat it. The texture, the taste, it lured me to the extent where, before I know it, I’m cramming it’s sugary goodness down my throat. I cross the line, I push the button, I crave the one thing that’s bad for me, but I just have to have it. Until reality sets in. The next time I wake up with a hangover, step on the scales or fall down the OCD rabbit hole without a bottom.

I manage my OCD today through a combination of medication, having the right people around me and being transparent and accountable about it. I can never rest on my laurels, for it is a slippery and cunning enemy. All it needs is one chunk in my armour, one gap in my defences and it will pour through. It will unleash hell and I will be powerless to resist. OCD is a killer, but I’m alive today and that’s all that matters.

Do you struggle with addictive behaviour? How do you control such urges?

Where are the gaps in your defences? How do you prevent them from being breached?

10K Day

I ran my fastest 10K in months today and finally feel I’m coming out of the running slump I underwent following the Causeway Coast Marathon, two months ago. I’ll not be setting Personal Bests any time soon, if ever, but it feels good to recover a little speed and be running at a reasonable pace again. The fact I haven’t ran beyond 10 miles since the marathon also helps.

I’m increasingly convinced my running improves in the cooler weather. The last two summers my form has tailed off, and only picked up again in the autumn. Maybe it’s my Northern Irish blood, but I don’t seem to appreciate warm conditions. Colder weather can be tough initially but, so long as you have sufficient base layers, you soon heat up after a mile or so.

My thighs are aching this evening but it’s a worthwhile pain. My long term target is the 2019 Belfast Marathon, my 10th. I’ll factor in a few half marathons in the New Year as prep races and start to build up my longer runs from after Christmas. Until then, it’s just a matter of keeping things ticking over. Running is my therapy and I’d recommend it to anyone looking to clear the cobwebs from their head.

It’s 23 November….Happy Christmas!

HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

Er….okay. I realise it’s not even December yet, but Fionnuala and I buckled to pressure from our daughters today. Hannah has already been watching Christmas movies for several weeks, and was belting out festive tunes this morning in the car. It was only a matter of time before I was dispatched to the roof space, armed only with a shaky stepladder and a wonky head torch which has seen better days.

Every January I vow to put away the Christmas decorations in an orderly, systematic manner so that the following December, or mid November, I can easily retrieve them without sustaining a hernia in the process. And every January, they get haphazardly hurled into the pitch black void and forgotten about for the next twelve months. Do I ever learn my lesson? No, I do not.

There follows the traditional sight of yours truly stumbling about in the darkness, muttering and mumbling at the grievous injustice of it all. I wrestle with artificial trees, hunt down recalcitrant Santa figures and roller skate on stray baubles, my arms flailing like windmills as I struggle to stay upright and avoid an unscheduled visit to Accident & Emergency. The joy of Christmas. No. Not ever.

This year’s frolics were enhanced by being on call. There is no more bizarre feeling than conducting high powered telephone conversations while balancing precariously ten feet off the ground in pyjama bottom, a tatty hoodie and several garlands of tinsel. Please do not tell my bosses any of the above. Christmas on the unemployment queue would not go down very well with Fionnuala and the hatchlings.

My efforts were not in vain, however. While I was lurching from one calamity to the next, Fionnuala and the kids were assembling the masterpiece below. I take no credit whatsoever for it, as my wife is undoubtedly the brains and beauty of our marriage. Her innovation and imagination when it comes to all things creative, never fails to amaze me. I can barely tie my own shoe laces.

So, Christmas has arrived at chez Black, and not before time. As ever, ours is the first tree up in the street this year. That said, Fionnuala has vowed we will be scaling down the decorations this time around. No seven foot inflatable Homer Simpson Santa’s in the front garden and NASA will not be able to see our house from space. The plus side is we won’t have a five figure electricity bill to look forward to in January.

You may share in our early festive spirits. You too, may be breaking out the mince pies and binge watching endless Christmas movies which all have the same plot; successful business type who hates Christmas returns to their home town, only to fall in love with their high school sweetheart (eventually) and, in doing so, discover the true meaning of Christmas. Tell me I’m wrong?

I promise not to blog about Christmas again until at least 01 December. Although, that may be a lie. Now excuse me while I extricate myself from the roof space. I’ve been up here for hours, my head torch is fading and I’m starting to get hungry. If I’m not back on here tomorrow can someone contact the emergency services. Or at the very least, lob a few mince pies in my direction.

When does Christmas start in your house?

Who puts the decorations up in your home?

Where is the strangest place you’ve taken a phone call?

Why do all Christmas movies have the same plot?

Happy Thanksgiving From Ireland

Happy Thanksgiving to all our American followers. Being a sad man, I looked up the number of views Fractured Faith has had this year. Of the 79,053, over 45,000 of these were from the good old U.S of A. I have no idea what you see in the ramblings of a Northern Irish man but I am thankful today for all of you. Have a great day, don’t eat too much turkey and let’s hope the Redskins beat the Cowboys!

How are you Thanksgiving Day?

I hate Guinness and I’m Irish. What national treasure do you despise?

What NFL/College team do you follow?

It Is Finished

It is finished.

The report, that is, which I’ve been fretting over these last few weeks at work. Following a final big push, it will be submitted today to they who must be obeyed. I can sit back, relax for 11.6 seconds, and then find something else to panic about, for that is who I am and that is what I do. I used to joke that I don’t meet deadlines, I beat them. Well, this one has left me feeling half dead, as well as pretty beat up.

I’m celebrating by taking a half day and going to watch Adam play a cup match against my old school, Omagh Academy. Today, though, I will be cheering on Lurgan College. Adam is returning to the team after a bout of illness. Part of me doesn’t want him to play in such a big match as he might not be 100% recovered, but I don’t think wild horses could keep him off the pitch today.

Watching my son play rugby is one of my favourite pastimes. Yes, I’ve become a ‘Rugby Dad,’ and I rarely miss a match. It’s nerve wracking watching him out there competing in such a tough, physical sport against boys two years older (and bigger) than him; but that’s the level he’s playing at now and he gives as good as he gets. He has no fear and a level of composure and concentration that I can only aspire to.

His position is tight head prop, one of the most technical and important roles in the team. He is the base of the scrum, the lynchpin if you will. If he is having an off day, then the pack cannot function as a unit, and it all starts to fall apart. I think that’s why the coaches are so keen for him to play today, in such a big match. They need him, in order for the team to perform to its full potential.

I’ve been feeling demotivated and a little jaded in work of late. Unappreciated and frustrated. But the report deadline, stressful as it was, has succeeded in making me realise, I still have a role to play in my 9-5 world. I contributed and know my boss valued my efforts. I surprised even myself with my knowledge of the subject matter and performed under pressure in order to hit the submission time on time.

I’m fortunate to have the job I do, and should never take it for granted. My family come first obviously, but publishing books and running marathons won’t happen unless the bills are paid. The job is the foundation, upon which the other dreams are built. I should be grateful for my job, not griping that it takes me away from the fun things I would rather be spending my time at. The two go hand in hand.

So, today, as I stand on the touchline, trying desperately not to embarrass my son by haranguing the referee, I will realise I’m only there because of the job. It’s a grind, it’s a pain, but it’s a blessing as well. I contribute, I make a difference, and this report is part of that. Like with Adam, the team I work in cannot function to its full potential, without my input. I’m a cog, but a crucial cog.

This deadline has breathed new life into me. It’s another corner turned, another obstacle overcome. Another step in the right direction, to where I want to be. To where I need to be. I have a plan, and I’m totally focused on getting there. I’m not going to give up now, not when I’m so close. Wild horses couldn’t keep me from playing in the games coming up. Yes, it is finished. But, in other ways, it’s only just begun.

Do you ever feel undervalued at work?

How do you handle pressure and deadlines?

Are you where you want to be in life?

I’m Giving Up Blogging To Join The Circus

Relax. I’m not. Although….

I was driving home from work last week, after a brutally tough day in the office. My head was fried, my brains were mush. All I wanted to do was get home and vegetate on the sofa. I was too tired to write, run, do anything really. My neck ached, a sure fire sign of a stressed Stephen. That’s when I saw it. Sitting in front of me at traffic lights. Sign from above or utter coincidence? I had no idea. But there it was.

The circus school van…..

I had no idea such centres of learning existed. A school where I could learn to crack a whip and traverse a tightrope. A seat of education where I could master the art of being fired from a cannonball, yet live to tell the tale. This was my chance, an opportunity to escape the monotonous morass of life. Where the bills mounted up and responsibility weighed heavy on tired shoulders and weary eyes.

Then reality struck as it invariably does, and the dream evaporated in front of my eyes, before it had even taken shape. The grass wasn’t greener on the other side. The side where the big top sat proud, it’s flag fluttering enticingly in a refreshing breeze. I couldn’t ditch life, and run away to join the circus. I had a wife, three kids and a border terrier. What’s more, there was all this….

Ahem. In no particular order….

1 – I’m scared of heights. So you can forget about the tightrope walking, or being flung through the air from one trapeze artist to the next. I don’t care if there’s a safety net below to catch me if I fall. I ain’t going up there. It’s non-negotiable. Plus, nobody wants to see me in sequins and lycra. That’s a bridge too far, in anyone’s books. As in, bridge between Hong Kong and mainland China too far.

2 – I’m scared of clowns. No, make that terrified. Clowns are evil. Ever since I watched the library scene in Stephen King’s ‘It,’ where Pennywise the Clown is standing there with the red balloon. Then there’s Brian Denehy in that John Wayne Gacy movie. The zombie clown in ‘Zombieland.’ The list is endless. Clowns are a phobia I will take to my grave. Behind their rictus grins lie madness.

3 – I can’t juggle. Give me two batons and I’m fine. Add a third, and within seconds, I’m all fingers and thumbs. My hand to eye coordination, what little there is of it, goes to pieces and it all comes crashing to the ground. It’s a metaphor for my current circumstances really. There are too many balls in the air, so something has to give. And as for flaming torches? Let’s move swiftly on, shall we?

4 – Only an idiot would get in a cage with a ravenous lion, armed with a chair, whip and comedy moustache. If Leo really wanted to, I’m sure he could make quick work of Marco the Magnificent or whatever he chooses to call himself. Plus, there’s the whole ethical side of it, which I won’t even go into. Suffice to say, the taming of lions is a non starter. I couldn’t even train our Charlie to sit and give you his paw.

So, as I said, relax. I’ll be here on WordPress for the foreseeable future. I’ll run and I’ll write. I’ll slog on at work and do the best I can to finish this book I’ve been droning on about for over a year. But I won’t be picking up the phone and calling Belfast Circus School. Life in a caravan, traveling the length and breadth of our fair island is not for me. I’ll stick to what I know. Sometimes that’s the best way.

Do you ever dream about running away and joining the circus? Or just running away?

What are the pros and cons of running away?

Book Update

Having failed miserably to get near the book all week due to work commitments, I resolved to resurrect my ‘red pen’ edit this afternoon. Fionnuala and the hatchlings were off to visit my wonderful mother in law, so I had the house to myself. Deciding to sacrifice my weekend long run, I settled down to the grind of poring over every line, sentence and page of the latest draft. Deep joy, I know.

Seven hours and copious amounts of toast and Diet Coke later, I sat in my hoodie and pyjama bottoms, a happier man. I’d managed to cut a swathe through twenty chapters of the book, leaving me nine short of the finish line. My brain is frazzled, I’ve a three day old beard and the thousand yard stare that all aspiring writers are well familiar with. All being well, this time next week I should be finished.

I was more impressed by this, given my mind was already chopped liver, facing a Doomsday deadline next week for delivery of a big report for the powers that be. This necessitated me going into work on Saturday, something I haven’t had to do in a very long time. I loathe giving up my weekends, even for time and a half, but needs must and all that. Ten hours hammering away at a keyboard is not great preparation for an editing frenzy the following day.

The silver lining, as ever, are my wonderful beta readers. I received fantastic feedback from one of them this week. I won’t say who they are, as they are the shy and retiring type, but the words ‘Killed’, ‘Betty’ ‘I’ and ‘How’ feature in their blog name. It was just want I needed, when at a low literary ebb. Encouraging without being gushing and constructive without being soul destroying.

After this final self edit, I’ll be reviewing and tweaking the manuscript in line with my beta feedback. Then it will be forwarded to my editor, Laura, to turn the lumpy, rough diamond into a sparkling jewel. I’ll then launch myself into the lions den of querying agents and pestering publishers. I’m less nervous of this as I was a few weeks ago. If all else fails, I will (self) publish and be damned.

My blogging and running have both suffered this week, due to the pressures of work but, at the end of the day, the job pays the bills so it’s a reluctant priority for me. I’m hopeful that by midweek there will be less pressure coming from that arena, and I’ll be able to focus on more enjoyable pursuits. I’ll be back running tomorrow lunchtime as I need that break from my computer screen in the middle of the day.

Oh….and for those of you that don’t know, the book is titled ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square,’ and is the first part of a YA urban fantasy set in modern day Belfast. Our eponymous hero is a twenty something paper pusher battling a tragic past, spiralling mental health issues and a life going nowhere fast. All that changes when he meets a mysterious homeless girl who may hold the key to vanquishing the imaginary demons in his mind.

There’s just one problem. What if they’re not imaginary? Kirkwood finds himself at the centre of an ancient battle between supernatural forces of good and evil, struggling to save the planet and retain his own sanity in the process. All set against the murky backdrop of Belfast street life. It’s taken me a year to write and I’m very proud of it. I hope you all get to read it one day. Thank you as ever.

Are you writing a book? At what stage of the process are you at?

Who are your favourite Young Adult authors? Apart from me, that is?

Would you read ‘Skelly’s Square?’

Homeless Jesus

Soooooo…..

I was out for my lunchtime run today, when I was literally stopped in my tracks by a new addition to the Belfast landscape. Outside a homeless centre I regularly run past, was a statue. At first glance, it appears fairly unremarkable. It’s a bronze sculpture of a man lying beneath a blanket on a park bench. What caught my eye, however, was the name of the sculpture – ‘Homeless Jesus.’

Behind the statue was a inscribed description of the piece. It was created by a Canadian sculptor, Timothy Schmalz, and depicts Jesus as a homeless person. His face and hands are obscured by the blanket, but the crucifixion wounds on his feet reveal his true identity. The sculpture is intended as a visual translation of the words Jesus gave to his followers in Matthew 25:45.

‘As you did it to one of the least of my brothers, you did it to me.’

Over the last couple of years I have built tentative relationships with a number of rough sleepers who I regularly pass in my travels around the city centre. I’ve blogged about them in the past and one of the main characters in the book I’m currently writing is homeless. I try to help these folk the best I can, by conversing with them, helping them where I can financially, and basically treating them as human beings.

I could do so much better though. When it’s been near the end of the month and the bank account is running low, I’ve been known to actively avoid my homeless friends as I cannot afford to buy them a cup of tea. Even though very few of them ask for money and often I have to force it upon them. They are proud young men and women and are loathe to be regarded as wasters and scroungers.

The statue stopped me dead today for it pricked my conscience. I once attended a suicide in the homeless centre outside where it is now located. A tragic end to a young life, but sadly no longer a rarity amongst our urban homeless communities. The underbelly of our society which we are quick to hurry past on our way to the office, or chuck a few coins in their direction and smugly feel we have met our social and moral obligations for the day.

I can do so much more. I call myself a Christian and like to view myself as a decent person. Yet, what would Jesus make of the behaviour I’ve described in the paragraphs above? Talking the talk and walking the walk, but only when it suits me. Even if I can’t give them the coins in my pocket, I can still afford them my time and prayers. I’m not perfect and I never will be. But I can do better. Much better. Can you?

What do you make of ‘Homeless Jesus’?

Do you do enough for the homeless people in your town or city?

Cutting Corners

Life is so busy at the minute, I’ve been tempted to cut several corners. There just aren’t enough hours in the day to accomplish everything I want to cram into it. Something always has to give, which I’m loathe to do as everything seems a priority at present. It would be so easy to take a few short cuts on my way from A to an increasingly far away B. I mean, would anyone even notice if I took a teensy weensy deviation or two?

In my early running career, I ran a trail 10K over a winding forested route. I knew I was running well, but amazed when I neared the finish line to see the digital clock displaying I had slashed three minutes off my previous personal best. I was delighted….until I checked my Garmin which showed my distance as several hundred metres short of 10K. I was gutted and most annoyed with the organisers who had robbed me of my moment of glory.

I was on the verge of firing off a strongly worded e-mail when I checked the small print of the race instructions. Here, I was rather smugly informed that race distance could not be guaranteed due to the hilly topography of the area. I was left with a conundrum. Did I claim a PB (it was a 10K race after all) or just scratch a line through the event, and put it down to experience. In the end, I chose the latter.

It just didn’t feel right to claim the accolades when I hadn’t run the full distance. I had cut corners, albeit not knowingly. The race organisers were at fault, but it still felt disingenuous of me to crow about my time. I hadn’t run 10,000 metres and wasn’t comfortable claiming I had. This weird, heavy sensation settled on my chest. I think it’s called guilt, but could be mistaken.

The same applies to my work and other commitments this week. I could turn a blind eye here, and overlook dotting that ‘I’ or crossing that ‘t’. But it wouldn’t sit easily with me. I would be putting quantity ahead of quality and undoing the high standards I previously have applied to the various projects I’m working towards. Life is about the long haul, taking the rough with the smooth and battling through whatever obstacles confront you.

Short cuts lead to danger. Less traveled paths are poorly lit and full of traps and pitfalls waiting to trip up the unsuspecting hiker. There are bears, wolves and all sorts of beasties waiting to pounce. Best keeping to the wide, well lit avenues you are supposed to be on. So I’ll keep plodding along. It might not be the most exciting journey in the world but at least I know I’m on the right track. Plus you can be guaranteed one thing. You never know what is around the next corner.

Are you tempted to cut corners?

What path are you on today?

Is it the right one?

My Week’s Been Meh – How About You?

I’ve been devoid of words this week. Last night, I sat down to write a blog post. Normally, I start with an idea and just go with the flow. The words tend to follow quickly and before you know it, voila, the post is finished. I’ve gotten into a habit of posting regularly, which means I maintain a presence on WordPress, while still chipping away at editing the book. Last night was different. I had nada, nothing, zilch.

The tank was empty. The well was dry. Since starting to write again, 18 months ago, I’ve never really experienced the dreaded writers block. And I’m unable to pinpoint what has been at the heart of my current malaise. Yes, I’m tired, but then Fionnuala and I are permanently tired. We’re parents, that’s what we do. The alarm clock always goes off too early and lie-ins are a very rare luxury.

I’m also still recovering from a tooth extraction which is taking longer to heal than I thought it would. I’ve been popping painkillers every day, which undoubtedly doesn’t help with regards the prevailing feeling of lethargy. If it persists, I’m going to have to revisit the chamber of horrors, otherwise known as my dental surgery. For someone who has never had problems teeth wise, 2018 has been my annus horriblis…..er….toothus.

Work has been incredibly busy. Senior management are (literally) screaming for a 350 page report that my boss and I have been painstakingly crafting for several weeks now. They want it yesterday and we are resisting the pressure by telling them it will be ready when it is ready. We both take pride in our work and aren’t prepared to sacrifice quality and accuracy for a quick turnaround.

The report is sucking up a lot of my creative energy. After sitting at a computer screen all day writing and editing, the last thing you want to do when you go home is sit at a computer screen, writing and editing. I’ve also been helping Rebecca revise for her upcoming school tests as well as the 101 other tasks that take up your time when you step through the front door in the evening.

Progress on the book has also suffered. I’ve reached the stage where I’m sick of reading it over and over again. Every time, I discover more glaring errors and omissions that I somehow failed to detect in the preceding four edits. It’s one step forward, five steps back at times. So much so, that I’ve had to walk away from it for a few days. When is a book finished? Are you ever 100% happy with it?

I ran today for the first time this week and was very pleased with my pace and stamina. That is one area where I seem to be holding firm. I’m hoping for another 30 plus mile week. Running is great therapy for me, the mental and physical glue that holds my frayed ends together. Not having any upcoming race targets has also allowed me to relax a little and not beat myself up as much.

I’ve titled this post ‘My Week’s Been Meh’, which might be a tad theatrical but what can I say, I’m an aspiring author so claim that as my prerogative. There’s nothing wrong and things could be a billion times worse. I’m not sad, I’m not unhappy, I’m just….meh. Hopefully this post will act as a catalyst to kick start the word machine that is my brain again. It’s a start. Thanks for getting to the end of this post. Give yourself a pat on the back.

How is your week going?

When did you last feel meh?

How did you emerge from the other side?

Dreams Of My Father

I lost my father eight years ago to prostate cancer. Since then, I’ve tried to keep memories of him alive. I’ve run marathons in honour of him, written a book where his legacy is touched upon, even had his name tattooed on my forearm. But I’ve rarely dreamed of him. Which has always puzzled me, given the impact he had, and continues to have, on my life. Until last night that was.

Last night I dreamt of my father. I was on a train platform with an old man who had missed his train. I was with friends but told them to go on, and I would wait with the old man until the next train arrived. He had with him a bundle of old police files, decades old, detailing past investigations. I began to leaf through them, to pass the time, if nothing else.

You see, my father was a part time police officer when I was a young boy, growing up in the Northern Ireland ‘Troubles.’ Every night he went out to work, and we prayed he would come back to us the following morning. Many men and women didn’t. Thankfully, my father did. I grew up to become a civilian investigator involved in police oversight. I police the police, if that makes sense. So, I had an interest in these files.

As I flicked through them, I realised some of the documents referred to my father. I was excited and enthralled, keen to learn more about his police career, which I was too young to understand at the time. I looked up from the files and saw a group of men standing to my right. One of them had his back to me, but he looked familiar. As he turned slightly and I viewed him in profile, I realised it was my father.

Imagine my excitement. I summoned him over, eager to show him what I had discovered in the files, and quiz him about their contents. He sat beside me but, try as I might, I could not find the file. I rifled through the paperwork time and time again, but the section pertaining to him had vanished. My father sat patiently, not saying anything, as I grew increasingly frantic and impatient.

I was letting him down and concerned he would leave again before I had the opportunity to share with him what I had found. I had so many questions and this was my big chance, but it was slipping through my fingers. I woke up, saddened the dream had ended but glad my father had visited. It was before he fell sick, when he was a healthy, strong man. No job was too big, no task too cumbersome. He could turn his hand to anything.

Gardening, car engines, plumbing, electrical tasks. He could do it all. Whereas I can’t change a plug and don’t know one end of a carburettor from the other. He was a man’s man, whereas I’m the least practical person you could ever meet. His talents certainly didn’t rub off on me, yet in other ways we were so alike. As in my dream, there was so much I wanted to say to him before he died. But never did, for one reason or another.

One day your loved ones are there, the next they are gone. We take their presence for granted, say we will see them next week, promise to phone them, but then the business of life gets in the way. My advice? If you have to, need to say something important to a loved one today, then say it. Today. For tomorrow might be too late. Leaving you clinging to fading memories and fleeting dreams.

Do you dream of loved ones who have passed on?

Do you need to say something important to a loved one today?

My Running Week

This week’s running schedule was disrupted by terrible weather and my long running molar extraction saga. I managed 10K on my lunch break yesterday and a longer outing today. The legs felt stronger today, after four days of inaction, and I’m hoping to get out again tomorrow, which will mean I’ll have clocked up 20 miles for the week. Hoping normal service will resume again next week. That is all.

Never Tell A Dentist You’re Not In Pain

Well, the troublesome tooth I have grumbled about these last few months ago is no more. Yesterday morning I attended a specialist dental clinic in Belfast to have it ‘extracted.’ Apparently dentists don’t pull teeth anymore, they extract them. Ever the pessimist, I was prepared for the worst but adamant I was not going another day with the malignant molar in my mouth. Today was the day.

Upon being ushered into the treatment room by an ever so friendly dental nurse, I met the man who was going to perform the extraction. And quite the character he was. An elderly gent, he cheerily informed me that he had 35 years experience at ‘this sort of thing’ and it wouldn’t be a problem. ‘I wouldn’t even bother with sedation,’ he added breezily. ‘You’d only be wasting your money.’

By sedation, he meant gas and air. That didn’t stop him, though, from producing a gigantic needle and proceeding to inject me not once, but twice, with a mouth numbing anaesthetic. He then proceeded to tell me he spent six hours lecturing the previous day and his ‘brain was frazzled.’ ‘Not that frazzled?’ I nervously asked, whereupon he laughed and told me to open my mouth. This wasn’t going very well at all.

‘Can you feel any pain?’ he enquired, beginning to root about in my mouth with an evil steel implement he produced from nowhere. ‘Naaaarrghhhh,’ I gagged in reply, not sure what the social etiquette was in these situations. He paused and looked at me sternly. ‘Never tell a dentist you’re not in pain,’ he responded darkly, before a grin broke out across his features. Dear God, I was in the hands of a madman.

There followed thirty seconds of poking around before he rose triumphantly, holding the offending tooth aloft. I take it all back, the man was a genius. Two minutes later, he was ushering me outside, reminding me to pay at reception or he’d ‘have to put the tooth back in.’ I literally floated out of the surgery, surprising even Fionnuala with my Lazarus like recovery and babbling incoherently about my new dental hero.

I felt so chipper I was able to later take Rebecca for her check up at the ‘ordinary’ dentists where I regaled a clearly unimpressed Dr. Helen about my morning appointment. ‘Yeah well, that’s all he does. Extract teeth,’ she pithily pointed out, sidestepping the elephant in the (treatment) room that her surgery’s finest had been unable to remove the blasted molar and referred me to the Belfast practice in the first place.

Wow! Even dentists get jealous! I bit my lip and nodded sympathetically at the considerably heftier workload Dr. Helen and her kind battled with daily on the dear old National Health Service. Cleaning, fillings, implants, the list is endless. And on top of that, they’re expected to extract the little enamel blighters. The last thing they need are smug patients popping in to brag about the superior extraction techniques of their better paid colleagues in the private sector.

I won’t miss my misbehaving tooth. I woke up this morning with a dull ache down one side of my face. The day was spent popping painkillers and gargling with saltwater but what a tale I had to share with my long suffering family and friends who have endured every step of the extraction odyssey. So I thought it only fair I also update the blogging universe. And remember, people. Never tell a dentist you’re not in pain.

Breaking News

I’m delighted to announce Laura Dobra has agreed to edit my first book, ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square.’ Laura is a talented freelance writer and editor, based in Western Australia, who offered her professional services after reviewing part of the manuscript. I was keen to have the book professionally copy edited before beginning to submit it to literary agents and publishing houses.

For a qualified editor and published writer to take a chance on a rookie like me, is a massive compliment and I look forward to working with Laura in the months ahead to turn the rough diamond that is KSC1 into a polished gem. Please, check out her website at the link above to learn more of the services she can provide and read some of her own creative work. Now I’ll get back to my red pen edit….

Would You Be Missed If You Didn’t Get Out Of Bed Today?

We woke up to vile weather this morning.

It was cold, dark, wet and windy. Standard Northern Irish weather. Which made getting up to go to work an even less pleasurable experience than normal. Yet, still we get up and stumble wearily into the day ahead. We front up to any number of monotonous, mundane tasks because…..well…..because we have no other choice. Bills need paid, households need run and kids need educated.

Imagine if we said no. Imagine if we decided to not get out of bed but, instead, burrowed beneath the covers and resolutely refused to budge. Would the world keep turning? Would Wall Street open? Would the mid-term elections still go ahead? Would the sun rise in the morning and set in the evening? Well yes, of course all these things would happen and lots more decide. Life would trundle on, with or without us.

But who would miss us? And by that, I mean miss us as opposed to what we do. Set aside our numerous responsibilities, our roles within the family unit, the workplace and wider society. Who would miss us, the person? Our corny sense of humour, our ability to always say the wrong words at exactly the right time? All the infinite list of qualities which make us the unique creations we are.

When we die, it’s all over. In this life, anyway. Most of us will have a reasonably well attended funeral where our loved ones will say their goodbyes before attempting to move on with their lives. Mourners will have their memories and opinions of us, and there’s nothing we can do to change them. They are as set in stone as the marble headstones our epitaphs are chiselled onto.

Now think back to the split second before you got out of bed this morning. Freeze your world. If you were to vanish, what would people say? ‘He was a great guy, the salt of the earth, I haven’t a bad word to say about him?’ Or maybe some of the remarks would be less complimentary. Some might be harsh, hurtful, untrue even. But others might grate on you, strike a nerve, reveal an unpleasant aspect of your character which you cannot debt.

You might agree with all, some or none of this feedback. I would imagine we are all somewhere in between, nestled in the ‘not bad, but could do better’ pile. There might be a few frowns or even a Road to Damascus revelatory moment of clarity. I’m pretty certain all but the thinnest of skins would benefit from the experiment. A 360 degree audit of who we are, what we do and where we are headed in life.

Ebeneezer Scrooge, I am not. Nobody wants to see me running down the street in a nightshirt, clutching a candle and wishing goodwill to all men. When I run, it’s an altogether less disturbing sight. Or at least I hope. But, even though it’s two months yet to Christmas, we could all benefit from taking stock of our lives. While we can. Where can we do better, improve, make more of an impact. Who are the Bob Cratchitt’s and Tiny Tim’s in our lives who we can make more of an effort with?

It’s not Christmas Day, it’s not New Years Eve, but there’s no time like the present. Think hard before your toes next hit the cold, wooden bedroom floor. Or maybe you have deep, plush carpeting. Either way, no matter how grim the weather or your current circumstances, you have a chance to change today. A chance to make an impact within your sphere of influence. Use that chance. For one day, it’s not going to be there.

Are there days you don’t want to get out of bed?

Who would miss you if you didn’t ‘show up’ today?

If you conducted an inventory of your life today, where could you improve?

Where Do You Find The Time To Read?

I’m currently reading ‘Dark Places’ by Gillian Flynn. It’s a fantastic read. Eerie, edgy and beautifully written. The twists and turns of the plot leave me none the wiser as to how the story will turn out. It ticks every box as far as I’m concerned, a real page turner. Well, it would be if I didn’t keep falling asleep every time I picked it up. Page 221….check….Wow!….I never saw that coming….I wonder what….zzzzzzzzzz.

Books such as this I would normally devour within a week. Ten train journeys to and from work and it would be in the can and on to the next one. Except I’m not. The reason? I’m writing. And editing a lot. Meaning the only sliver of my day when I have an opportunity to indulge in my love of reading is when I go to bed at night. Whoever said authors needed to read a lot obviously hadn’t three kids and a full time job.

In order to read more, something needs to give. Give up running? Nice try, but I’m afraid that’s a non starter. Running is a physical and mental necessity in my life. It purges me of the many toxins which regularly pollute my body and soul. Running while listening to an audio book? Don’t even go there. It takes every ounce of my concentration to put one foot in front of the other, let alone digest a novel. I don’t want to end face down in a ditch.

I could give up work but there’s the irritating matter of the mortgage and numerous other bills to pay. Plus the thought of me getting under Fionnuala’s feet all day at home, is not a recipe for a blissful marriage. My dream is to become a full-time author, but if that day ever comes I will need a shed at the bottom of the garden to protect my long suffering wife from the temptation of strangling me.

I’ve been reading all my life but, at this rate, it will take the rest of my life to finish ‘Dark Places.’ Meanwhile, the backlog of untouched books on my bookshelf and Kindle continue to grow unabated. Just because I can’t finish a book shouldn’t impact on me continuing to buy them, right? I’m the eternal optimist and constantly convince myself I’ll get caught up soon. Which never happens.

It’s a Gordian knot, a Catch 22, my own personal Brexit. A conundrum which I’m no nearer to resolving. Writing and reading? It’s akin to pouring two litres of water into a one litre bucket. So I’m throwing it out there this morning. Fellow writers, where do you find the time to write? Answers on a postcard please. Or alternatively, you can leave a comment below. I might even reply. If I can find the time.

I’ve Written A Book. Now What?

Yesterday I started a hard copy edit of my debut novel ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Part One – Skelly’s Square.’ Armed with my trusty red pen, I attacked the manuscript with gusto, and more than a little trepidation. What if the printer version revealed a myriad of mistakes which I had failed to detect on the laptop screen? I gritted my teeth and resigned myself to the task at hand. What would be, would be.

Fifty pages later, and I’m relieved to report the edit was a relatively pain free exercise. No major, intrusive surgery was required and Kirkwood survived, with nothing more than a few flesh wounds. These primarily relate to my obsession with the words ‘that’ and ‘had’ which had (oops) been pointed out to me by my long suffering and incredibly tactful beta readers. Removing them all will probably reduce the word count by 20,000 but it’s a small price to pay.

it’s weird holding an actual hard copy of the book in my hands. Before, as I laboured over it on the laptop screen, it was as if it wasn’t quite real, rather a figment of an over active imagination. But now it’s actually there, staring me in the face. It’s looking me up and down, before enquiring ‘Well I’m here now. What are you going to do with me?’ A question I’m not quite sure how to answer.

When do you stop editing a book? When do you set down the red pen, lean back and think ‘That’s me, I’m done? When does the moment come when you are brave enough to hit the submit button and wave goodbye to your pride and joy? Exposing it to the ravenous bear pit that is the world of literary agents and publishers? Can’t I hold onto my new born baby for just a little longer?

The answer is, of course, a resounding no. Writing a book and then not endeavouring to publish it is akin to buying a sports car and keeping it locked in your garage, for fear that it might get a scratch. The hard work is done, or at least most of it is. Now is the exciting time. Scary, yes, but ultimately exciting. The desire to know if it’s any good, outweighs the trepidation and worry which threaten to paralyse the aspiring author.

So, as the red pen cuts a swathe through the bundle of papers on my lap, I’m already thinking ahead to query letters and submission e-mails. I’ve been researching agents who might be interested in KSC and publishers who focus on YA/Urban Fantasy genres. To find that one person who falls in love with the adventures of Kirkwood Scott, Meredith Starc and Harley Davidson; who is entranced by the evil machinations of Colonel Augustus Skelly and the Forsaken.

it’s a hard old slog, but I’m seeing progress with each passing week. With that, comes confidence; confidence that this book with see the light of day in some format, be that via the publishing or self-publishing routes. The blog is but the tip of my personal writing iceberg. I just hope one day, the book I have laboured over will be revealed to you all. It’s frustrating writing about it every week when all I want to do is post the manuscript and shout ‘There it is. Tell me what you think.’

I hope that day is not far around the corner. The plan was always to start the book in 2017, finish it in 2018 and publish in 2019. So far, I’m on track with that schedule. I will keep chipping away, when and where I can, still determined this germ of an idea will see the light of day. Now I’m going to sign off and get scribbling with the red pain again. This book won’t write itself, you know.

Where are you on your writing journey?

Keep Going

My beloved Manchester United won today, coming from behind to beat Bournemouth F.C. 2-1. This was even more exciting, given the nature of the winning goal, a last gasp strike from young English striker, Marcus Rashford. United have a rich history of such last minute heroics, harking back to the 1999 Champions League final, when they scored two goals in the last two minutes to win the biggest prize in European football.

I still get goosebumps when those goals are shown. Just like the time I travelled to Old Trafford to watch them beat arch rivals Manchester City 4-3, courtesy of a 94th minute Michael Owen goal. As the ball hit the back of the net I leapt to my feet and sprinted up and down my section of the Stratford End stand, high fiving all and sundry. I was fuelled by the ecstasy of the moment, in addition to the six pints of Stella Artois I downed in the bar before the match.

The list goes on. During the 1990’s and 2000’s under the management of the legendary Sir Alex Ferguson, United were an unstoppable force in British and European football. Champions League trophies, Premiership titles, F.A. Cups. They won the lot and much more besides. The never say die attitude and attacking football philosophy of the club was epitomised in countless numbers of last second, come from behind wins. It was their trademark. You never wrote United off. Ever.

Since Ferguson’s retirement six years ago, the club has fallen on comparatively leaner times. While still one of the biggest and richest clubs in the world, success has been harder to come by on the pitch. This season has been no different as the team has struggled to find its stride and play the flowing, attractive football it is world famous for. The game today brought back memories of better times. They are a slumbering giant.

Win, lose or draw I will always support United. They are my team and I’ve followed them for over forty years, through thick and thin. Thankfully the kids have heeded me and both Adam and Rebecca also support the Red and White Army. Hannah isn’t a football fan but I reckon if put on the spot would choose United, if for no other reason than familial loyalty. Plus she would never hear the last of it from me if she did otherwise.

We should never give up on those we support. This can be applied from our favourite sports team to the special people in our lives. Loyalty is what drags them through the tough times, as well as the glory days. Life might seem horrific but it’s a little less horrific knowing there are people out there loving us and willing us on. Such love is indestructible and indefatigable in equal measure. It transcends distance and overtones all obstacles.

Such support makes us want to keep fighting to the bitter end. It makes us want to crawl over broken glass and battle through this morass we call life. For maybe, just maybe, there is a light at the end of the pitch black tunnel. Nothing more than a pinpoint at first, but growing in size and intensity as we break into a run and sprint towards it. Bursting beyond into daylight and new life. A better life, free from the shackles of our old selves.

You might not feel that way today as you read these words but I encourage you to keep going, keep fighting, right up until the final whistle. Keep going for those who are cheering you on, waiting for that special moment when everything falls into place and you score the winning goal. They believe in you, so follow their example and believe in yourself a little bit. For that is where dreams come true.

What’s the most nail biting sporting event you have ever watched?

Are you a loyal supporter? Or a fair weather fan?

Do you believe in yourself enough to fight to the final whistle?

Why I Won’t Be Taking Part in #NaNoWriMo

Today marks the start of National Novel Writing Month, or #NaNoWriMo for those of you who are more hashtag oriented. Aspiring authors everywhere will be unleashing their creative juices, in order to write a book in 31 days. Progress reports will be religiously maintained via updates to their social media platform of choice. At the end of the process, tens of thousands of new literary masterpieces could be in existence.

I have to doff my cap to those courageous (or is it foolhardy) enough to be embarking on the challenge. I’ve been battering away at my first novel for a year now, and only recently have I been able to tentatively say it is finished. Even then, there still remains a huge amount of work in order to convert it into a product which I would be comfortable to allow see the light of day.

I get the point, though, which is encouraging people to write on a consistent basis. With me, it has been where and when I can, given the many other competing priorities I attempt to juggle on a daily basis. I’m writing this blog post from the austere confines of Belfast City Library on my lunch break. While praying that the on call phone by my side doesn’t shatter the silence and elicit dark looks from nearby book browsers.

We all dream of the luxury of being a full time author, ambling around in our bathrobes as we dictate our next bestseller to a devoted PA. The truth is that most of you are a bit like me, snatching a spare half hour here or there, to frantically scribble down a few words or furiously hammer at our keyboards. Time is a precious commodity and, all too often, writing has to take a back seat to more pressing concerns.

Quite simply, I don’t have the time to take part in #NaNoWriMo. I work full time in a challenging and demanding job. Home life is equally hectic, to the point where Fionnuala and I have had to markedly scale down our social commitments in recent years. We used to be out every night at some event or another. We try to keep those to a minimum now., where possible.

The evenings are precious to us and once I cross the threshold at night, I am loathe to venture back out again. I have blog comments to reply to, chapters to edit, e-mails to compose and online research to conduct. I rarely get an opportunity to watch television now and we are months behind when it comes to our Netflix obligations. I haven’t even watched Season 2 of Jessica Jones. Unforgivable, I know.

If it wasn’t for my Sky News app I wouldn’t have a clue what was going on in the outside world. The only daylight I see now is when I run. My Kindle is gathering dust, with half a dozen unread purchases awaiting me. And, as ever, I’m hopelessly behind in catching up on my favourite bloggers. If it wasn’t for Fionnuala steering the ship, I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what day of the week it was, half the time.

So I applaud the #NaNoWriMo Brigade as they embark upon their literary journeys. May the words flow and the ideas overfloweth. I’m afraid it’s a bridge too far for me. I’ll be with you in spirit, and will follow your progress as best I can on WordPress. I’m certain some literary gems will be unearthed in the days and weeks ahead. Roll on 30 November 2018. Then we can all start to panic about Christmas.

Are you taking apart in #NaNoWriMo? What target are you setting yourself?

Are you writing a book or planning one? How are you getting on?

What’s your favourite hashtag?

Making Fireworks Night Every Night

The Belfast skyline will be lit up tonight with thousands of fireworks, as the city celebrates Halloween with a bang. Quite literally. Thankfully it’s a far cry from our troubled past when bomb explosions and gunfire plagued the city on a daily basis. Northern Ireland has come a long way since the 1998 Good Friday Agreement, when the warring factions agreed to put away their weapons for good.

I’ve had my fair share of fireworks down the years. We all do. It’s part and parcel of the crazy rollercoaster ride, otherwise known as life. One minute you are toddling along, minding your own business, then the next thing ‘BANG,’ your world is turned upside down. Sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse, but always in a manner which catches us off guard.

I’m no lover of change, like many of us I fear upheaval and embrace the status quo at every available opportunity. I’m a creature of habit and a great believer that if it ain’t broke, then don’t fix it. Sometimes situations burst into your life which you have no control over, sickness and bereavement to name but two. In these cases, we unfortunately have no choice but to roll with the punches and make the most of a bad lot.

Other incendiary devices in our lives, we do have more control over. The decisions we make and the actions we take can land us in a firefight of epic proportions. Some fireworks light the way ahead, while others blind you and lead you stumbling down paths full of snares and pitfalls. Fireworks can be exciting and enticing but they can also be confusing and disorienting. Great caution must be taken when near them.

Then there’s the Katy Perry school of fireworks. You all know the song. People who enter our lives and light up our faces like the Fourth of July. The individuals who make all the cold, dark nights that preceded them worthwhile. They fizzle and flare, making us oooooh and aaaaah as we stand open mouthed and starry eyed, bewitched as they dance across the sky. These are the fireworks we live for.

If you’re attending a fireworks display tonight I hope you wrap up warm and keep safe. I also hope you enjoy a spectacular display for nobody wants a damp squib on a night like this. We all need special people in our lives. The trick is to do everything in our power to ensure they remain there. They help us deal with the mundane. They ensure that every day of our lives is one worth celebrating.

What’s the best fireworks display you’ve ever seen?

What type of fireworks are currently in your life?

Red Pen Day

Today, for the first time, I’m printing off a hard copy of the book I’ve been working on this last year. I may even have it bound, just to make me feel more like a real author, as opposed to a pretend one. It’s been through four self edits already and a raft of chapters are currently out for review with my loyal core of beta readers. My research though has indicated that it’s beneficial to sit down and edit a hard copy of the manuscript. So that’s what I’m doing.

Apparently you pick up errors and inconsistencies via this form of editing that you would never detect if you were poring over a laptop screen. It should also help me identify plot gaps and continuity issues. I’ve been through it with a fine tooth comb four times now, but I understand there is still much work to be done. In expectation of this, I have several red pens on standby, raring to go.

One of my beta readers, Meredith, edits my drafts with a purple pen, as it’s a more soothing and less aggressive colour. But I’m a traditionalist so I’m sticking with angry red. I will be like a grumpy teacher marking homework, except it will be my own. Hopefully by the end of it, it won’t have become too much of a literary bloodbath. I’m not keen on the sight of the red stuff, least of all my own.

Speaking of bloodbaths, I’m currently sourcing the services of a professional editor to carry out a line-by-line edit of the manuscript. Grammar, punctuation, structure, plot, the whole ten yards. Yesterday I was quoted $3600 dollars for a 300 page manuscript, way beyond my humble budget. All the advice I’m reading though is that a professional edit is advised, before considering approaching agents and/or publishers.

Several of you have already kindly offered support and advice in this area. Does anyone know of any friendly copy editors out there who would be willing to provide a more reasonable rate for such services? Or am I being naive and that’s the going rate nowadays? I’m no cheapskate but we are a single salary family and these hatchlings are a bottomless money pit.

Stupid Things I Say To My Barber

This post was inspired by my recent visit to the Tivoli Barbers in Belfast city centre, for my quarterly shearing. Thankfully my genetic make up has blessed me with a full head of hair at this age in life but, that aside, these places fill me with fear and foreboding. The reason for that? Having to indulge in small talk with the barber, an almost mandatory obligation at such encounters. You see, I don’t do small talk.

I made a real effort this time, though. The Tivoli is bedecked with boxing promotional posters, one of the few sports I know nothing about. I was determined, however, to engage my barber in whatever topic he opened up with. Barbers love to talk. It’s all part of the hairdressing experience. And this time, I was going to venture beyond the normal monosyllabic responses and awkward silences.

If the weather came up, I was well versed in the cold snap presently gripping our fair island. If football, I knew I was on solid ground and could converse fluently in the current demise of Manchester United. And if it were boxing, then I was going with the non negotiable opening line of ‘What do think about Carl Frampton’s next opponent?’ I only know the names of around five boxers and he’s one of them.

I was shocked, therefore, when the conversation veered towards uncharted waters. My ever talkative barber began to bemoan the dwindling economy in the city centre and how several nearby businesses had either closed or relocated. Seeking to allay any concerns he had, I confidently reassured him that I would always frequent the Tivoli as they were reliable, quick and offered the cheapest hair cut in town. £6 no less.

‘I know,’ sighed my barber sadly, not the response I had been expecting at all. ‘We’ve been charging the same price for five years now. Which reminds me, I need to put our prices up.’ I instantly froze, my blood turning to ice as I felt the glares of the waiting customers behind me boring into the back of my head. Unwittingly, I fear I had just made their lunchtime visit to the Tivoli a slightly more expensive one.

When my locks were shorn, I sheepishly slipped my coat on and asked him how much I owed, while resolutely avoiding eye contact with all and sundry. ‘That will be £6 to you, mate,’ he replied, with a knowing wink. I handed him £7 and told him to keep the change, before beating a hasty retreat from the establishment. Once outside, I extracted my foot from my mouth, vowing never again to speak to a barber. Or anyone, for that matter.

My route to and from work, takes me past the Tivoli every day. I dread my next walk past it, to be greeted by a sign in the window announcing a price hike due to the prevailing economic climate. Forever carrying the secret shame, that I was personally responsible for the long haired gentlemen of Belfast having to dig a little deeper into their pockets for the ‘cheapest haircut in town.’

What do you talk to your barber/hairdresser about?

Have you ever said something inappropriate and immediately wished the ground would swallow you up?

That Was The Week That Was

Well I did it. My challenge was to run 40 miles this week and I achieved it with a 7 miler this afternoon. Even more encouraging was running consistent sub 9 minute miles again. Tomorrow will be a rest day and then I’ll be back on it again come Tuesday. Thank you everyone for your continued support on this weird and wonderful running and writing journey that is my life.

How Persistent Are You?

Last night I missed an important phone call. It was my own fault as I had my mobile on silent at the time, one of my many bad habits. Thankfully the caller phoned back later in the night, waking me up but I didn’t mind, so relieved was I that they had tried again. I was able to do what needed done and the situation was resolved. I went back to bed, breathing a huge sigh of relief.

But wide awake. Hence, this (very) early morning post. What did I learn from this experience? Besides, stop being an idiot and turn your phone on when you are expecting important calls. Well, firstly I need to listen more. I have a tendency to know what’s best and ignore the sound advice of much wiser people around me. If I don’t listen, then I can’t learn. It’s as simple as that.

I’ve been told I’m a great communicator, both in and outside the workplace. That’s partially true. Yes, I can write and I also know I can be verbally eloquent when the need arises. I’m comfortable giving presentations and speaking out at meetings. But communication is a two way street and also involves listening. Which is just as, if not more important, than talking. God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason.

I’m a poor listener on two fronts. Firstly I often fail to hear what is being said to me. I drift off into La La Land and have no idea what has just been said. I know how rude this appears, and frustrating to the other person. Secondly, I do take in what is being said to me but fail to act on the advice given. Imparted wisdom is precious and failing to act positively on it is foolish in the extreme. Again, I plead guilty.

I need to become an active listener, to make a conscious and sustained effort to hear the speaker and then do something about it. This involves turning up the volume on my phone and ensuring I have a signal to pick up incoming calls. Not doing so, can and will land me in a world of trouble, with only myself to blame. There’s no fool like an old fool and I’m not getting any younger, that’s for sure.

The second area I picked up on was persistence. The caller didn’t give up, they recognised that the information they held was important, so kept trying until they finally got through to me. They didn’t give up. And I, for one, was very grateful for that. Even if it meant being roused from my sleep in the process, it was a small price to pay. Wisdom is toothless unless it reaches the ears of those who need it.

As a parent, I’m constantly trying to educate our children the best I can. I don’t want them to make the same mistakes I did. I want them to be better than that. Often I’m frustrated when they don’t appear to be listening to me. But they are only kids, what’s my excuse? I’m a hypocrite and need to practice what I preach. If they don’t see me listening to others, then what sort of an example is that to set?

Secondly I need to persevere with them. Throwing my hands up in the air or losing my temper isn’t going to achieve anything. I can’t give up on them, no matter how infuriating they can be at times. Love is many things, including persistent. You don’t give up on those you love. You call them, even when it involves risk. You persevere, you endure, you hang in there, even if it’s by the fingernails at times.

Are you a good listener? Or a day dreamer life me?

How persistent are you at loving others?

When did you last miss an important phone call?

My Saturday Run

Today’s run. Another 7 miles tomorrow and I will have hit the 40 mile mark for the week. Pace has improved considerably. Only starting to feeling myself again after the Causeway Coast Marathon of a month ago. Took so much out of me physically, mentally and emotionally. It’s good to be enjoying running regularly again without the pressure of marathon training hanging over me.

What’s The Stupidest Question A Stranger Has Ever Asked You?

Now I’m not one to pass comment but….

There I was, minding my own business yesterday, around two miles into a seven mile lunchtime run. I was happily loping along at a very respectable pace, enjoying the autumnal sun and surrounding scenery of the Lagan Towpath. This riverside walkway is always busy in the middle of the day with fellow runners, cyclists and strolling office workers. Today was no different, or so I thought.

Walking towards me were three twenty somethings, two males and a female between them. I paid them little attention, instead focusing on my pace and rhythm, like all elite distance runners do….ahem. It was therefore with some surprise that I noticed one of the men was gesturing towards me. He had something in his hand, which I couldn’t quite make out. A lost tourist, no doubt.

George R.R. Martin and that big iceberg off the coast of Newfoundland have a lot to answer for. The good people of Belfast are regularly accosted on their lunch breaks by roving gangs of octogenarian North American tourists seeking directions to the Game of Thrones studios or Titanic Museum. I know it’s done wonders for our tourist industry, but if there’s one thing I like less, it’s being asked directions mid-run. I mean, how rude!

Except, this wasn’t a holidaying pensioner, but rather a young man wearing a tracksuit and baseball cap. He wasn’t pointing a camera in my direction or waving a map of the city centre. Yes, he was holding something in his outstretched hand, but as I closed the gap between us, I realised it was none of the above tourist paraphernalia, but instead a cigarette. An unlit cigarette, for that matter.

I slowed as I approached him, and our eyes met. ‘Do you have a light?,’ he hopefully enquired. My jaw dropped to the ground as I considered my response and conducted a quick mental inventory. Nike trainers? Check. Base layer and running app. Yeah, I’ve remembered them. Packet of Benson & Hedges King Size and lighter? Darn, I knew I’d forgotten something. ‘Er….no,’ I replied as I hurtled past, a look of utter disbelief on my face.

I’ve been running for over four years and I’ve been stopped and asked some silly questions in my time. But this was a new one, even for me. I know runners who vape. I know runners who take the odd sneaky cigarette on a night out. I’ve even seen two guys standing puffing their brains out before the start of the Belfast Half Marathon, two years ago. But I’ve yet to encounter someone who would light up mid run.

My nicotine starved friend asked the question yesterday as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I’m still scratching my head about it, over 24 hours later. But it got me thinking? What’s the most pointless or inappropriate question you’ve ever been asked by a stranger? Or am I over reacting? Was my track suited friend posing an entirely reasonable request? There’s no such thing as a stupid question, right?

Post your experiences below. There’s no prize by the way. But you’ll have my undying gratitude.

I’m Not Writing A Book….I’ve Written A Book

Almost a year ago I took a week off work for the purpose of starting to write a book. The idea for it had been rattling around my head since the summer, but fear and self-doubt held me back from taking the plunge and putting pen to paper. Or rather, digits to keyboard. In the end, Fionnuala literally chained me to a desk and opened the laptop in from of me. Write, just write. And so, it began.

I had an idea, but no plan. No chapter by chapter breakdown, no detailed synopsis. I just wrote blindly, stumbling from page to page, usually with no idea where the story was taking me. At one surreal point, the characters took over and began to craft their own histories. I started to trust them and the path ahead formed, one step at a time. The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles were born.

Last night, I closed the lid of the laptop, having completed the fourth edit of ‘Skelly’s Square’ the first book in what I hope will be a series, charting the adventures of our eponymous hero and his friends, battling an ancient, malignant evil on the streets of modern day Belfast. The book is currently being critiqued by my trusty band of beta readers, who have provided invaluable feedback so far. You know who you are.

I know you never really finish a book. I need to digest the beta feedback and further tinker with the manuscript. But I’m now at the stage, where the cake is baked and I’m just applying the icing. It could be the worst book ever written, but it is written and they can never take that away from me, whoever ‘they’ are. I’ve already grasped the creative thread which is Part 2, and will be feeling my way into it when the dust settles from this one.

I’m increasingly tempted to research the self publishing route. The drain of completing a year’s work and then facing the gargantuan task of securing an agent and publisher might be a step too far. I don’t expect to sell millions or win awards. All I ever wanted to do was write and one day, hold a printed copy in my hand. It could take years, if ever, to achieve that via traditional publishing routes.

We will see but the horror stories coming from traditional publishing terrify me. I’m not sure I want to expose either Kirkwood or myself to that. I will mull it over in the weeks ahead as the beta feedback comes in. In the meantime I’m open to any suggestions anyone has to offer. As ever, I want to thank everyone who has supported and encouraged me on the journey. Kirkwood Scott has finally been born.

Would you read ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square’?

Publishing or Self-Publishing? Thoughts?

How Did That Happen?

We passed 7500 followers yesterday. Quite the achievement for the little blog that Fionnuala encouraged me to start almost eighteen months ago. Since then, there have been almost daily posts about life, the universe and everything. I’m not quite sure why, but people continue to read and post encouraging comments. It has been both an enlightening and humbling experience which has restored my belief in the online human community.

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you all.

I Need Your Help

I’m hoping to announce some BIG news on the blog over the next few days regarding the fantasy novel I’ve been working on for the last year – ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square.’ But before then, I need some help from my fellow writers. Can you recommend any literary agents or publishers who are currently accepting submissions in the above genre? Below is a summary of the plot to help.

The book is set in modern day Belfast, Northern Ireland, and tells the story of our eponymous hero, a twenty something university graduate languishing in a dead end job, who has recently been dumped by the love of his life. He is also attempting to come to terms with a traumatic childhood experience and cope with crippling OCD which results in his life being controlled by a series of tortuous routines.

All that changes when he meets a mysterious homeless girl, Meredith Starc, who he believes holds the key to freeing him from the horrors of his past and present life. The two join forces and are hurled into an supernatural battle between ancient forces of good and evil, fighting for supremacy of the planet on the streets of Belfast. Kirkwood comes to realise that, in order to slay his own personal demons, he must first overcome an enemy whose power and cruelty the planet have never seen before….Colonel Augustus Skelly.

The book is part of a planned trilogy and is an urban fantasy primarily aimed at the young adult market, but accessible to anyone aged 13-103 and beyond. It’s a supernatural fantasy but firmly grounded in the urban setting of modern day Belfast where it tackles gritty themes of mental health, homelessness, addiction and self harm. It is largely character driven but contains dollops of action and adventure, topped with a sprinkling of Northern Irish humour.

Intrigued? Interested? Or not your cup of tea? Whatever your take on the above, any recommendations or suggestions will be gratefully received.

Will You Run With Me Today?

As regular readers know, I’ve been struggling with my running of late. When I do run, my pace has been way off what I’m used to. That’s when I run. Many days, I have dug out my trainers fully intent on hitting the roads, only to sigh, shrug my shoulders and discard them. My motivation, mojo, whatever you wish to call it, has been missing. This weekend was a perfect example. Zero miles.

When I was marathon training it was tough but I always managed to get out there and get it done. One of the silver linings in that 26.2 mile cloud was that I could eat pretty much whatever I wanted, and I sure love my food. No matter how tough the conditions, there was always the prospect of a tasty treat at the end of the training session. This usually involved ice cream or chocolate. Preferably both.

The problem with my most recent blip is that, while marathon training has ground to a halt, the corresponding high calorie intake has not. If anything, it has increased, leaving me feeling sluggish and bolted. It’s an ever decreasing circle which I fear will lead nowhere but to an ever increasing waistline. The chubby schoolboy within is bursting to get out if I allow him to.

The solution to this self inflicted pity party starts this today. Although my days of marathon running may be numbered, there is no excuse for this recent malaise. So this lunchtime, I’ll be escaping the office and pounding the pavements of Belfast again. And you are all going to join me. I need to be accountable, motivated and driven when I’m out there battling the elements.

All messages of support and encouragement would be most appreciated between then and now. As my Garmin is playing up I’ll be timing the run on my phone so, in a way, you will be with me every step of the way. All eight miles of it for that’s what I’m aiming for. By documenting my runs on the blog, I know there will be no hiding place for me. Feel free to harass me if I haven’t posted a run in a while.

Running is not the most important thing in my life. Far from it. But it is important, as it assists my mental health in such a way that it overflows into so many other areas of it. Without running, I know I am more vulnerable to my ever vigilant OCD. Which nobody wants to see, believe me. So join me on my winter running adventures. I’ll post a run update later with regards today’s challenge.

Will you join me on my running challenge?

Are You A Morning Person?

In our house on weekdays, the alarm normally arouses the adults from blissful sleep at 5:45 am. Routine then kicks in and our weary bodies go onto autopilot. Fionnuala commences the Herculean act of getting a bouncing eleven year old and two zombie teenagers out of the house and on their way to school. Uniforms are ironed, lunches are packed and there is much hollering which would raise the dead, but not seemingly a sixteen year old boy.

I’m largely entrusted to get myself ready for work, although Fionnuala might have something to say about that. I stumble out of bed, wash and shave, before dressing and making my way downstairs to bedlam and my first Diet Coke of the day. Slices of toast are hurriedly shoved down throats and then we are all on our way, via bus and train, to our respective schools and workplaces.

Weekends are not much better. Yesterday Adam had a rugby match so I had to have him at his school for 8:45 am. It was worth the early start as they won 57-5 but lie ins are a rare commodity these days. Today, we all had to be up early as we have visitors calling so have to ensure the house is ship shape and ready. It’s little wonder, Fionnuala and I are ready for bed by 10 pm most nights. The all night partying is a distant memory when you’re married with three kids.

It’s fair to say, we are morning people out of necessity more than any great desire to be. If I had a choice, not that I do anymore, I’d much rather remain under the covers as the first rays of morning creep over the horizon. I often claim I’m going to arise for magnificent dawn runs which will leave me energised and inspired for the day ahead. This rarely happens, and my running gear remains untouched at the bottom of the bed.

The same goes for those people who bounce out of bed, stick on a pot of coffee and get tonnes done before the rest of the world stirs. There have been books written about how that first hour of the day can be the most productive. Sorry, that’s just not me. It takes at least an hour for both my body and brain to crank into gear. And anyway, I hate coffee, so I’ll just leave all you Perky Pete and Paula’s to it.

I’d love to be a morning person, truly I would. I could accomplish so much. Sometimes there is so much stuff to wade through that I would happily welcome a thirty hour day. I feel bad when I don’t make that early morning run, when I don’t finish the chapter I had planned to, when I overlook a task or errand that needs ticked off the list in order to keep family life trundling along like a well oiled machine.

Something always seems to have to give. Everything can’t be a priority. Why can’t I be everywhere at once, doing everything at once? Why can’t I keep all the balls in the air at the same time? It’s at times like this, I need to take a deep breath. Turn off panic mode. Shift from negative self-reflection to positive assertion. Focus on what I have achieved from day to day. The runs that did happen, the words that were written, the million and one tasks that were completed.

No, I’m not a perfect husband, father, employee or person. But at least, I recognise that. And I try every day to get the job done, to get from A to B as best I can with the skills that God blessed me with. Trying is sometimes all we can manage. Trying is trying. But it’s better than dying. Dying in a morass of mediocrity and apathy. Giving up and giving in, when there are still battles to be fought and one.

I’m going to try again this morning….

Are you a morning person?

Are you too hard on yourself?

Or can you try harder than you have been?

I’m Not A Fussy Eater But….

When it comes to food, I’ve always prided myself on being able to eat pretty much anything. I’m not a fussy diner. Place a plate of food in front of me and ten minutes later, possibly sooner as I’m a quick eater, it will be gone. I inherited that from my father, although Fionnuala has performed wonders with my table manners and eating habits in the years she has known me. I even chew my food now, before swallowing.

Yes, invite me to your home for dinner and you will not have to worry about special dietary requirements. Because I eat pretty much anything.

Er……apart from mussels. In fact, better make that most shellfish. And prawns. I don’t like prawns. I think it all harks back to an unfortunate afternoon spent eating fresh oysters in a bar in Dublin many years ago. Followed by two days of shivering uncontrollably in bed, drenched in a clammy sweat. Although that might possibly have had something to do with the eight pints of Guinness which accompanied the oysters.

But apart from that, I’m good.

Oh beetroot, I forgot beetroot. Horrible, slimy, yucky, purple beetroot. Which no matter how hard I try contaminates my otherwise perfect restaurant salad, it’s juices infiltrating every mouthful. Why did God invent beetroot? It serves no practical purpose other than to irritate me. Right up there with wasps. Don’t get me started on wasps. They don’t even produce honey. They just sting you and then die.

Olives. I can’t stomach olives. We sometimes have breakfast in the office where everyone chips in a few pounds and ‘Fast’ Eddie dishes up bacon, sausages, scrambled eggs, tomatoes….and olives. I think he’s trying to impress us all but I’m not having it. They resemble alien eyeballs and I sure ain’t putting one in my mouth. They should stick to floating about in fancy dan cocktails. Not on my breakfast platter.

Brussel sprouts. The most pointless addition to the long list of Christmas traditions which will be descending on chez Black from 1st November onwards. Fionnuala is already checking out the Christmas movie channel. I am a reasonable man. It takes a lot to get me wound up. I rarely lose my temper. But the sight of a brussel sprout nestling amidst my Christmas dinner might just be the straw that broke the camels back.

Hmmmmm. This self inventory isn’t going so well is it? And that’s just the subject of food. What else do I dislike? If I sat down and took a long, hard look at my prejudices what would I unearth? On other people, their beliefs, values and morals? Their faith, culture and social norms? Am I as open minded and liberal as I like to think I am. Are any of us? For once you start to scratch beneath the surface, all sorts of nasty surprises are revealed.

Often the person we portray to the world bears no resemblance to the one we face in the mirror every morning. We slip on a mask before we open the front door and face a new day. We put on an act as we worry what others would think, if they knew the real us. Would they be disappointed, embarrassed, angry? Some of us don’t even know the real ourselves as we bury the truth beneath layers of denial and self loathing.

Be you. Recognise your flaws. Embrace them. And then, where possible, take steps to eradicate or minimise them the best you can. Because nobody is perfect, nor does anybody expect perfect. Pretending to be somebody you are not is a bit like pretending to like a food you actually despise. It’s not big, it’s not clever and it doesn’t impress anyone. Food poisoning is bad enough. But poisoning your mind and soul could have much more far reaching consequences.

Which foods can you not stomach?

Are you true to yourself and the watching world?

How often do you reflect upon your beliefs and values? Are you more prejudiced than you first thought?

I’m Writing A Book….Still

So, after three weeks of staring forlornly at it, I’m finally taking the plunge and starting work on my debut novel again – ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square.’ When I signed off last time, I had almost completed the fourth draft. I think another week of consistent editing will complete that process, maybe less if I get a good run at it. I’m off work today, so should be able to make some headway.

I’ll post further mini updates over the weekend. In the meantime, thanks to everyone who has supported me through this literary hiatus.

I Have A Shameful Secret….About My Shameful Secret

A few months ago I posted a blog about my aversion of all things Harry Potter. Despite my love of the fantasy genre, this was one franchise I just didn’t get. Game of Thrones, yes. Lord of the Rings, most definitely. Heck I’ve even read/watched the Twilight and Hunger Games sagas, no problems. But Daniel Radcliffe, Smug Girl, and the annoying ginger one. There, I draw a line in the sand.

It was a gentle, tongue in cheek critique as opposed to a savage attack on the Hogwarts Empire. Some people even dared suggest I was a secret Potter Head such was my knowledge of the subject. It’s amazing what seeps into your mind about a book, without you ever having skimmed a page of it. No, it was an honest assessment at my bewilderment at the success of the series, when it left me cold.

Imagine my surprise then at the success of the post. In almost 18 months of blogging, I reckon it has been our second most viewed offering, provoking a plethora of opinions and comments from diehard HP fanatics and those less bothered, like myself. It recently passed 1000 views, prompting me to write a follow up post. Hardly viral I know, but that’s a lot of views for our little corner of WordPress.

In those 18 months I’ve poured my heart out to you on a wide range of subjects. Some have been deeply personal and very close to my heart. I have deliberated long and hard over them, labouring over every word. None of these have attracted a fraction of the interest that a glib, throwaway post about a teenage wizard who I don’t even like did. This has left me pondering the fickle business of blogging.

The conclusion to my pondering is that there is no point in pondering. People will read what they want to read, end of story. You can’t force them to read your efforts, any more than you can arm wrestle a publisher into accepting your manuscript. Just ask J.K. Rowling herself who had a few knock backs before finally hitting paydirt. You just have to keep chipping away and hope that one day it happens for you.

I will keep writing because I enjoy it, but dreams of that first book contract seem further away than ever. My own manuscript has sat untouched for the best part of three weeks. Try as I might, every time I think of delving back into the world of Kirkwood Scott, something intervenes. The negativity surrounding first time authors and their chances of being published is incessant and overwhelming.

I’ll keep trying. Perhaps this weekend will be the one when I get back on track. In the meantime, I’ll keep the blog going and continue to write about whatever tickles my fancy. Incisive works of literary genius which sink without trace. Or mindless fluff about teenage wizards that obtain like after like. Writing nonsense is better than not writing at all. It’s become a habit. One of my better ones.

What has been your most popular blog?

What do you like writing about?

Choosing Grace Over The Grave

I’m going to a leaving function after work today. I usually avoid these events like the plague but it is for two members of my team, who are moving on to other positions within the organisation. It would ‘look bad’ therefore, if I didn’t ‘show my face.’ Excitement has been building in the office all week as people look forward to an evening of laughter and frivolity. Apart from one person that is….me.

I’m dreading it and as I sit here typing this, the anxiety and tension are already unfurling within me, like a lazy cobra preparing for its next meal. In my drinking days, I would have been the first one in the pub after work today and the last to leave. And by leave, I mean stagger outside, mumbling incoherently after a night of embarrassing behaviour fuelled by alcoholic excess.

All that ended about five years ago, so most of my present colleagues have never witnessed that version of Stephen. Lucky them. I wouldn’t have wished my company on anybody. I was loud and obnoxious, but by equal measure incredibly dull. I thought I was the life and soul of the party, but would always wake up the next morning horrendously hungover, gripped by dread and fear as to who I had offended in my drunken state.

I don’t drink now. I’m Mr. Clean-Cut, Stephen Tee Total, the running bore who pounds the pavements as opposed to pounding the pints back. I take part in marathon runs, as opposed to marathon drinking binges. I’m sure some of my colleagues regard me as a bit of a wet blanket, but it was a choice I had to make five years ago in order to save my marriage, my family, my own sanity.

Alcohol used to shield me from the chronic shyness and low self-confidence I display in social settings. I am incredibly awkward and shy. Alcohol released me from all such inhibitions and allowed me to say what I wanted to whoever I wanted, oblivious to the consequences. Until the next morning, that was. Then reality would rush back in like an unstoppable tide, stripping me bare; my many inadequacies exposed like slick, jagged rocks poking about the waves.

Alcohol was a crutch. Choosing to stop has cleared my head and allowed me to see I never needed it in the first place. This is the real me. Yes, I’m still a bit of a mess at times, but at least I’m a sober mess. I’m no finished product by any means, but at least I recognise my many flaws now and can work towards improving. I’m not successful every time and there are still setbacks but at least I’m trying, as opposed to my former self who buried his head in the sand.

So this evening will be awkward. I will fret all day about it. I’m running at lunchtime which will help and I also have a busy day work-wise to take my mind off what lies ahead. I intensely dislike being around drunk people, which is ironic given the amount of time I spent in my own inebriated company. But I will muddle through, engage in small talk and smile in all the right places. For that is what I do.

Tonight I will be the first to leave the bar and tomorrow I will be the freshest person in a sea of bloodshot eyes and throbbing headaches. I won’t display any smugness for that was me and could so easily be me again, were it not for the grace of God. It was the easiest choice of my life in the end, choosing grace over the grave. It was the only choice. I need to keep making it every day.

Are you socially awkward?

What are your coping mechanisms?

Do you shun social events?

The Winning Ticket – Part Two

Earlier today I wrote about purchasing a monthly train ticket for the princely sum of £138. Since then I have been commuting to and from Belfast, constantly checking my wallet to satisfy myself it was where it was meant to be. I would produce and stare at it longingly like Frodo Baggins on his way to Mordor with the one ring to rule them all. Thankfully, minus the annoyingly protective Samwise Gamgee at my side.

The good news is that I have managed to navigate the first half of October without losing said ticket. It remains in pristine condition, safe and sound in its plastic sleeve, less wrinkles than a botoxed socialite. I proudly wave it at the conductor every morning, mentally calculating how much money I have saved since abandoning my previous policy of buying daily tickets.

I guard it with my life. It is indeed my precious. All £138 of it. If only I treated all the precious commodities in my life with such care. Physically I ‘try’ to eat healthily and run regularly. I’d like to think I’m in decent shape for a man of my venerable years. Mentally, I take my happy pill every morning which wards off the slumbering monster called OCD which lurks in the darker recesses of my mind.

But what about my soul? I’ve always thought there is something beyond life. This can’t be everything, at least that’s my take on it. Call me naive but I believe in an afterlife and how you conduct yourself in this existence, determines where you’re going to end up when you trundle off this mortal coil. When that happens I won’t have to worry about my weight or cholesterol levels. But I will have to worry about my soul.

It’s worth a tad more than £138 but I often neglect the most important commodity I will ever possess. I need to be kinder, humbler and more loving. I need to put others before myself, give generously of my time and energy. There is so much I need to do better and more often. And yet I so often neglect what’s staring me straight in the eye, jumping up and down and stamping its feet like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Tomorrow is another working day. I’ll brave the packed Belfast Express, clinging on to my ticket for all I’m worth. But I’m learning to cling even more tightly to the wisdom and guidance I so desperately need to traverse this minefield we call life. It’s involved a lot of tentative steps but I’m hopeful I’m headed in the right direction. For this is one journey where a one way ticket is all that I’ll require.

Do you believe in the afterlife?

The Winning Ticket – Part 1

As many of you know, I get the train to and from Belfast every day as part of my commute to work. My adventures on the 07:53 express to often feature on this blog. Today’s post is no exception. But today I want to talk about money, or rather saving money. Something I’m not very good at normally but we, as a family, have been making a big effort at of late in order to become more economically frugal.

I normally think nothing of landing at the station and purchasing a daily return ticket to Belfast – £9:60, no less. In an average month, I make this transaction approximately 20 times. Which, if you do the maths/math/finger counting, equates to forking out £192 per month on travelling to and from the office. A sizeable outgoing, I’m sure you will agree. With me so far? Good, then I’ll continue.

When it comes to good ideas in our house, you will normally find that 99% of them originate from Fionnuala. For it was she who suggested I research the price of a monthly return ticket to Belfast. When I checked, I was amazed to find that this cost a mere £138. A saving of £54 a month. That’s £648 a year! Imagine all the Diet Coke and honeycomb ice cream I could buy with that.

It was with some smugness, therefore, that I made my purchase at the beginning of the month. I clutched my brand new, shiny monthly ticket as if it was a winning lottery ticket. The conductor even gave me a little plastic wallet to hold it on, so that it would never become torn or creased. I felt akin to public transport royalty. Then it struck me. What if I lost it?

I’m a bit of an expert at ‘misplacing’ items. Keys, wallets, anything remotely valuable. My mind is a leaky sieve and Fionnuala and Rebecca are forever running around after me, picking up the detritus of my life. How on Earth then could I be trusted to hang on to a tiny ticket for an entire month without it going AWOL? Which would necessitate yours truly having to go permanently AWOL when he reported the bad news back to his wife!

What happened next? Find out later today in Part 2 of ‘The Winning Ticket.’

Why I Love Being Rubbish

I upped my distance to eight miles yesterday. A very slow eight miles, but eight miles nonetheless. It was a beautiful autumn day, a total contrast to the heavy rain and high winds which swept across Northern Ireland on Saturday. I’m nowhere near the level I was running at, even six months ago. A couple of gears have disappeared, but I’m just grateful I’m out there at all. I’ve missed running.

The old me would have been disgusted with yesterday’s effort. For the old me was all about getting faster and stronger. This was the fuel which fed a ravenous ego, a vanity which was out of control. The old me was all about personal bests, losing weight and impressing people. I was all about image and self. At the time I thought I was coolness personified. Looking back now, Mr. Cool just leaves me cold.

I was running two races a month then, always pushing. Races ended with inane grins for mindless selfies, which were posted straight onto my Instagram account. It was the most shallow of existences. On the surface I pretended that all was well, but beneath the cracks were deepening and widening. My body was becoming leaner and stronger, but my soul was withering away to nothing.

I remember running a half marathon a few years ago, where I posted a personal best, my fastest time ever. I should have been ecstatic. But I hated every step of the run, as I raced pedal to the medal, oblivious to the cheering crowds, unable to soak up any of the carnival atmosphere. All I cared about were my mile splits and getting to the finish line as quickly as possible. It was a means to an end, nothing else.

As I crossed the line, there was no sense of joy or achievement. There was nobody there to greet me. I collected my medal, took the statutory selfie, got in the car and drove home. For I was furious. Furious that a rival of mine had run a quicker time. My life revolved around comparing myself to others and straining to be bigger and better than them. Pathetic thoughts from a pathetic mind.

I was the healthiest I had ever been. I used to brag that I was in the best shape of my life, as fit as a fiddle. I was running like the wind, and alcohol free. Yet there was a different poison coursing through my veins. A poison as deadly as the strongest alcohol. I was consumed by it, it blinded me to the truth and led me down paths I never dreamed I would ever travel. Paths of shame, pain and destruction.

My ego still lurks beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest whiff of an opportunity. If I allow it out of its cell, if I allow it to run unchecked it will wreak havoc, destroying all in its path. It is a battle which I must win, there is no other option available to me. It must remain shackled and chained, deep inside the dungeon of my subconscious. It sulks and pouts. It waits and watches. I must be ever vigilant.

So I run, and continue to reap the physical and mental benefits of an activity which has been such an integral part of my life in recent years. But I run slowly, far from the cheering crowds and shiny medals. They mean nothing to me. I’m running some of the slowest times I’ve ever clocked in recent times. There are no selfies, no personal bests. But I don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder than I did after my eight mile plod yesterday.

How do you control your ego?

God Remembers – Part One

Zacharias prayed every day. Which wasn’t peculiar, in itself, given his status as a high ranking priest within the order of Abijah. He was a man of some status, a descendant of Aaron, who had devoted his life to serving God. He was respected by the people, a man viewed as righteous and blameless in the eyes of God. He was humble, preferring to live a modest life in the city of Hebron, as opposed to the more glamorous surroundings of Jerusalem or Jericho.

Zacharias did everything by the book. He married the daughter of a fellow priest, as was expected of a man of his standing. Her name was Elizabeth, a God fearing and obedient woman who shared her husband’s righteous ways. He served for two weeks of the year in the temple, as was required of him, performing the relevant ceremonial duties. On the surface, he and his wife led exemplary lives.

Or did they? You see there was something not quite right about them, for they had no children. Which, in first century Palestine, was a social no no. A childless marriage was viewed as something as a social pariah. Many thought such couples had offended God and were being punished accordingly. What shameful secret were they hiding beneath their perfect lives to have merited the wrath of God?

Zacharias would have been well within his rights to divorce Elizabeth, given she was unable to bear him a son, to continue the family lineage. Nobody would have batted an eyelid had he ‘traded her in’ for a younger wife who would have given him the family befitting of a man who walked in such close alignment with God. Yet Zacharias did not. Why? Well, because he loved Elizabeth of course.

Instead he prayed. Day after day, month after month, year after year. For a family, a son. But now, as they entered their sixties, it appeared that boat had sailed. There was no child, and his prayers remained unanswered. People still gossiped and whispered behind their backs about the honourable priest and his childless wife. Zacharias could have turned his back on it all, his faith and his wife. But he didn’t. Instead he continued to love Elizabeth, pray diligently and serve at the temple.

Today was no ordinary day. No, it was the Day of Atonement, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. The day, when the nation of Israel offered up prayers of repentance and forgiveness. A very special day. And the most important part of the day was when a hand picked priest would enter the inner sanctum of the temple, the ‘Holy of Holies’. Today, that priest was Zacharias, the childless priest from the barren Judean Mountains.

His job? To carry a fire censer, laden with coals taken from the altar, into the ‘Holy of Holies’ which contained the Ark of the Covenant itself. Zacharias would stand in the presence of God and sprinkle incense on the coals and waft them, allowing a pleasing aroma to rise up to Heaven. It symbolised the prayers of the people, the hopes of a nation. It was most likely the pinnacle of his priestly career.

I’m sure he must have been nervous. His hands were probably shaking as he moved the fire censer from side to side, every last iota of his concentration focused on this most prestigious task. Outside the prayers of thousands of worshippers were rising in volume and intensity. The ceremony was reaching a crescendo and Zacharias stood at the centre of it all. It didn’t get much bigger than this.

Then it ended. He sighed with relief, mouthed a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn’t fluffed his lines, and exited the holy place. The greatest day of his life had peaked. He could relax now, rest and prepare for the long journey home to Hebron. Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t anywhere near over. For God had other plans for Zacharias. The old man who had given his life to God was about to embark on a new adventure; a life he thought was meandering to a mundane end.

Waiting for Zacharias outside was an angel. A most senior angel, as it happens, by the name of Gabriel. Who had a message for the elderly man of God which was going to turn his world upside down. God had been listening to his prayers and now was the time to reveal the plan he had been preparing all along for Zacharias and Elizabeth. For they were to have a son. A very special son. Who would be the spark that would set the known world on fire.

To be continued….

Zacharias – the Greek spelling of Zachariah, meaning ‘The Lord has remembered.’

You can read the story of Zacharias and Elizabeth in Luke Chapter 1.

Do you feel life has passed you by?

That God hasn’t heard your prayers?

Don’t give up hope. God remembers. But we must also remember him.

Getting Back On The Horse Again

Storm Callum hit Northern Ireland with a vengeance yesterday. About half a mile into my comeback run to be precise. I have run very little since the Causeway Coast Marathon at the end of September, but vowed yesterday to get my running shoes on and pound the pavements again. Which sounded like a great idea. Until I ran straight into Callum. What followed was one man’s largely losing battle with the elements.

Within a mile I was drenched, but thankful I had chosen to wear a base layer underneath my running top. I might drown but at least hypothermia would be averted. The same could not be said, unfortunately, for my sodden feet. My thighs were also turning bright red but I plodded on into a strong headwind, no matter what direction I turned. It’s character building, I lied to myself, as I lurched on into Mile 2.

The route I take from the office out along the Lagan Towpath is usually teeming with fellow lunchtime runners. They were few and far between yesterday, however. Anyone with an ounce of sense was firmly ensconced in their cosy, dry workplaces. Only the truly dedicated, and by dedicated I mean stark raving mad, athlete was taking to the streets today. I largely had the towpath to myself, bar the occasional bedraggled dog walker.

I nervously eyed the river as I ran alongside it, mindful of how high the waters looked. Much higher and I was in danger of having to swim back once I reached the halfway point of the run, where I turned and retraced my steps back into the city centre. I’m far from the world’s best swimmer and the triathlon will never be on my list of challenges. Plus, nobody wants to see me in swimwear, not my best look I can guarantee you.

By halfway, the initial misery had passed, to be replaced by a perverse euphoria. I was running, I was actually running. Running very slowly, well below my normal pace, but still running. I could sense my rock bottom confidence rising with every soggy step. Despite being battered on all sides by the wind and rain, despite resembling a deranged, fluorescent escapee from the lunatic asylum, I was doing it.

When I eventually finished I looked as if I had been dragged through several hedges and a car wash backwards. But the sense of achievement far outweighed the aching limbs. I was a runner again. Several unwanted demons had been slain en route and I’d proven to myself that I wasn’t the utter waste of space I previously thought. Which could not have been more timely, given the busy schedule I have ahead of me over the coming months.

I’ll not be setting Personal Bests any time soon, if ever, and I have no races planned. But at least I can get out there and work at regaining the physical fitness I’ve spent years working on. I can also mentally detox and run the intrusive thoughts and unwanted images out of me. OCD is a thought based illness. It cannot function when I’m too tired to think. I sweat it out of me, a drop at a time. It has no control over me when I run. I become my own master.

There’s also the small matter of a book to finish. I haven’t been near ‘The Kirkwood Scott’ Chronicles in the best part of two weeks but hope to start work on it again over the weekend. I’m hopeful that Version 4.0 will be finished by next weekend at the latest. Then it’s time to start researching and harassing potential agents. It’s a big challenge but I feel I’m ready to get back on the horse again. All bad things must come to an end.

How do you get back on the horse again?

Is Your Glass Half Empty Or Half Full?

I’m going to run today. That might not sound like the most earth shattering statement, but for me it’s a fairly big deal. After the disastrous Causeway Coast marathon a few weeks ago, I fell out of love with running for a while. I huffed, I sulked and I briefly considered packing it in altogether. I felt like a failure, it had beaten me up and left me, literally, lying in a painful heap on the roadside.

When it comes to throwing a pity party, I’m in a league of my own. Moping around comes second nature to me and were navel gazing an Olympic sport, I’m pretty sure I would be a medal contender. You may have picked up on this in some of my recent posts. For that, I can only apologise. Nobody deserves Sulky Stephen, be that in the flesh or in writing. That all changes today, I hope.

When I wallow, I eat. A lot. And allllllll the wrong foods. Which plays right into the hands of the voice in my head. Telling me I’m a failure, that I’m a fraud, that the weight is creeping back on and in the blink of an eye I’ll be 15 stone again, four years of hard work gone in a puff of smoke. That’s what the voice does best. It needles and niggles until I raise the white flag and admit defeat. It is relentless.

I cannot allow that to happen. I’ve worked too hard for one bad experience to wash away everything I have achieved so far. So today, I run. Not for personal bests or fancy medals, but for my own piece of mind. I need to run for my mental health. It dulls the voice and fills me with a self belief and worth that I desperately need in order to function as a reasonably normal member of the human race. It keeps me sane.

I have no targets in mind, no big race plans ahead. I just want to retain a level of physical and mental health that can then permeate other areas of my life. When I run, I’m a better husband and father; I’m a better employee; I’m a better writer. I’m not going to worry about the time and I know this first run back won’t be pretty. There will be sweat and quite possibly tears. But, hopefully no blood. Unless I collapse in a blubbering heap at the end.

As ever, my family have inspired me. Fionnuala has encouraged me to get back out there. Adam’s never say die attitude every time he steps out onto the rugby pitch; Hannah’s ultra positive outlook on life and Rebecca’s infectious enthusiasm. They have all contributed towards evaporating the gloom which has settled over me these last few weeks. The gloom that seeks to consume and devour me.

I’m no world beater when it comes to times, but I won’t let the world beat me when it comes to my mental health. There is too much at stake, too much to lose. I’ve come too far, to slip back into the abyss now. This not only refers to my running, but other things as well. My family, faith, work and writing. People are relying on my, they have invested their time, love and prayers in me. To turn my back on that now, would be incredibly selfish.

Finally, I want to thank all my fellow bloggers who have supported me of late. Those who have written kind comments and prayed for me. I am incredibly grateful, a subject we all neglect and which Fionnuala reinforced in a blog she posted yesterday. She has inspired me to adopt a ‘half full’ mentality as of today, as of now. It’s time to stand up, step up, rise up. It’s time to run 7 miles at a spectacularly average pace.

Is your glass half empty or half full today?

Flash Fiction Challenge – An Eclectic Palate

Today’s flash fiction challenge was inspired by a person with an eclectic palate. Sushi, Danish bread, French yoghurt and a traditional British snack pot. Who is the mysterious shopper who happened to feel a little peckish as they strolled along Belfast’s Royal Avenue yesterday? Well, I will leave that to your imagination. If previous challenges are anything to to go by, I’m sure you will come up with some interesting answers.

The usual lack of rules apply. All we ask is that you give A Fractured Faith a shout out if you decide to take part. Also, feel free to reblog this post if you think members of your own online community would be willing to participate. We will reblog some of our favourite stories, but please do not be offended if yours is not one of them. We are usually swamped with offerings. No Tesco employees were hurt in the making of this blog.

Where Is The God Of My Father?

Where is the God of my Father

Who rescued the lame and the blind?

Where is the God of my Father

Who poured healing oil on my mind?

Kill the will

Take the pill

Numb the thrill

Make me still.

Synaptic relapse

Serotonin collapse

Raging impasse

Stifling morass.

So taste the drill

Run the mill

Surgeons skill

Make me still.

Where is the God of my Father

Now that I’m naked and numb?

Where is the God of my Father

Alone on a slab, splayed and shunned?

Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining

My hiatus from novel writing and running has allowed me to re-evaluate and focus on more important areas of life – namely my faith and family. A few days ago I asked for suggestions as to which book of the Bible I could feature in a future study on the blog. I was inundated with responses. Thank you very much to those who took the time to respond. I ended up with dozens of selections.

So much so, that I decided to pick two books, from the Old and New Testaments respectively. The ‘winners’, for want of a better word, were Psalms and Luke. I hope to post weekly blogs focusing on these studies, starting with one on Zachariah, the father of John the Baptist, this coming weekend. I hope they will prove of some worth to you as I now have more time to study, and reflect upon, this neglected area of my life.

Grinning Through The Pain

A friend forwarded me some photographs this morning of my ninth, and very possibly final, marathon last month. If nothing else, you can all appreciate the beautiful scenery of Northern Ireland’s Causeway Coast. Please ignore the grinning idiot in the foreground. Or rather, grimacing, given the horrendously hilly terrain combined with toothache. Horrible memories, but at least the photos turned out okay. Meh.

Is God Really Good?

When I was at school, and Queen Victoria sat upon the throne, I had a very grumpy English teacher called Mrs Hume. I felt sorry for Mr. Hume if she was as grumpy at home. Mrs Hume was a well balanced woman. She had a chip on both shoulders. Life had dealt her a poor hand and, instead of writing bursary winning poetry at Harvard, she was stuck in a freezing cold portacabin in rural Northern Ireland.

All the other English teachers had spacious, warm classrooms in the main school building. Not so, Mrs. Hume. Her portacabin was drafty and cramped. In the winter months it resembled a Siberian concentration camp, only less friendly. Mrs. Hume never took her coat off and sat huddled in it at the front of the classroom, rolling her eyes at our excruciatingly bad analysis and interpretation of Shakespeare, Chaucer and D.H. Lawrence.

After two years of her acerbic feedback and pithy asides, a miracle occurred; or rather, two miracles. Firstly I obtained an ‘A’ grade in my ‘A’ level English Literature; and secondly I survived two winters in that portacabin without losing any of my extremities to frostbite. Armed with my certificate and a fully functioning set of digits I set off to university where I, of course, chose to study….er….Modern History.

I often wonder how my life would have turned out had I decided to pursue an English degree. Perhaps, nothing materially would have changed. Or we could all be speaking Russian or have grown tails or something. What is certain though is that, beneath her barely contained contempt for the human race, Mrs Hume was doing something right. For, otherwise how could I have achieved the grade that I did. The woman could teach.

The one lesson she consistently hammered home was to avoid using lazy language. Words like ‘nice’, ‘fine’ and ‘good.’ Including them in one of your essays would awaken a dark, primal rage within her which ensured you never did it again. She, in her own cantankerous style, encouraged us to embrace and explore the English language. She demanded passion, vitality and expressive thinking. Describing Tennessee Williams as ‘good’ didn’t quite cut the mustard with her.

God is Good.

If you hang around Christians for any length of time, you will hear that stock phrase rolled out. It’s up there with ‘I’ll pray for you’ and other such cliches. God is Good. Is that the best we can manage? To describe the Creator of the Universe, the omnipotent, omniscient power behind everything we know. Who sent his son to the Cross to wipe clean the slate of sin for all eternity. Oh that was nice. That was lovely. That was good.

Saying God is Good isn’t good enough. Which is why he told Moses to call him ‘I AM.’ We can do waaaaaaaay better than good, but at the end of the day our tiny brains are utterly incapable of putting into words who or what God is. We don’t even understand a fraction of what is going on in our universe, planet, let alone our own bodies. We are stumbling about in the dark, half the time. I respect those who hold agnostic or atheist views. But do they know for certain? Are they 100% sure? Really?

Christians can be so lazy and I’m the worst offender. We are saved and think the hard work is done when, the reality is, it’s only just begun. It’s not fluffy and comfortable; it’s a bloody, brutal unforgiving war against a cunning, determined enemy. We need to work harder, think smarter, do better. Good is not enough. God isn’t good, God is God. Recognising that is an important, hard earned lesson. Thank you Mrs. Hume for teaching me about it.

What are your views on lazy language?

What was your English teacher like?

Care to share your experiences of Christian cliches?

What words would you use to describe God?

Today….I Must Be Honest

A Fractured Faith has increasingly, in recent months, acted as a vehicle to publicise a book I have been writing. Since the turn of the year, it has taken up a considerable amount of my free time. I have made steady progress and a few months ago started to release sections of it to a dozen beta readers for honest feedback and constructive criticism. Around half of these volunteers have since fallen by the wayside but those who have stuck about have been worth their weight in gold.

This time last week I was nearing the end of the book’s fourth edit. I anticipated there was approximately another week’s work and I was done. Then it was just a matter of collating and reviewing the beta feedback, tweaking the manuscript as suggested, and moving onto the next phase of pitching the story to potential agents. I was nearing the end of phase one of the journey, so was pressing down hard on the accelerator as the finish line loomed up ahead.

That was last week. I haven’t written a word since and cannot bring myself to look at it. There are a number of reasons for this that I won’t bore you with. I initially thought I was sick of the story and characters. Familiarity breeds contempt, after all. As the week has progressed, however, I’ve come to the conclusion there is more to it than that. I’m not sick of the book, rather I’m sick of myself.

I started this blog with Fionnuala to help other people, not sell a book or promote myself as some hot shot writer. The message was about humility; pointing out to others that it is possible to utterly mess up your life, yet still recover and rebuild it. It increasingly feels I’m not doing that but allowing my ravenous ego to take over and drag me kicking and screaming in completely the wrong direction. I may write the words, but I don’t want the blog to be about me.

So the laptop remains switched off this week, as I struggle with where I am heading. At the minute, I don’t know when it will be switched on again either. The same applies to my running shoes since the disaster that was the Causeway Coast Marathon two weeks ago. I never thought I would hear myself say these words but I don’t particularly want to run or write at present. I just want to be close to Fionnuala and the kids. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted.

I can only be honest. I know no other way to write. I’ve poured everything into the book and I’m not sure I have much left to offer. The prospect of countless rejection letters completely switches me off. I know my skin isn’t thick enough to handle that. Increasingly, the thought of tidying up the final few chapters and storing it a drawer, grows increasingly appealing. My dream was to write a book and I will have achieved it. That might be enough.

Running and writing a book are stretching me too thin. There is so much more I could be doing to support my family rather than pursuing distant pipe dreams. I’m not sure I have the strength to follow either to the distance. Mentally, I feel exhausted and, physically I’m not far behind. These, in turn, damage my spiritual health, which I am trying hard to rebuild. It has to be my priority, for if it suffers then I cannot fulfil my primary roles of being a good husband and father.

That’s how it is, at present. I’m excited to have started my Bible studies again. I’m excited for, and proud of my kids, for everything they achieve every day. I love my wife deeply and want to be there for her in any possible way I can. As for publishing a book or running a marathon? At the minute, there is nothing I can think of doing less. That could change tomorrow. But today, I must be honest. There is no other way. Honesty is what I crave.

The Tooth Will Set You Free

Remember that tooth? You know, the one I have been whining….I mean writing….about these last few weeks? The idiot who ran a marathon with toothache? Then collapsed in a heap when he crossed the finishing line and cried like a baby the whole way home? Yeah that tooth? Well, three visits to the dentists later and it’s still there. And this is where today’s story begins….

On Monday I sat, a complete wreck, in my dental surgery waiting to be summonsed into the torture chamber. The omens were not particularly good. The receptionist sweetly informed me that their computers kept crashing so the dental team were unable to view x-rays prior to commencing work. Part of me perked up at the prospect of an 11th hour reprieve.

Another part of me just wanted it over and done with. The computer gremlins seemingly vanquished, I was invited into the treatment room where my always bright and breezy dentist gave me the option of a tooth extraction or several painful and expensive root canal sessions in order to save the offending back molar. Even then she could not guarantee it would be successful. Just get it out,’ I pleased. Toothy and I were finished.

Not one, not two, not three, but four pain killing injections later, I lay back in the chair like a drooling bumpkin, unable to feel my ears, let alone my mouth. Hannah the dentist, all seven stone of her, began to valiantly tug and pull at the tooth. I felt nothing initially, the anaesthetic was doing it’s job. Then a sickening crack. I looked up into her eyes, expecting to see her triumphantly holding the tooth aloft.

How wrong I was. She held a tooth, or rather, part of a tooth. Such was the level of decay, the molar was crumbling. Part of it had broken off, but the base and roots remained resolutely in place. Hannah frowned before delving determinedly into my mouth again. This girl wasn’t giving up. That’s when the pain began. Which, given my level of pain relief, was astounding. Yet, there it was.

She huffed and she puffed but it would not come. Her silver instruments flashed before my eyes, before playing a cruel tune across the exposed nerve. A veritable xylophone of agony. In the end I waved a hand frantically in the air. Enough! The pain was too much. She admitted defeat, saying she would refer me to a specialist who would remove the remainder of the molar under sedation. Lots and lots of sedation, I silently prayed.

Teeth. Meh. Who needs them? Well, we all do I guess. But I certainly don’t need this one. Yet, it doesn’t want to leave me. It reminded me of my OCD, of how certain unwanted, intrusive thoughts refused to budge from my beleaguered mind, no matter how hard I tried. Addictive and destructive thinking. A sinful cycle of deception and despair. A desperate desire for the pain to end, for release, for freedom.

I wanted to be free of them, as much as I want to be free of this mischievous molar. I cannot be free of the tooth, I thought as I typed the sixth paragraph of this post on my phone. Then my verse for the day flashed up on the screen, and I smiled. Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humour. I’ll sign off by quoting the verse. The rest, I think, is pretty explanatory. Accessing the truth can be incredibly painful. In end though, it’s worth the effort.

John 8:32 – ‘Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.’

How is your relationship with the truth?

Which Book Of The Bible Should I Start With?

As I wrote earlier in the week, I’m going to be blogging about Christian topics in future posts, although not exclusively. As I’m tentatively finding my way back into Bible study, and in order to be accountable, I thought I’d throw it open to my fellow bloggers as to which book I study first. The book with the most votes will then feature in regular-ish posts, delivered in my own unique, slightly offbeat style.

Please take a moment to leave a comment as to which book I study. I’m excited about this opportunity to share God’s Word with you. You might want to pray about this, or perhaps you already have an idea in your head. Possibly an old personal favourite or perhaps one of the more obscure ones you want to learn a bit more about. I will abide by your decision and will announce the ‘winner’ over the weekend.

Which book of the Bible would you like me to blog about?

Views of Christians and non-Christians both welcome.

Are You On The Right Tracks This Morning?

Good Morning. I have a busy, but exciting day, ahead. I’m on the 06:13 train to Belfast, a full 90 minutes before my normal one. The reason? I have a big meeting to attend this afternoon, so want to get in early to prepare for it. A three hour meeting, no less, where I will be bombarded with questions by our senior management team. I need to look smart and think smart. All prayers and kind thoughts would be much appreciated.

The 07:48 express to Belfast is normally standing room only, as we are crammed into carriages like claustrophobic sardines, thanks to the good people of Northern Ireland Translink who resolutely refuse to put on extra carriages as that would ‘cost too much.’ It reminds me of one of those trains, you see on the Indian sub-continent. Next thing they will be charging folk to sit on the roof.

The 06:13 is an entirely different experience. It was empty. I had my pick of the seats, indeed I almost had an entire carriage to myself. I’ve heard of the early bird catching the worm but this is ridiculous. It was a veritable ghost train, hurtling through the darkness towards the bright lights of Belfast. Getting up early was hard this morning, but I reaped the reward. It was worth the struggle and effort on my part.

Of late, my faith has been a little bit like my train experiences. For a long time, I’ve been lazy. Not physically, but rather spiritually. I’ve been quite content to go with the flow, and drift along with the masses. I’ve done the bare minimum with regards my prayer life and Bible reading. I’ve turned my back on Christian fellowship and run a mile from anything remotely resembling a church.

I’ve become a zombie. I walk, I talk, I breathe. On the exterior, I give all the signs of being a perfectly normal, functioning human being. But inside, I have been dead. My faith has shrivelled up, a dried husk desperately in need of hydration and cultivation. I have succumbed to old habits and allowed my OCD to read its ugly head once more. I have chosen wrong paths and made poor decisions. I have taken the easy option and boarded the wrong train.

You will never be short of company on the wrong train. For it’s where the majority of us, end up at some point in our lives. You might have been on it recently, or indeed are travelling on it as I write this now. It’s the easier option, but an altogether less pleasant alternative. It’s taking you to the same destination, but in a very different manner. Your legs ache and fellow commuters elbow you in the ribs. It sucks.

The ghost train involved a little more effort, but is worth it. You travel in more spacious surroundings. It’s the train you need to be on, the train that your loved ones need to be on. Yet, it’s virtually empty. I’m going to be making a greater effort in the future to consistently board the ghost train. You can even call it the Holy Ghost train….did you see what I did there. Sorry, got a bit carried away there.

What train are you boarding today? Are you taking the lazy option, are you switching off and backing down, when you need to be switching on and stepping up to the mark? I would encourage you to join me on the ghost train today. I could sure do with the company and I’ve saved you a seat. It sure beats spending your commute with your nose shoved into a stranger’s armpit.

What train are you boarding this morning?

What’s been your worst commute to work?

Why I Need To Start Reading My Bible Again

I’m as blind as a bat. Seriously. Since I was nine, I’ve had to wear glasses. I remember the first day they were unveiled to the ahem….watching world in Mrs. Robinson’s P5 class. I broke down in tears as the entire class turned as one to gawk at my oh so stylish National Health Service jam jars with equally appalling brown plastic rims. So began a life consigned to permanent face furniture.

I’ve tried contact lenses a couple of times but they aren’t for me. I’d rather stick red hot knitting needles in my eyeballs. Come to think of it, putting in lenses was a not dissimilar experience. When finally in, the tears rolled down my cheeks and my irises resembled maps of the London Underground, criss crossed with an array of broken capillaries. I resembled a vampire in the midst of a particularly bad reaction to sunlight.

My glasses are, therefore, a necessary evil. Without them I can’t drive, read or run. The only time I take them off is when I go to bed at night. I simply cannot function without them, I could not step out the front door, without falling flat on my face. It’s a no brainer that I go nowhere without them firmly attached to my ears. The alternative is unthinkable. They are as part of me, as the nose on my face.

I cannot see without them.

We were visited by friends on Sunday. One of them left her glasses case behind. Thankfully, it was empty. Before leaving, she talked to us about her faith and plans she had for the future , plans she believes God spoke to her about. It was exciting to hear and sparked a flame within me which had been dormant for many months, if not years. A spark which reignited a very battered, fractured faith.

I picked up my Bible yesterday, inspired by the words of this friend. All day I hadn’t been able to get the image of the discarded glasses case out of my head. I thought of my Bible which had lain discarded in the bookcase in our living room for longer than I care to remember. I used to read it every day until life got in the way. The ways of the world took precedence over the ways of God. I was blinded by anger, resentment and self.

I found the verse below, and realised how spiritually blind I have been. I realised how much I need my Bible, as much as I need my glasses. Without its words of truth, I stumble around in an abyss of sinful, addictive behaviour. I allow other voices in my head to drown out the voices that matter. The voices of my loved ones, the voice of God. I realised that I need my Bible. I need it’s guidance. I need Jesus.

He is the antidote for I have become toxic, poisoned by the ways of the world and the voice which has spoken untruth after untruth, layer after layer, clogging my arteries and hardening my heart; forming milky cataracts over my eyes which have blinded me from what really matters. I need the Bible more than I need the happy pill I take every day to inhibit the serotonin levels raging uncontrollably across my synapses.

These are mere words, and are meaningless without accompanying action. But it’s a start and, at present, it’s all I have. This my Declaration of Independence, my call to arms, my battle cry. I’m determined to get back to regular Bible study and reflection. It’s time to get back in the saddle and focus on those who matter. It’s time to open my eyes to the light again, to reclaim the 20/20 vision I so desperately need.

Psalm 119:18 – ‘Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law.’

How is your faith journey today?

How important is the Bible in your life?

Has it always been that way?

If You Could Hide Within The Pages Of A Book….

I’ve often taken refuge within the pages of a book. During some of the darkest phases of my life I have galloped through the night, before gratefully clattering across the torchlit drawbridge and dismounting within a courtyard of words and chapters. On all four sides, paper walls have towered comfortingly around me, as impenetrable as stone and steel. I am safe, untouchable, alive.

As I near the completion of my first novel, I also near the year mark in its genesis and evolution. Yes, a year ago the name Kirkwood Scott popped into my head, swiftly followed by that of his nemesis, Augustus Skelly. Well, I say popped into, but truth be told they were always there, just waiting for the opportunity to step forward and formally introduce themselves to myself and the (still) waiting world.

These characters and their adventures have possessed me since then. I have been the conduit through which their stories have evolved. The process has been excruciating at times, but now here I stand on the cusp of recrossing the castle drawbridge and revealing my labours to the big, bad world. It’s a terrifying process and one I have very mixed feelings about.

Part of me is excited to see what happens. But a growing part of me dreads it. My skin is too soft to endure the inevitable criticism and rejection that will follow. Part of me just wants to shove the manuscript in a drawer; something to dig out for the grandchildren in years to come. I’ve done what I set out to achieve – I’ve written a book. The path from here seems too treacherous, too hilly, and utterly beyond my means.

Improbable. Impassable. Impenetrable. These are the words that sit heaviest on my tired shoulders. I sit with pen poised, about to sign terms of surrender as my enemy leers over my shoulder, rubbing its clawed hands in gleeful anticipation of my capitulation. But then I think. I think back to the times I have hidden within the pages of a book, concealed from the storms of life, battering me on all sides.

And I think, what if that book had never been written? What if the author had given up and hurled the manuscript into the fire? What if Tolkien, King, Lewis et al had never allowed their fantastic creations to see the light of day?Where would I be? Where would so many of us be? It doesn’t bear thinking about. I need the written work almost as badly as I need water and oxygen. Reading and writing are akin to life itself.

In today’s fast food, abbreviated, hyper linked world we still need books. 140 character tweets are not enough for me. I need substance, depth and texture. I desire to spend time within the comforting confines of well crafted, structured prose. I need to amble along verdant banks as its waters meander lazily through the meadows of my mind. I need time away from the million mile an hour car crash that we call life.

I know, from connecting with other bloggers, that I am not the only writer consumed by this aching need. We have sought sanctuary all our lives between the covers of a book. Now, we seek to carry on that tradition. To build new strongholds, towering about the mundane, featureless landscape of modern living. We are the architects who have taken the baton from our literary forefathers. We must build. We must create. We must offer respite.

Have you ever hidden within the pages of a book?

When God Falls Silent

It is written

Mitigation

Twisting truths

To quote verbatim

Spare the child

And spoil the rod

Worshiping

Your silent god.

Verses, Curses

Robed Subversives

Empty hearts

Yet flowing purses

Holy men with hollow souls

Break the rules, you pay the toll

Creaking bridges

Lurking trolls

Faster, Faster

Master, Master

Bend the knee

To plastic pastors.

How Can A Fractured Faith Blog Be Improved?

The blog continues to grow and, of late, has been a bit of a pot pourri with regards topics and themes. I’ve posted three poems in the last week, very unlike me I know. Yet, I’ve woken up with the words in my head and felt no option but to write and post them. I have no idea if they are any good but I’ve received some lovely comments which have cheered and encouraged me.

I also posted a Christian blog yesterday about the martyrdom of Stephen. I would describe myself as a Christian who blogs as opposed to a Christian blogger, but occasionally am led to dip my quill into more reflective, spiritual waters. The post has fared poorly which surprised me a little as the blog has a sizeable Christian following who normally support such posts.

Family life also inspires many of my posts. There are not many days that pass without some comedy gem at chez Black. As I am normally on the receiving end of these, I feel compelled to write about it. Fionnuala and Rebecca post occasionally while updates on Adam and Hannah also feature. I’m keen to stress that this blog is about more than me. Otherwise my ego runs unchecked, which nobody wants to see.

I occasionally write about my job and work colleagues. I seriously could write a book about this but, given the sensitive nature of my employment, I can only discuss it in the broadest of brush strokes. Maybe one day I will be able to open up a little more about it. I don’t mean to be secretive but I like getting a monthly pay cheque and this could be scuppered if my bosses discovered I was spilling the beans.

My struggle with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) lies at the heart of me and, therefore, my writing. I’m passionate about educating people about this often misunderstood mental illness. It never fails to amaze me how uneducated many are concerning OCD; they regard it as the comedy cousin of mental health as opposed to the horrific, crippling disorder it really is. OCD ruins lives. OCD ends lives.

The eponymous hero of my debut novel – The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square’ is a victim of OCD. I post weekly updates about the progress of the book but, again, can only disclose so much, for obvious reasons. People seem interested in the book and I hope it sees the light of day in some format, even if that means serialising it on the blog. It’s a planned trilogy but we will see. No point writing three books if everybody hates the first one.

Which brings me to my running posts which sink without trace most times. I understand that us runners are interminable bores, and only fellow running geeks can be bothered hearing of our latest exploits. There will be less of them in the months to come as, after the disaster that was the Causeway Coast Marathon, I have no plans to race again until next spring. I will still keep my training runs going, but over lesser distances.

Which brings me to the point of this post. I want to know what you would like to read more of; are there topics you would like to hear more, or less, about? What do you like and what are you less keen to peruse? Are there new topics I could cover? I’m willing to consider anything, within reason. I’ll hand it over to you now and look forward to reading, and responding to, your comments. Thank you again.

Start Playing The Martyr

I am quite partial to melancholy, to wallowing in self pity, feeling sorry for myself. There are various terms one can use to describe the act of introspective navel gazing. When the odds are stacked against me, and everything is going belly up, you can be guaranteed I’ll throw myself the mother of all pity parties. Fionnuala sums it up most succinctly when she catches me in this state of mind.

‘Stop playing the martyr….’

Which is ironic as I am named after the first Christian martyr, Stephen. The above phrase is largely associated with negative behaviour. It refers to a person who is overreacting to a given situation, behaving in an inappropriate or immature manner. I know when Fionnuala levels the comment at me I invariably stop what I’m doing and concede that I’m being a prat.

The word martyr is derived from the Latin, martur, meaning ‘witness.’ It is a person who is willing to sacrifice their life for a belief they adhere to; be that religious, political or for any other number of reasons. It is regarded as a noble, heroic act; laying down one’s life rather than capitulate or conform to values that fly in the face of everything you represent. Martyrs should be revered, not ridiculed.

Stephen was such a man. Facing the Sanhedrin, a collection of hostile Jewish leaders, on trumped up charges of blasphemy, he features very briefly in the Book of Acts. But what a show stopping appearance. Rather than bend the knee and renounce his faith, instead he eloquently and articulately gave testimony to, or witnessed, his belief that Jesus was the Son of God, who they rejected and murdered.

As well as eloquence, intelligence and a detailed knowledge of scripture, he displayed remarkable courage. He fronted up to them, exposing them as ‘stiff necked’ hypocrites, whose ‘hearts and ears are still circumcised.’ He spoke the truth and the only way they could stop the truth, was through stoning him to death. A young man named Saul, held their cloaks as they did so.

Stephen features for just over two pages in my 1250 page Bible, yet he sits shoulder to shoulder with giants of the faith such as Abraham, Moses and David. He set an example for millions of other Christians who followed in his bloody footsteps, willing to risk everything as opposed to renounce the faith. Stephen inspired Peter and Paul, the two fathers of the early Church.

Don’t be afraid to play the martyr, but do it for the right reasons. Don’t pout and sulk like I do, because you don’t get your own way. Instead hold your head up high, like Stephen did to the Sanhedrin, standing tall for what he believed in. Because when he looked up, he saw beyond the hate filled expressions and expletives and saw Heaven open to reveal the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.

Martyrdom today is linked to acts of terror or selfishness. Stephen epitomised the true meaning of the act. He was a visible witness, a presence, a voice, speaking love and truth over those who despised him. His last words were akin to those of Jesus, seeking forgiveness for those who killed him. We all can learn from Stephen. A martyr in the truest sense of the word.

The story of Stephen can be found in Acts Chapters 6-7.

Do you play the martyr? In the selfish or selfless sense? Or possibly both?

What do you learn from the story of Stephen?

Preparing Shrouds

Frenetic

Kinetic

This panic, magnetic.

It latches, attaches

Destroys the aesthetic.

I scratch til I bleed,

You feed off my need

Delicious disease

So ripe for release.

I mumble the words

Stumble with the herd

Chaotic, hypnotic

Regressing, disturbed.

Gouged

Aroused

Demons carouse

Stalking the fallen

Preparing shrouds.

Mud, Sweat and Toothache

I’m off work today, and currently perched on the sofa, editing Chapter 70 of the novel. I’ll be blogging later in the week about my latest trip to the dentist, earlier today. Thankfully it was a much less painful experience than the last visit. The offending tooth has been packed and capped, prior to it’s permanent extraction in a week’s time. The pain is gone, for now. Hallelujah! Can I get an amen?

It’s a pity the same can’t be said for the pain in my thighs after Saturday’s brutal Causeway Coast Marathon. Looking back on it, I’m not as dejected as I was first was with regards my performance. I discovered today that I covered over 3200 feet in elevation. That’s the equivalent of scaling Slieve Donard, Northern Ireland’s highest peak, with 200 feet to spare.

I thought I’d share two photos which encapsulated the highs and lows of Saturday. The first is a photo of my muddied, battered legs in the recovery room at the end of the race. My toothache was so bad at this point that I had to sit down, such was the nausea and dizziness I was experiencing. It was one of the less enjoyable hours of my life. The Causeway Coast effectively broke me.

Photo two is the reason I did it – my Causeway Coast finishers medal and buff. Which I’ll add to my eight other marathon medals, currently languishing in a bedroom drawer. I look forward to digging them out in years to come, so as to bore the grandchildren silly with my tales of derring do. My dream is to run a tenth and then drop down in distance. We shall see.

I’m A Bit Broken

I’m a bit broken

Words rarely spoken

The truth

Tastes so bitter and strange, clay emotions.

Barely alive

Rotten inside

Dead to a world

Where I once loved and thrived.

Cursed with routines

Obsessive dreams

Compulsive acts

Mask stifling screams.

Speculate, ruminate

Gnaw, then regurgitate

Cyclical sickness

These images dominate.

Falling apart

An effortless art

Yet smiling serenely

As I play the part.

A role on a stage

A turn of the page

You don’t even know me

Bird trapped in a cage.

Battered and bruised

Torn and abused

This was my past

Now my present, reused.

Infected, rejected

Defective, Subjective

I yearn for release

From this pain undetected.

For I’m a bit broken

Words finally spoken

Praying they free me

Desperately hoping.

Are you a bit broken?

All feedback and comments gratefully received?

A Bad Day At The Office

I ran my 9th marathon today along when I tackled 26 Extreme’s Causeway Coast Marathon. It was brutal. Hilly trails, clifftop sections, slipping and sliding over stiles and through muddy fields. Not forgetting the windy beach sections where you literally clambered over rocks and little else. I won’t tell you my finishing time, for it was horrible. But I did finish. Somehow.

I fell twice, once in sheep poo. I was stung by nettles, I ache all over. I endured a nagging toothache for the entire 26.2 miles, which erupted at the finish line leaving me nauseous and dizzy in the recovery room. I was disappointed and embarrassed crossing the finish line, but now that I’m home I realise, if nothing else, I didn’t give up. Even when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die.

We all have bad days at the office. This was a tough one for me. I’m used to success during races. Personal bests and attaining training goals. That hasn’t been happening this year and it most certainly didn’t happen today. I flopped. I’m not sure, but this could well have been my last marathon. I had set myself a target of ten but don’t know if I could put my body through that again.

Time will tell. I realised today I’m not Superman. I bit off more than I could chew and ignored the advice of people who advised me not to run today. I’m physically and mentally exhausted. I will take a break from marathon training for a while and give my body time to recover. Which will mean less running related posts. Every cloud has a silver lining, I guess. They’re usually my lowest viewed.

HHow do you handle disappointment?

Flash Fiction Challenge

I sporadically issue Flash Fiction writing challenges based around discarded till receipts I find during my travels around the shops of Belfast. Today’s is a true conundrum. Who would purchase a fruit peeler and then buy ‘prepared’ fruit? As in, already peeled, diced, sliced etc. Doesn’t that negate the need for a peeler? The plot thickens almost as readily as the mind boggles.

The rules are simple as there aren’t really any. There is no word limit and the only other limit is your imagination. Just base your story on the receipt and the person who bought it. If you’re taking part, I would ask that you namecheck our blog. Also feel free to reblog to your own community. There are no prizes, other than my undying gratitude for taking part. Let the Flash Fiction challenge begin!

I Am Sic

I am sic

Nervous tic

Binge and purge

This endless urge.

Odd

Erroneous

Out of place

Unworthy of the human race.

Worthy of comment

Worthless, I vomit

Bird in a cage

From the rope I will plummet.

Dead to his Word

Alive to their world

Baptised in blood

Yet drowned in the flood.

No peace here, just pieces

Faceless diseases

Endless attacks

This war never ceases

For I am sick

And I am sic

Liar, fool,

And lunatic.

I don’t write much poetry but I woke with the phrase ‘I am sic’ in my head this morning. Sic, as in the adverb placed after a quoted word to highlight that it is grammatically incorrect but is quoted in its original format. The poem hopes to describe how I felt in my lowest OCD days. It does not represent how I feel today, but I hope it may speak out to others and offer assurance that recovery is possible.

I regard this as one of the most important posts I have published in some time. It felt as if the words were placed within, as opposed to created by, me. They are from me, and not of me. So, I don’t ask this often but if the poem resonates with you could you reblog and share this message within your own community. That would mean a lot to me. For we are all a little bit sic and in need of correction.

‘I Am Sic’ was partially inspired by the song ‘I’m So Sick’ by Flyleaf. Its vocalist and writer, Lacey Sturm, is featured in today’s accompanying image.

A Running Concern

It’s three days to the Causeway Coast Marathon and reality hit home when I received my joining instructions yesterday. These are so long and detailed that I could probably run a marathon in the time it will take me to digest and process them. Cutting to the chase, though, it is 26.2 miles of road, beach, trail and rocks. With a lot of hills thrown in for good measure. Well, what else would I be doing on a Saturday morning?

Now there’s a question. I could be doing a LOT of stuff. Watching Adam play rugby for a start. I knew I’d miss a game by signing up for Causeway Coast but justified it to myself at the time. The nearer I get to Saturday, however, the more I wish I was going to his match. I should be on the touchline supporting him, instead of pandering to my own selfish needs. I feel bad about that and nothing will convince me otherwise.

I could also be working on the book. This week has been a busy one so I’ve barely touched it. I hope to get back to editing this evening, but I’m desperate to complete the latest draft by the end of September. I can ill afford to sacrifice another Saturday when there is still so much work to be done. I bet Tolkien or Rowling didn’t down tools to run 26.2 miles at such crucial points in their writing journeys.

Work is also crazy at present. Deadlines are looming large and there is overtime available if I wished to avail of it. The extra money would be welcome with the expenditure of Christmas on the horizon, but instead I’ll be slogging around the Northern Irish countryside while paying the race organisers a small fortune for the privilege. Not to mention the cost of diesel driving there and back, the weekend before pay day.

There’s also the voice telling me I’m not ready. This will be my ninth marathon but, I go into it feeling less confident than ever. Training runs have been inconsistent and I feel nowhere near the fitness levels I’ve accrued in advance of previous events. I feel sluggish and am filled with trepidation. This isn’t a PB course but I’m anxious of blowing up in spectacular fashion and missing my sub 4:30:00 target.

The hope is that, come race day, experience will kick in and I’ll be dragged to the finish line by a combination of adrenaline and being in the company of my fellow runners. I’m trying to put less pressure on myself for this one and just enjoy the experience. Try telling that, though, to the persistent, nagging voice telling me this will be the day the world will realise what a massive charlatan I’ve been all along.

After Saturday I’ve decided I’ll pull down the curtain on marathon training for 2018. I have so many other competing priorities and the thought of solo 20 mile runs in the dead of winter is an unappealing prospect. My tenth marathon will be next May at Belfast with my now traditional warm up run at the Omagh Half Marathon the previous month. After that, we shall see as to whether or not I call it a day. My body will tell me.

Good, bad or indifferent I’ll publish a post after the race to update you all on how I fared. I know I will be excited come Saturday morning, it’s just there seems so much grown up stuff to wade through between now and then. I’ll worry myself silly over a million and one distractions. Focus and patience are the attributes I need to display. Then, when I reach the finish line I’ll let my feet do the talking.

What are you up to this weekend?

Are you excited? Nervous? Worried?

Who Inspired You Today?

Three has been a very important number in our house this summer. While other teenagers have been lying in bed or vaping themselves silly our oldest, Adam, has been working hard. Running, lifting weights, cross training. All because of the number three. He even turned the garage into a gym, which beats its usual role as a dumping ground for discarded bicycles, garden furniture and Christmas decorations.

The reason? Why, the number three of course. Or rather the number three shirt for the college 1st XV rugby team. Now, for the boring bit. Number three is the tight head prop position, one of the most important on the team. It’s a highly skilled role which requires great strength, stamina and technique. It largely goes unnoticed but if the tight head has a bad game, then the team invariably does as well.

Adam was told last season by his coaches that if he worked hard during the summer he had a shot at the number three shirt. Competition for places is traditionally fierce and he was going up against boys two years older than himself. Yet, on Saturday, he started at number three for the first XV, and played the full match, holding his own against bigger and older opposition.

Dreams can happen. But they often require a lot of hard work. All of our kids inspire me on a daily basis, and this is just another example. I could write equally inspiring posts about Hannah and Rebecca, and indeed have done and will continue to do so. Today just happened to be Adam’s turn. Now if only we could get him to tidy his room.

Who has inspired you today?

I’m Writing A Book….Still!

I’ve now reached the two third mark of my fourth edit of ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square,’ my first, and possibly only, novel. Progress has been slow, but steady, this week. As ever, real life has got in the way, and I haven’t been able to devote the time I would like to the project. It has simply been a case of chipping away at it, where and when I can. I’m fighting the urge to rush ahead and lose the quality.

The beta feedback continues to be excellent; positive and constructive. I made a point of selecting as diverse a range of test readers as possible; from teenagers to pensioners, and every decade in between. They all seem to be enjoying the story and Meredith Starc is emerging as the most loved character. Do I need to rename this ‘The Meredith Starc Chronicles?’

I hope not, as Kirkwood is very loosely based on yours truly when he was a struggling office worker in his early twenties; without the world saving potential of course. Some of the lesser, but still vital characters are also being introduced – Cornelius Dobson, Martim Rodriguez, Gunther von Steinbeck to name but a few. It has been fun creating their back stories, where my love of historical research has come to the fore.

Then there’s Colonel Augustus Skelly, himself. The villain of the piece. I’ve put a lot of effort into detailing his physical appearance and mannerisms. He is truly alive when I write about him and I hope that comes across to readers. My wish is that he evolves into that most delicious of characters – the bad guy you love to hate. There may even be a crumb of sympathy as to how he turned out the way he did….but not much.

There are still a few characters to be unveiled, including one largely based on our daughter, Hannah. This has proved a major challenge. How do you do justice to such a huge personality? I’m hoping she likes Harley, her alter ego in the KS universe, otherwise my life won’t be worth living. Harley is a crucial character and crashes into the story soon, driving the plot on to its conclusion.

Much of the early sections of the book concerned character introduction, development and back stories. This has been essential as both Kirkwood and Meredith have dark and troubled pasts, which the reader must understand in order to appreciate their actions and decisions in the present. Otherwise, the story doesn’t make sense. I hope I’ve penned heroes that you can relate to and empathise with.

Then there’s the real hero of the book, the city of Belfast. I’ve enjoyed describing the streets I walk most days, capturing the grime and the beauty in equal measure. Some locations are real, others I have based on reality but allowed myself a degree of artistic license. This is the Belfast of the Kirkwood Scott universe; gritty, but scratch beneath the surface and you will reveal its supernatural underbelly.

I hope to have this edit finished by the end of the month. Then it’s a case of mulling over the beta feedback, et voila it’s finished. I’ll then turn my attention towards researching potential agents and drafting query letters. As ever, I want to thank everyone who has supported me both in the ‘real world’ and the wonderful world of WordPress. Without you, none of this would be happening.

What do you make of the Kirkwood Scott universe?

Are you writing a book? Have you written a book? Are you thinking of writing one? Where are you on your writing journey?

I’m Getting Paid To Go To The Movies

Tonight I’m going to the cinema. Unfortunately it’s not a date night with Fionnuala but, instead, work related. Myself and a colleague are attending the screening of a documentary at a small film festival in Belfast. It’s content is very relevant to an investigation we are conducting and my bosses are keen that we view it. I will be scribbling notes instead of eating popcorn but I can live with that.

It’s going to be a long day. I need to be in work early to brief another colleague about the events of the past week and hand over the on call phone. Thankfully, it’s been a relatively quiet week on that front, but I still have a few loose ends to tidy up. All that, and I have to squeeze in a lunchtime run. The Causeway Coast Marathon is only eight days away so it’s important I keep the legs loose and the engine ticking over.

We will grab something to eat before the film and head there straight from the office. I feel like a VIP as I’m getting the opportunity to meet the director beforehand. There will be no red carpet and you won’t have to endure the sight of me in a tuxedo but it’s still something special, a little bit out of the norm. The screening is a sell-out and I’ve had to pull a few strings in order to secure seats.

We still had to pay for our entry. And what an ordeal that was as our finance section made me jump through hoops in order to secure the princely sum of £12 for the tickets. Countless e-mails were exchanged and forms filled out before they reluctantly handed over the cash, accompanied by ominous warnings that I had to forward them the receipts first thing Monday morning or suffer the consequences.

My colleague has also insisted that we eat before the screening as she doesn’t want to end up getting ‘hangry’ when we are both representing the organisation and required to be on our best behaviour. I’m happy with an extra sandwich in my lunch but will tag along with her to guarantee she doesn’t turn into ‘The Incredible Hulk’ mid movie and wreak havoc within the auditorium. She’s around 5’2′ and weighs seven stone.

The silver lining is that I can claim overtime for the evening. That’s right, I’m being paid to go to the movies. Of course, I will be working incredibly hard, networking beforehand, taking copious notes during, and pressing the flesh and back slapping afterwards. There will be no munching on wine gums or dozing off during a quiet scene. Although I might smuggle in a Diet Coke or three.

I’ll have to remain wide awake and bushy tailed throughout as I’ll be expected to provide the bosses with a detailed briefing on Monday morning as to what l we viewed, accompanied by recommendations as to how it impacts upon the investigation and the needs of the organisation. Although, few and far between, there are moments when I can impersonate an adult and ‘do the grown up stuff.’

As perks go, it’s not the highlight of my career. I once travelled to Spain for four days on enquiry. But it’s something different and an interesting start to another hectic weekend at chez Black. I’ll provide further updates over the next few days but, for now, it’s almost time to leap out of bed and face the day ahead. Writing about it is one thing. Living it is an entirely different proposition. I’ll see you all on the other side.

When were you last at the movies?

What’s the biggest perk of your job?

What are you up to this weekend?

This Is Me. This Is OCD.

This is me. This is OCD. For it lies. It plants unwanted thoughts in your head. We all have these thoughts. Did I leave the oven on? Why do I need to touch that tap seven times? What would happen if I let go of the steering wheel? The list goes on. Here’s the good news. Such thoughts are perfectly normal. We all have them. And the majority of us shake our heads, think ‘don’t be so ridiculous’, and shoo the idea out of our head, never to return.

I don’t, for I have OCD. The thought doesn’t go away, rather it becomes that unwelcome house guest who turns up uninvited, kicks off their shoes, and asks what’s for dinner. They linger, they fester and they grow to such a monstrous size that they squeeze every other idea out of your head. It holds court, takes up residence and cheerily starts to dismantle every last shred of your former self. It changes you to the extent that you start to doubt who you are.

The power of the obsessive thoughts and images are hard to describe. But I’ll try. Imagine standing in the middle of a boxing ring against a dangerous and skilled opponent. Except your hands are tied, you’re rooted to the spot and blindfolded. Your opponent can land unlimited punches from any angle at any time. You cannot see them coming nor evade or deflect them in the slightest. That is OCD. A sensation of utter powerlessness against a relentless, unforgiving foe.

When a punch lands, you are utterly unprepared for it. You are sent spinning to the canvas, shocked and disoriented. That is OCD. Once the unwanted thought floats into your mind you have no way of removing it. OCD is a bloodless coup, a fait accompli. It storms your ramparts and before you know it, the white flag has been risen. It knows no mercy and gives no parley. It is the Ramsay Bolton of mental illness. It will flay you alive.

The harder you try not to think about the unwanted thought, the more you will. That is OCD. It isolates you from reality and ties you up in nonsensical knots which you cannot untangle, no matter how hard you try. It clouds rational thought and wreaks havoc amidst the foggy confusion. It is ridiculous but that is it’s strength. You are terrified to share your thoughts with another human being, for fear they think you insane.

You would rather hide your dirty, grubby secret than expose it to the light of day. The voice is insistent that if you share that unwanted thought with anyone, it will wreck your marriage, your family and your life. You will end up with nothing, a broken shell. So you keep it bottled up inside, and allow the disturbing, unwanted, graphic images to torment your every waking hour. It is your constant companion, the albatross around your neck.

It consumes the good in you, sucks the very marrow from your bones. You are left dry and broken. There is no tiredness comparable to an OCD loop. If the CIA could bottle OCD and release it as a nerve agent, then all wars would end. Bullets and bombs break bones, OCD breaks wills. It is the end of times, for when it drops its payload, then nothing will ever be the same again. How do you defeat an enemy you cannot see.

It calls you everything, and you believe. You are everything you despise. You are a deviant, a freak, a waste of skin and space and air. You are the devil and it is the detail. It scoops out everything you ever were and ever hoped to be. It is a dragon that you will chase but never catch. It is smoke and mirrors and you choke and cower. It is everywhere but it is nowhere. It destroys worlds. These words are my truth. For this is me. This is OCD.

What Are You Hungry For?

Saturday was the start of the new rugby season, so Fionnuala and I hugged the touchline, to watch Adam play for his college against one of the big Belfast schools. Unfortunately they lost, but didn’t go down without a fight. Adam had a great game and scored his team’s only try. I thought he was our best player but then I’m his father so that’s to be expected. Afterwards, therefore, I was relieved to hear his coach agree with my assertion.

He informed me that, given his performance, Adam was being moved up to the first team for next weekend’s match. We were delighted to hear this as it has been his target all summer and he has worked hard towards attaining it. He will now be playing against boys up to two years older than him, at a much higher level. It’s a steep learning curve but one that he needs to take in order to fulfil the potential within him.

The coach also told me that he did not want Adam progressing too quickly into the first team as he wanted to ‘keep him hungry.’ If he reached his target too easily then that could impact upon his motivation and determination for the rest of the year. Adam has talent and a strong work ethic but to be the best that he possibly can requires more than that; it requires a desire or drive that cannot be taught.

Whenever I’m training for marathons, which is most of the time, I’m permanently hungry. I think about eating all day long. I don’t view myself as greedy, rather I need to eat a lot to replace the calories I burn up on training runs. This allows me to eat pretty much whatever I want. Which means ALL the ice cream. I dread the day I have to stop running as I will probably put on three stone in a week.

We normally associate the word with the physical discomfort experienced through a lack of food. But the wider definition fits better with the etymological roots of the word. Hunger derives from the Old English word ‘hungor’, meaning desire. It goes beyond growling stomachs and yo-yo diets. When we hunger after something, we desire it, we yearn for it, we crave it.

Hunger, within this context, is a double edged sword. While we identify the physical experience of hunger with negative emotions, it is construed as a positive attribute for a young rugby player like Adam, striving to progress in his given sport. To aspire to better yourself, to improve reflects a healthy mindset. We need targets in life, or at least I know I do. For otherwise, we stagnate and become bored.

Flip the coin again, however, and we can hunger after unhealthy desires. Desires that lead us down the wrong path. An unhealthy appetite, if allowed to run unchecked, can result in more than indigestion. It can bring destruction and ruin to your life and the lives of those you love the most. Collateral damage is still damage. Be hungry, but hunger after those things which are going to supplement your life, not suffocate it.

What are your thoughts on hunger and desire after reading this post?

The Bible Is Full Of Idiots

I didn’t come up with that title for shock value but, let’s face it, I’m not far off the mark. Let’s consider the evidence.

I’ll start with Abraham. He hardly covered himself in glory now, did he? That business with Hagar, the slave girl, who gave birth to his son, Ishmael. Although his wife, Sarah, didn’t help to be fair. A bit like Adam and Eve. Dumb women egging on even dumber men. You couldn’t make it up. Although doubters would contend it is all made up. But, I digress. Onwards.

I think Samson was at the back of the queue when the grey matter was being dished out. He tended to act first and only engage his brain afterwards, when the damage was already done. I mean, that business with the foxes and setting their tails on fire. It’s like something out of a really bad Rambo movie. Like Abraham he was also a bit of a disaster with the fairer sex. Just ask Delilah.

Which brings me to David. Warrior, King, Visionary. A man after God’s own heart. Oh, and numbskull. He decides to lounge about on the roof of the palace when his armies are on the field of battle. Lo and behold, he sees Bethsheba and the rest, as they say is history. Cue adultery, deceit and murder which culminates in the death of his own son. Not his finest moment.

Peter, Peter, Peter. Where do I start? The disciple whose foot was permanently in his mouth. A man whose very presence within the inner circle of Jesus gives hope to us all. Denying Jesus three times was bad enough. But offering to erect some huts at the Transfiguration when Elijah and Moses descend from Heaven. It’s akin to meeting the Queen, sticking a pencil up your nose and going ‘Wibble, Wibble.’

These men (and women) were idiots. Their words and actions revealed inadequacies and character flaws which we can all relate to. People are weak and flawed; we are vain, selfish and forever falling flat on our faces. Yet, God still continues to pick us up, dust us down, and use us for His purposes. He has a plan, and we are part of it. Any idiot can apply to be part of the team.

I’m no exception. I mess up day after day after day. I ignore God, I moan at God and I consistently do the opposite of what I’m meant to be doing as a card carrying Christian. I don’t go to church enough, I don’t read my Bible enough and I don’t pray enough. I sin, and seek his forgiveness; then I sin again, anyway. I’m forever straying off the straight and narrow. I don’t like being around other Christians and sometimes I don’t like being around God.

Yet still He patiently tolerates me and seeks to use me. He waits and then plants an idea in my head which I reluctantly mull over, before finally agreeing that he was right all along. He encourages me, supports me and motivates me. He reveals to me the truth, His truth, not the tainted truths being peddled by the supposed pillars of our community. Hypocrites are twist the Word to suit their own petty needs.

I get angry when I think about these people, but not as angry as I get about myself. I know I can do better. I let religious buffoonery get in the way of my relationship with Jesus. I hope it’s a righteous anger, a means to an end. For I need an end, a finish line, a target. Otherwise, life is a futile, empty gesture. I need to open my eyes. I need to cast off the shackles. I need to stop being an idiot.

Do you get angry with yourself and other Christians?

Who is your favourite Biblical idiot?

Can you do better in your walk with God?

Writing Sucks, Yet Still I Write

I used to have a very romanticised image of us wannabe authors. We would languidly lie stretched out on our chaise longues, waiting for inspiration to strike before committing to paper the fruits of our labour. These words would flow seamlessly and effortlessly, with no need for correction, before we would fall back, nibble on a fig, and wait for the next literary gem to form in our minds.

Well, that bubble has been well and truly burst. I’ve posted before about writing being hard work. This week has been no exception as I struggle to remain creative and relevant on the blog, while at the same time trudging through the never ending fourth edit of the novel I am currently working on. It has been a case of one step forward, two rewrites back, as I have agonised over minute punctuation, grammar and continuity issues.

When I’m in the zone, the words flow freely. I’m not one for painstaking plotting and planning before I write. I usually just get an idea or scenario and run with it. Often, the story seems to pen itself, and I am but a conduit. Ideas come to me as I write which I know I never would have had, if I had tried to prepare the story in advance. I am at my most creative when I am in the physical act of writing.

Here, I am at my most free. The wind rushes through my hair as I ride the runaway train as it hurtles down the track, heading where to, I do not know. It is exhilarating as the adrenaline flows and I hammer away furiously at the keyboard, afraid to stop or look up for fear that the silver thread of creativity I am clinging onto will snap and this magical moment will be lost forever.

Which is why editing is such a struggle for me. I recognise it is a necessary part of the writing process, but why oh why must it be such a chore. My life is now one where I obsess over quotation marks and commas; I fret over glaring gaps in the plot and continuity errors that a three year old should have picked up on months ago. Paragraphs which I once viewed as unadulterated genius, are brutally hacked to pieces and subjected to searing scrutiny.

The delete button reigns supreme whilst doubts and delays leave me wondering, what’s the point? What’s the point in pursuing this middle aged fairytale when I could be focusing my time and energy on much more tangible pursuits. Why put yourself through this torture day after day, week after week; for a piece that will realistically only see the light of day if I can magic thousands of pounds from somewhere to go down the self publishing route.

Then it hits me. I am not editing the book, rather the book is editing me. The writing process is allowing me to channel my obsessive nature in a constructive, as opposed to destructive, manner. It is chipping away at me, like a sculptor works a lump of shapeless stone; with a patient precision aimed at eventually revealing the beauty within. Removing layers and smoothing rough edges. There is a method to their mundane madness.

Writing makes me a better person, as does running, my other passion. But my true reward is the journey as opposed to medals and published books. They are merely the external signs of what I have accomplished. The real rewards lie within, in how I have changed and am changing as a human being. These are the reasons I sit hunched over my keyboard night after night. It is a painful process, but a necessary one. Pain is the bedfellow of rebirth. You cannot have the latter without the former.

What is your favoured writing style?

Do you struggle with your writing?

How do you overcome your writing fears?

Only An Idiot Would Sit Under An Apple Tree

Rebecca came home with her first Science homework of the new school year, which was to write a newspaper article about a famous scientist. I overheard Hannah and her discussing who discovered gravity. Hannah hit the nail on the head when she stated that it was some guy who was sitting under a tree when an apple landed on his head. They initially were of the belief that this ‘guy’ was Albert Einstein, until I gently corrected them it was Isaac Newton.

I’m a font of useless information. I tend to do quite well in quizzes and set me in front of a television game show and I usually get more questions correct than I do incorrect. I always win family board games as I am a 48 year old man who shows no mercy to his wife and children in such settings. They must be crushed. I tell the kids it’s character building but they look strangely at me and shrug their shoulders.

This competitive streak runs through any activity I undertake. I want to be the very best at what I do, be that working, running or writing. I push myself to the limit. My obsessive nature comes to the fore and I’m off to the races. The same applies to the kids. As I stand on the sidelines at Adam’s rugby matches I am kicking every ball and making every tackle with him. Yes, I am that Competitive Dad you all love to hate.

It’s a pity this competitive nature doesn’t carry over into every area in my life. For example, the kitchen. I can operate an oven and cook basic meals reasonably well when I put my mind to it. If I’m given enough time and rigidly follow the recipe I can do it. But, by and large, the kitchen is a foreign environment to me, full of weird and wonderful implements which I have no idea how to operate.

This became very evident when Fionnuala proof read a chapter of the book and howled with derision at my reference to chromeless steel kitchen utensils. I obviously meant stainless steel but this utter lack of such knowledge of such matters means it is necessary that I share the manuscript with as diverse a range of beta readers as I can find. Otherwise, howlers like the above could slip through the net making me look stupider than usual.

Despite knowing a lot, I don’t know everything. None of us do. We all have grey areas in our knowledge banks, fields of learning where we will never sit at the top of the class. We cannot be experts at everything we set out to do. If we aspire to absolute excellence then we are headed for a short, sharp shock. Nobody likes a know all because, at the end of the day, they know very little about their own inadequacies.

Wisdom is knowing that these areas exist and relying on others to support and educate you so as you don’t end up with egg all over your face. Wisdom is listening and soaking up information as opposed to blundering on, wreaking havoc due to your ignorance. It’s important that you gather these people around you to guide you through the murk and gloom of the grey area, to emerge unscathed on other side.

I’m sure Isaac Newton didn’t know everything. Otherwise why would he have sat under a heavily laden apple tree and earned a bang on the head for his troubles.? Albert Einstein didn’t exactly set the world on fire at school, either. Wisdom does not equate to intelligence and vice versa. A healthy dollop of both is necessary in order to avoid the many pitfalls life throws in our path at such regular intervals. Use your grey matter to fill in those grey areas.

What are the grey areas in your life?

How do you seek to fill them in?

What is your favourite invention?

Are You A Ditherer Or A Doer?

This weekend is jam packed and it hasn’t even started yet. I have a busy day at work ahead, working on a big project with an ever nearing deadline. A colleague is leaving to take up a new position in China and we are having a farewell 5K run for him this weekend. Most people organise farewell lunches or drinks for this sort of thing. Stephen arranges runs. Yes, I am that running dork and stand guilty as charged.

Adam is working tonight at the Kingspan Stadium, where Ulster Rugby are taking on Edinburgh. And tomorrow morning, he will be taking to the field of play himself for Lurgan College’s first game of the season against RBAI, one of the best sides in the country. I never sleep well the night before he has a match and I doubt tonight will be any different. I’ve also just remembered that he needs a new gum shield.

At some point over the weekend there is also the small matter of fitting in a 20 mile training run, my last long one before I tackle the Causeway Coast Marathon in two weeks time. Oh, and there’s the small matter of the latest draft of the novel in chipping away at; I’m attempting to complete a chapter a night, ever aware that my loyal army of beta readers are currently scouring over Chapters 15-30.

I’m a master at procrastination. If I can put off a task or activity to a later date, then I will do it. Meetings, phone calls, anything remotely challenging, I will dread it’s approach. Give me an opportunity to reschedule and I will gleefully do so; then worry myself sick until the day in question comes around. I will only act swiftly if I’m backed into a corner and left with no other option.

I’m not one for grabbing thistles or bulls by the horns. Carpe diem is not my battle cry. I don’t laugh in the face of danger and you will never, ever see me on a documentary with Bear Grylls no matter how many million copies Kirkwood Scott sells. It’s not in my nature, it goes against my grain; my ears have no interest in the call of the wild. I’d rather leave it for tomorrow, for we all know, tomorrow never comes.

I’ve no choice this weekend. I need to man up and grow a pair, as Fionnuala so often tells me. She really is the most charming wife. But she’s right, and without her pushing me on I would never get anything done. I’d dither, delay and dally until the cows come home. And the last thing I need is a herd of Frisian cattle sashaying through our front room. Especially if I’m chasing a bull around the kitchen trying to grab its horns.

There comes a time when you have to leap out of your comfort zone, grit your teeth and jump in with both feet. Because if you don’t then the boat will have sailed, and you will be left standing on the dock, forlornly watching your dreams sail over the horizon. Yes, there will be trepidation, fear and probably more than a little pain, but ultimately I believe it is both necessary and worthwhile in order to lead the lives we were created to live.

If you procrastinate you will never liberate. We are blessed in that the majority of us are not shackled, at least physically, by chains which restrain us. We have freewill to make the decisions which will impact upon, and shape, our present and future lives. Sometimes even shrinking violets like yours truly have to seize the day. And if I can, then so can you. Even if it means the occasional sting or jag along the way.

Are you a ditherer or a doer?

When did you last seize the day?

I Told You So….

Don’t you hate it when people say that? They always look unspeakably smug and the urge to scream in their faces is almost irresistible. We don’t like being told we are wrong, even more so admitting that we were. Pride is a bitter pill to swallow, even when it has been sugar coated and gift wrapped in the most palatable of packages. We gag, we choke, we resist the urge to swallow. Being told we are wrong is just wrong.

A few months back I had a horrific experience at the dentists which involved insufficient anaesthetic, followed by a world of white hot pain. The butcher….I mean dental surgeon eventually took pity on me and called it a day. She made another appointment for me, stating that my only options were root canal surgery or having the tooth removed. Neither appealed particularly to me at the time.

I told her I’d think about it and then come back with a decision. She said that was fine but sooner, rather than later, because the cavity was deep and was only going to get deeper. She ominously warned that the pain would be on a whole new level unless swift action was taken. I nodded in agreement, before fleeing the surgery, vowing never to darken its door again.

For three months all was well. Bar the odd niggle, there was no pain. I mean, what did she know about teeth? I laughed in the face of the countless certificates on the wall and numerous letters after her name. For I was doing just fine, living in a toothache free world. Granted, I dared not drink or eat on that side of my mouth but ’twas a small price to pay for escaping a return to her chamber of unspeakable horrors.

Until this week that was. The pain has returned, subtle at first but increasing by the day, spreading from the tooth, along my jawline and into my neck. Ibuprofen has become my best friend and I am perfecting a new technique of running with my mouth closed and breathing through my nose, in order to avoid cold air hitting the offending area. It’s quite the sight, I can assure you.

I know that I’m only delaying the inevitable. The day is fast approaching when I will have to skulk back to the surgery, with my tail tucked between my legs. I am already imagining the disappointed expression on my dentists face as I explain, between sobs, that she was right all along, the pain is too much and I need ALL THE DRUGS! She will tut, smile wanly and reply “Mr Black. I was afraid this would happen. I don’t want to say I told you so but….”

I will rise above this verbal barb, and respond in a mature, adult manner. By falling to my knees, grabbing her pristine scrubs and screaming “JUST GET IT OUT OF MY MOUTHHHHHH!!!” I’ve thought about it for a while and regard this as the only reasonable course of action. I’m sure dental surgeons see this sort of behaviour all the time. She won’t even bat an eyelid and remember, doctor-patient confidentiality is an unbreakable bond of trust.

Expect further tooth updates to follow. Let’s face it, it beats me droning on about marathons and writing novels. But whatever I post in the future don’t reply “I told you so.” For those are even more painful than the little enamel elf currently tap dancing along my back right molar. I wish he would go back to Tooth FairyLand or wherever he normally hangs out. I don’t even need a pound coin under my pillow. Just go!

Care to share your favourite ‘I told you so’ moments?

What’s the worst toothache memory?

Prayer Warrior? I’m More A Prayer Wimp

During my church going days, I attended a fair share of prayer meetings. They always bothered me. You see, while others prayed aloud for what seemed forever, I wondered if they were more in love with the sound of their own voice, as opposed to in love with their Creator or the people they were supposed to be interceding on behalf of. At other times, although I didn’t like praying aloud, I often felt I had to, in order to fill the awkward silence in the room.

I envied those who stated they felt a powerful connection with God during prayer, for most of the time I felt nothing. While others fervently bowed their heads and focused intensely on the job at hand, I found myself drifting off and wondering what was for dinner or how United were faring in the early kick off. I would risk opening an eye and look around the room to see who else was risking an eye open and looking around the room. Mostly I was the only one.

I was equally jealous of those folk who bounced out of bed in the morning to ‘spend time with the Lord.’ I preferred spending time with my duvet while they brewed up a pot of coffee, opened their third generation Bibles and then took a photo of it to post on Instagram as to how humble they were. This would set them up for the day ahead while I stumbled around wondering where I had left my shoes and wishing it was bedtime again.

Then there were those who heard God talk to them during prayer time, who received a word, or sometimes multiple words. When I did pray it was invariably a one way conversation, with me bleating on about how rubbish I was, to be met by a wall of silence. I tried to maintain a journal to record revelations and answered prayers but usually gave up after a day or three, instead using said journal to list my running times or book ideas.

Our church sometimes went on prayer walks around the town, stopping at various strategic locations to pray for specific needs and concerns. It was all very coordinated and planned with military detail. I sloped along at the back of the prayer pack, desperately attempting to prepare a few words in case the pastor pounced, and asked that I pray for local commerce or political leaders in the area.

I had as much interest in them as the man on the moon. I would go through the motions to keep ‘leadership off my back’ and look good in front of my fellow Christians. But, the truth was, my most fervent prayers were selfish and centred on my own needs. I tended only to bend the knee when I was in trouble and needed dug out of a large hole. The rest of the time I was too distracted, too lazy, too full of the ways of the world.

I was a prayer wimp, as opposed to a prayer warrior. And when I left church, just under two two years I pretty much gave up on prayer altogether. I believe in the power of prayer but when it comes down to it, it doesn’t happen. I need to pray on my own and pray with others. I need to pray powerfully and expectantly. Even though I doubt this will involve watching the sun rise, while sipping on my coffee. I’ve never liked coffee anyway.

I need prayer. But I also need to pray. I’ve read book after book about when to pray, how to pray and what to pray. All this talk of prayer circles, prayer chains and prayer rooms leaves me dizzy. Shouldn’t it be simpler than that? Shouldn’t it be the simplest, most natural act in the world? To communicate with your Maker? Then why does it feel so complicated, so difficult, so unattainable? Answers on a wing and a prayer please.

Do you believe in the power of prayer?

Are you a prayer wimp or a prayer warrior?

What experiences, good and bad, have you had during prayer communities?

The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square

Over the weekend I received a raft of feedback from beta readers regarding the first 15 chapters of my debut novel – ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles- Skelly’s Square.’ Its an urban fantasy aimed at the Young Adult/New Adult market. Set in modern day Belfast it tells the story of our eponymous hero, a twenty something underachiever ravaged by a mental illness which dominates every waking hour of his life.

All this changes over one bizarre pay day weekend when Kirkwood’s not so cosy, alcohol sodden existence is turned upside down by a chance encounter with a young homeless woman, Meredith Starc. He realises that she may hold the key to unlocking the traumatic experiences which scarred his childhood and now manifest themselves in the form of the malignant Augustus Skelly.

Skelly lives in Kirkwood’s head and controls his life via an intricate series of compulsive routines which Kirkwood must perform in order to keep at bay crushing feelings of guilt and anxiety. Put simply, bad things happen when Kirkwood fails a routine. Very bad things. The routine is everything and hangs on the roll of dice every morning.

It could be anything from a fifteen mile run to inane mental gymnastics involving question and answer sessions with a work colleague. It doesn’t matter, as long as it is completed to Skelly’s satisfaction. Meredith has her own problems. Living on the streets, since the death of her best friend, Emily, she spends her days at the bottom of a wine bottle, trying to avoid the many dangers that rough sleeping in Belfast entails.

Thrown together, Kirkwood and Meredith must become unlikely heroes in order to untangle the mystery that is Augustus Skelly. A figment of a damaged psyche or a more sinister figure preparing to unleash an ancient evil that threatens the world as we know it? They must overcome their own inner demons in order to triumph in a supernatural battle of good versus evil which has raged across the cosmos for countless millennia.

Sound interesting?

Well, I’ve been overwhelmed by the response from the beta readers. The initial feedback has been incredibly positive and helped calm this novice author’s frayed nerves. I never thought I’d hear the words ‘awesome’, ‘brilliant’ and ‘excellent’ used to describe my little story. If I dropped dead tomorrow, and hopefully I won’t, then I would die a happy man. The responses have validated the last eight months of writing, no matter what happens next.

The betas have truly risen to the mark and I want to thank them publicly for the time and effort they’ve put into their responses. It hasn’t been a total gush-fest and they’ve offered constructive and valid comments which I aim to implement in order to strengthen the structure and plot; in addition to spotting a shedload of punctuation and grammatical issues. I never knew commas and quotation marks could make such fascinating correspondence topics.

I’ll be sending out the next 15 chapters of the book to the betas later today, with more confidence now. I was apprehensive about this process but now see the benefits of throwing myself to the beta wolves. Even though we still have a long way to go, Kirkwood is a step closer to seeing the light of day. I will continue to blog daily and hope you keep popping over to follow his progress. Thank you everyone for your continued support.

Would the above book synopsis catch your eye?

What do you make of the world of Kirkwood Scott?

What have been your beta reader experiences?

Back To School

The kids are all back to school today. Hurray I hear beleaguered mothers all over WordPress cheer. No more bored teenagers skulking around the house, no more playing the role of a police officer/boxing referee separating squabbling siblings; and no more endless board games that nobody ever wins because we suddenly realise that none of us are that good at general knowledge.

Fionnuala’s morning routine is a slightly chaotic, but highly oiled machine. Once the alarm hits six am she ‘bounds’ out of bed to begin the multitude of tasks she has to perform in order to get three disorganised kids and an even more disorganised husband out of the house. Lunches are made, uniforms are set out and breakfasts prepared. All with a cheery smile and a happy heart.

Ok, I may have made that last bit up.

Adam resembles a Walking Dead extra first thing in the morning, only less lively. He shuffles around, with a glazed expression, intermittently grunting in response to questions. I know he will be alright, however. Despite his best attempts to convey the contrary, he actually has a brain between his ears. And throw him a rugby call and he will suddenly burst into action.

Hannah is no lover of school and would much rather spend her morning under the covers watching Shawn Mendes videos on You Tube. She also has a genuine head cold but her evil parents showed little mercy and chucked her out of the door anyway. She left in good spirits though, and I reckon she’s secretly looking forward to getting caught up with all her friends.

Rebeca is the polar opposite. She started at junior high school last week and has been counting down the hours over the weekend for Monday morning to come around again. There isn’t a nerve in her body and it’s so refreshing to see. When I was her age I was a blubbering mess when I started at grammar school. I’m glad the kids haven’t inherited my anxious nature when it comes to new challenges.

The same old routine can be a grind at times. It’s hard work getting up day after day to perform the same chores and go to the same places as we did yesterday. It can be boring, dull and repetitive. We yearn for a change, something new and fresh to add a dash of colour to proceedings. To make us feel more human as opposed to hopeless hamsters hammering away on a wheel that never takes us anywhere.

There is magic in the mundane, however. Where would we be without it. Imagine waking up with no reason to get out of bed; wandering around a house without the noise and clamour. We would be lost and bereft without our loved ones, those who we take for granted. We need routines as much as we need the air we breathe. Life would be meaningless without it and without them.

So no matter where you are this Monday morning, no doubt muttering and moaning about something or other. Be grateful for what we normally take for granted. There is much to be thankful for, no matter how bleak your situation might appear. It might not seem that way, but believe me, the alternative is not worth thinking about. Embrace the mundane for it might just save your life.

What have you to be grateful for today?

How manic are your Monday mornings?

The Unadulterated Joy Of Shopping With Hatchlings

Today I tested the limits of my parental skills, I attempted the Everest of fatherhood. As Fionnuala is housebound nursing a heavy cold, I took our three hatchlings (aged 16, 14 and 11 going on 61 respectively) out shopping. I felt a bit like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible; all that was missing was being suspended from wires with a silly fringe and pair of Cuban heels.

Our target was the Junction One Retail Outlet near Antrim. Adam needed new trainers and a gum shield, Hannah was buying a birthday present for her best friend, and Rebecca just wanted to spend the £3.30 that was burning a hole in her pocket. Fionnuala also asked me to get roast potatoes for dinner. The pressure was well and truly on. I was already breaking out into a clammy, cold sweat as we entered the outlet.

My fears were confirmed as Adam, the pickiest of dressers, was horrified to learn that his beloved Adidas store at the centre, had relocated. He refused to set foot in ASICS and reluctantly toured Nike before announcing there was nothing he liked and stomping outside. He later informed me that if he realises his dream of making it as a professional rugby player he would point blank refuse a Nike seven figure sponsorship deal.

Hannah fared much better. Upon entering The Beauty Outlet she announced she ‘was in heaven’ and spent the next twenty minutes sampling various perfume and make up samples. Ever the duck out of water I stood awkwardly, the only man in a shop full of women who hunted for bargains with a steely eyed determination that I found mildly disturbing. These ladies meant business!

Rebecca was caught on the horns of a dilemma between spending her money on a bath bomb or a a box of chocolate sauce covered dinky donuts. I know, it’s a tough one and she will probably blog about it later so I will leave you all on tenterhooks over that one. An hour later we were all back in the car and homeward bound. I don’t know about the kids but I was exhausted.

Such was the excitement I forgot to call into ASDA to get the roast potatoes. I resorted to the village shop, who only sold small bags; not enough to feed our ravenous hordes. My punishment was to peel extra potatoes for dinner, a task I found strangely therapeutic. But please don’t tell Fionnuala or she will have me doing it every time. I peel a fine potato though, even if I do say so myself.

Dinner passed uneventfully. Nobody complained about the aesthetics of the root vegetables served up and all was well. Today’s post is a running and writing free zone, if only to prove that I do occasionally contribute towards household duties as opposed to acting like a big kid and messing about on WordPress. Following this, I’m off to start on the dishes. No rest for the wicked!

Tomorrow normal service will resumed. There is work, the kids will all be back to school and our house will be chaotic from six o’clock onwards. There is also the small matter of a marathon to run in three weeks and the next slice of the book to be e-mailed to my fantastic team of beta readers. The feedback has been amazing so far and I can’t believe people are actually enjoying it. Oh hang, there goes my boost about not blogging about writing.

Bath bombs or dinky donuts?

Boiled or roast potatoes?

Adidas or Nike?

Marathons or novel writing?

You decide….

Are You A Martyr?

I wear my heart on my sleeve. I have a thin skin. Some might say I am overly sensitive. The other day in work a colleague made a comment about me that I found very hurtful. So much so, that I was taken completely off guard and unable to respond. I had to excuse myself and retreat to the toilets where I attempted to regain my composure. My heart was racing and I felt faint. It was as if I was back at school, the shy, chubby boy being bullied by the cool kids.

Part of me wanted to confront this person about the comment. He appeared utterly oblivious to the damage he had caused with the glib, throwaway remark. I had witnessed his casually cruel tongue before but never been on the receiving end until now. Worst of all this person was a Christian, a man who portrayed himself as clean living, church going example to the rest of the office. I was angry, disappointed and confused.

I said nothing in the end. I let it go. I’m not sure if that was the right thing to do. Time will tell. I had half hoped he would have approached me in the days that followed to apologise, but that has yet to happen. I’ve largely avoided him since and any communication between us has been minimal on my part. That’s what I do when I am hurt. I curl up into a ball like a frightened hedgehog and withdraw from the situation in question.

I’m good at playing the victim, the martyr. Part of me thrives on it even. I mope around, licking my wounds, feeling sorry for myself and lapping up any scraps of pity and sympathy thrown my way. Poor little Stephen. It is at times like this I need to take a good, long look in the mirror and see myself for what I truly am. To peel away the layers of ego and confront the hard, cold truth. For I am a hypocrite.

When I was young I sometimes wondered why I was named after a Bible character who featured so briefly before being promptly stoned to death. Why couldn’t I have been named after a more heroic figure like David, Joshua or Samson. Ok, maybe not Samson. Samson Black makes me sound like a WWE wrestler. And the last thing any of us wants to see is me prancing around the ring in a pair of rhinestone encrusted Speedos.

Now I realise that Stephen was a greater hero than any of them. He didn’t lay waste to opposing armies on the battlefield, swinging a mighty sword and performing great acts of courage and heroism. His bravery was a different kind. He instead stood before his prosecutors and spoke the truth with eloquence and dignity, before stoically dying for what he believed in. He refused to denounce his faith and was willing to give up his life for what he believed in.

His martyrdom was selfless and for others, unlike my own pale imitation which is motivated by neediness and attention seeking. For I am a bigger hypocrite than the man who struck me with a metaphorical stone during the week. I think of all the hurtful things I have said and done to those I care about. Then I realise that I have no right to take the high moral ground. Let he who is without sin throw the first stone? I have thrown more than I care to recall.

I have yet to forgive the man for his comment but realise this is what I must do in order to move on. I should also be thankful for him. For the incident has revealed to me faults and failings that I need to address in my own life. People who I hurt and whose forgiveness I should be seeking as opposed to focusing on my own petty concerns. The truth hurts but it is the best kind of pain. Sometimes we need to embrace that pain and never let go.

Are you a hypocrite?

Do you play the martyr?

What do you need to do to address situations in your life where you can do better?

Everybody Loves An Underdog

During my nightly phone call to Mother yesterday she informed me that our home town of Omagh is awash with red and white flags. The reason? My county, Tyrone, have reached the All Ireland Gaelic Football Championship Final. To provide some context, it’s the equivalent of your team reaching the F.A. Cup Final or SuperBowl. Gaelic Football is massive in Ireland and your side making the final is a very big deal.

Tyrone are a very good side, certainly one of the best in Ireland. They are an incredibly fit, skilful and determined group of young men. Their work ethic and team spirit is second to none, which is all the more admirable as Gaelic Football is an amateur sport. No million dollar salaries or supermodel girlfriends for these guys. They all have ordinary 9-5 jobs and play for the love of the sport.

The downside is that they face the mighty Dublin in the final who have won the All-Ireland for the last three years. Experts regard them as one of the best teams of all time. The game is also being played at their home stadium of Croke Park where 80,000 fans will congregate on Sunday to watch these two great sides do battle for the famous Sam Maguire Trophy. Excitement is at fever pitch.

I won’t be at the match but I’ll certainly be glued to the TV screen cheering on the underdogs. For, while an extremely good side, most people expect Tyrone to lose. Dublin are just too powerful, too fast, too clinical. At best, most people are hoping that Tyrone will put up a good fight and not lose too heavily. They have done really well reaching the final and can hold their heads high, whatever the outcome.

I’m not so sure. I’m the eternal pessimist but when it comes to my teams I always retain a glimmer of hope, no matter the opposition. I think Tyrone have a definite chance and in a one off final anything can happen. Tyrone could have the game of their lives whereas Dublin might have a bad day at the office. I always favour the underdog because not always, but occasionally, they overcome the odds.

Where there is hope, there is a way and I see a way for the underdogs to win this game. Their fans will undoubtedly travel down to Dublin in their droves with the same hope. Otherwise, why bother going. These are true supporters, people who invest their time and money into supporting their team. They take the rough with the smooth. They don’t jump ship when they encounter stormy waters. They hang in there through the good times and the bad.

You might feel like an underdog today. You might face seemingly insurmountable challenges and see no way of overcoming them. My message is to not give up hope for where there is hope there is a chance. In order to seize that chance, however, you need to work hard. You need to shed the blood, sweat and tears required to give what you truly desire an opportunity of becoming reality. You need to believe in yourself.

You also need to show up. Day after day, week after week, and on the big occasion itself. There is no hope unless you are at the starting line and as prepared as you possibly can be when the tape goes up. I know this as I’ve faced many life events as a massive underdog, yet still somehow come up trumps. Everybody loves an underdog and underdogs can and do win. But first you have to learn to love yourself.

What have been your experiences with underdogs?

Do you consider yourself as one?

We Live In A World Of Purple Pens

Rebecca starts at her new school today. She is extremely excited about this and last night was a bit like Christmas Eve in our house as she bounced around, getting ready for the big day. Yesterday, Fionnuala took her out to get the last bits and pieces she needed. The school had helpfully shared a list of what pupils required on its Facebook page. A very long and expensive list. My debit card has never known such frenetic activity.

Included on the list were pens. Each pupil was required to have blue, black and purple pens. Hang on a minute. Purple? I didn’t even know such a colour of pen existed. What happened to good, old fashioned red pens? Adam explained to us that the school no longer allowed red ink as this was regarded as too ‘negative’ a colour for marking homework. Instead teachers now did so with green pens and pupils responded to their grades in purple ink.

Once my jaw had bounced back off the floor I reverted to my old friend Google for confirmation of this nonsensical practice. And, lo and behold, Adam was right. Schools viewed the use of red ink as potentially harmful to a child’s fragile psyche. The poor, little lambs. The colour red was synonymous with harm and danger whereas green and purple were deemed more calming and neutral options.

Of course, we towed the line and purchased the purple pens. Apparently they are freely available at all good retailers. But what next? Purple traffic lights? Road signs? Will bulls now take offence if wrongly coloured rags are waved in their faces? I’m all for educating our kids in a safe and positive learning environment. I was bullied at school by teachers as well as pupils and know very well how a child’s fragile confidence can be damaged by those meant to bolster it.

But is this a step too far? Do we not need the colour red in our lives? Red signifies danger and acts as a warning sign. It guides us and allows us to avoid potential harm. Without it we are left exposed and more likely to stray off the straight and narrow path? We are humans and, as such, are infinitely capable of shooting ourselves in the foot. Sometimes we need alarm bells to ring and flashing lights to go off in our heads.

I know I do. If there is wrong decision to make, I will make it. I act on instinct, I don’t think and frequently put my foot in my mouth. I have an impulsive, addictive nature which, if left unchecked, would get me into all sorts of trouble. I don’t recognise the danger before it’s too late. I need the colour red in my life. Preferably in ten foot high letters and surrounded by wailing sirens and flashing lights. Purple fire engines are of no use to me.

This is why I need the right people around me. This is why I am always wary and cautious. The slightest prompt or thought can trigger me and quickly spiral out of control until it is too late and I have entered a whole new world of pain. I need honesty, transparency and accountability. I need people who will tell me how it is. Who will scream at me until they are red (not purple) in the face. I need the truth. Every single day.

Rebecca sets off on a new adventure today with a new school uniform, a new school bag and a new pencil case full of purple pens. Such is the changing world we live in. But when I arrive at work this morning and organise my desk I will be making sure that my trusty red pen sits front and centre. Old habits die hard and I’m too long in the tooth to change now. We may now live in a world of purple pens. But, I for one, still need the colour red in my life.

What are your thoughts on the purple pen debate?

Do you need the colour red in your life?

One Little Spark

This is the iconic Bank Building, which has stood in the heart of Belfast city centre since 1785. For the last 40 years it has housed Primark, one of the most popular department stores in the country. The building has become a famous landmark with its iconic clock overlooking Royal Avenue. It is a popular meeting place and buskers and street evangelists often ply their trade outside it, vying for the attention of the passing public.

Yesterday morning, just after eleven, Rebecca and I were travelling out of Belfast along the M1 motorway. We were heading home, having been in the city on an errand. A fire engine suddenly flashed past in the opposite direction, its sirens wailing and blue lights flashing. Then a second….and a third. We wondered what was going on. When we arrived home, Fionnuala was watching a live video feed from the city. The Primark building was on fire.

The fire started on the roof, apparently after a workman’s blowtorch was left unattended. A stray spark had started a fire which was soon raging out of control and spreading downwards. Thankfully the building was safely evacuated and hundreds of frantic shoppers spilled out onto the streets below. Within hours the building was an inferno and a black, choking shroud of smoke could be seen across the skyline.

Fourteen fire appliances and over 100 firefighters battled the blaze throughout the day. The roof collapsed, followed by all its floors leaving only a blackened, smouldering shell. There are genuine fears that the historic building will have to be pulled down. Hundreds of staff have lost their jobs. The city is mourning the loss of an old friend. It had survived the German Luftwaffe and countless terrorist bombings during ‘The Troubles.’ But now it was gone in the blink of an eye.

I walked past the blackened hulk this morning on my way to the office. There was an eerie silence and the smell of cloying smoke still hung thick in the air. So much history, culture and memories lost. All because of one tiny spark. Life will go on. Businesses will reopen and trade will resume. Yet it won’t be the same. The shockwaves of that spark will ripple outwards for many years to come.

Life can be like that. One moment of madness, one loose sentence and the fire is ignited. Small at first, but soon raging out of control, fanned by petty fears and jealousies. Before you know it friendships are consumed, relationships destroyed and families are left in ruins. The fire and smoke of our foolish actions can have repercussions which will impact upon the lives of others for generations. No family tree can survive its wrath.

Think before you speak. Consider the bigger picture and play the longer game. Wisdom and discretion are hard won, but invaluable, qualities to possess. Take responsibility for your words and actions. Nothing burns like a spiteful tongue and nothing hurts like a deep burn. Such wounds may never heal fully and even if they do the scars will remain throughout the ages. Yet they can be so easily prevented with a little care.

Are there fires raging in your life today?

Just Do It….Until It’s Done

I went for a run this morning. A 18.5 mile run. At the 16 mile point, everything hurt. My legs, my arms, my achy breaky heart. And let’s not even mention the chafing issues, shall we? Thank the Lord for vaseline, that’s all I will say on the matter. My tongue was as dry as the Sahara, my sweat was sweating. I just wanted to lie down and rest. For a very, very long time.

Why was I putting myself though this self inflicted torture, I hear you cry. Well I’m tackling the Causeway Coast Marathon in just under four weeks and today was my penultimate long run. I will run 20-21 miles in two weeks time and that should have me ready for the big day; or as ready as I’ll ever be. So today was a necessary evil if I’m to have any chance of completing the Causeway Coast.

I was meant to run the 18.5 miler yesterday but heavy rain put paid to that plan. So instead I sat and fretted about it, thinking up dozens of reasons why the run was too much for me and I should forget about the whole crazy marathon plan. I’m too slow, too old, too busy, too tired. Round and round my head like a rickety old runaway train. I went to bed full of doubt and dread as to what lay ahead.

But I did it. I laced up my running shoes, gritted my teeth and went out and ran it. Yes, it hurt. Yes, my thighs feel as if I’ve been kicked by an angry rhinoceros; and yes I’ve run out of vaseline. It was wasn’t fast and it wasn’t pretty. I pulled a lot of strange faces over those last two miles and I’m sure I frightened a few, passing motorists. But as my Garmin chimed 18.5 miles I knew I had beaten my old foe, anxiety.

He will be back of course. Oh, you can be sure of that. But every time I go toe to toe with him and triumph he is weakened and his grip on me loosens. Anxiety is a demon that can run amok through our lives if we allow it to. It wants us to fail and keep us boxed in, convinced that we will never amount to anything. It steals our dreams and replaces them with nightmares.

Anxiety is a flat track bully. He likes getting things his own way and isn’t used to his victims fighting back. For that is what we are, victims. Yet victims have a voice, an inner strength. And victims become survivors when they fight back. It is horrible, it is scary, it is daunting but it is the only way to tackle anxiety. Head on and at full speed. Catch him unawares because we have the element of surprise on our side.

Let’s do the maths. Or math as you crazy North Americans insist upon calling it. I ran for three hours today, which was preceded by a day of worry. If I had ditched the run that would have been multiplied by many more days of self loathing. Instead I sucked it up and finished the run feeling elated, vindicated, alive. It was short term pain. But the long term gain more than made up for it.

Its just taking that first step. When you commit to the act of ‘doing’ then you invariably find that the ‘fear’ of doing is not what you anticipated; indeed the more you ‘do’ and edge towards being ‘done’, it evaporates like a morning mist in the face of the rising sun. And when you’re ‘done’ the wonder what the fuss was all about. Just do it….until it’s done. Nike hit the nail on the head with that one.

How do you deal with anxiety?

Are you ‘doing it’ today? What is holding you back?

I’m Writing A Book….Still: (Part….I’ve Forgotten Which Part)

Regular readers will know that I’m writing a book. I’ve been droning on about it for the better part of a year. It’s titled ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square’ and is the first part of Young Adult fantasy series based in Belfast. The hero of the piece is very loosely based on yours truly in his 20’s, except cooler and braver. Plus he talks to girls and battles supernatural beings. I don’t recall doing any of that either.

I’m now about a third of the way through the latest edit. Beta readers have been selected and I’m bracing myself for the first raft of feedback. Fionnuala is reading and formatting the draft as I go along and loves it. I have also allowed a good friend to have a look at it and, again the feedback has been very positive. But then you would expect them to say that. They have a personal connection with me.

Waiting for beta feedback is like waiting for exam results. You start off fairly confident but as time passes the voice in your head sows seeds of self-doubt. This snowballs into a Gordian knot of worry and anxiety. It is out of my hands, however. All I can do is chip away at the edit and hope that people like it when it finally sees the light of day. If nothing else, I will have fulfilled the lifelong ambition of writing a novel.

This edit has encouraged me though as, for the first time, the story has a fluidity and structure that was previously lacking. I’m equally pleased with the depth of, and interaction between, the characters. I’ve put a lot of thought into the development and I hope this comes across in the characters of Kirkwood Scott, Meredith Starc and Augustus Skelly. Minor characters have been fun to write as well.

I have decided to start off down the traditional publishing route. I know it’s a long shot but, if nothing else, it will provide me with experience of the process and provide some much needed skin toughening. Rejection letters are part of the experience and I will just have to get used to that. I’m already beginning to think about query letters, book synopsis and sample chapters in addition to ways I can broaden my social media presence.

People say that the real work only starts when the novel is written and I am starting to appreciate that now. I’m researching books on the publishing process and the work expected of a first time author in respect of marketing and self-promotion is immense. I’m learning all the time but it is a very steep learning curve. Reading posts from fellow bloggers on a similar journey also helps.

Beta Readers. Critique Partners. Editors. Agents. Publishers. The list is endless. So I’m reaching out to you today, my fellow WordPressers. If you can offer advice or guidance regarding any of the topics I’ve touched upon above then feel free to contact me and let’s talk. Likewise, if anyone can point me in the direction of any useful people in the industry then I’d love to hear from you.

This has been a bit of a rambling post today but I really wanted to update you and thank you for all the support you send my way on a daily basis. I’d also appreciate prayers from those of you with a faith. I know my own faltering faith has been greatly bolstered in recent times by a number of you whose prayers and Christian wisdom have been of great comfort to me. Hope you all have a wonderful day ahead.

History Is Written By The Winners

When my OCD was at its worst I was a slave to my own thoughts. They controlled me from when I opened my eyes in the morning until last thing at night. The obsessive thought would settle like a toxic dew and only lift temporarily whenever I completed the corresponding compulsive act. This normally involved tortuous mental routines which would leave me physically and mentally drained.

At the time I didn’t know I had OCD. Like many others I thought OCD was ritualistic hand washing or cleaning, neither of which I was prone to. Instead I thought I was a deviant, the only person in the world having the unwanted and deeply disturbing thoughts and images which assailed me from all sides, at all hours. These were very, very bad thoughts. Which therefore made me a very, very bad person.

When my OCD was it’s height I must have had thousands of such thoughts every day. Multiply that by the days, weeks, months and years and you get an idea of the numbers involved. The scale and complexity of the disorder is staggering. OCD is a jealous, possessive mistress that demands your total attention. It ruled my life with an iron rod; brutal, relentless and utterly forgiving.

My already fragile self-confidence plumbed new depths. I believed the OCD was part of me, as opposed to an alien mental disorder which could be managed by medication and other therapies. I was consumed by guilt and shame. I despised what I was becoming, what I had become. Every day brought fresh horrors and unspeakable scenarios. When I was lost in a routine it was as if time stopped. Nothing mattered except the routine. Nothing.

The key to my incarceration was disclosure. I finally summoned up the courage to tell Fionnuala the truth about what was going on inside my head. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t judge, she didn’t run straight to the divorce courts. Instead she researched my symptoms online, effectively diagnosed me and encouraged me to seek the medical health I required. She was there when I needed her most. Her love broke the chains.

Disclosure involved transparency, courage and honesty on my part. There was a risk involved but after I took that first step, the beast lost its hold over me. It thrives in the darkness where it wriggles and squirms, growing in guile and deception with every passing day. It whispers false truths but shirks from the light. When I saw it’s true face, the beast lost its power over me. It shrivelled and skulked, retreating into the shadows to lick its wounds.

You might be reading this today in the grip of obsessive, irrational or addictive behaviour. You know what you are doing is damaging but you cannot stop. You are alone and broken, you see no way out of your predicament. If you are, then I hope this post is of some comfort to you. You are not mad, you are not evil and you are not tainted. But you do need help. Take that first step and ignore the voice.

The voice is not you, it cannot be allowed to drown out your true identity. Rise up and fight back. Rebellion leads to freedom. Freedom to live the life you were created to live. Do not let the enemy within triumph. Fight back. Treat your self inflicted wounds as battle scars, red badges of courage and honour. History is written by the winners, by the victorious and not the vanquished. You are a winner. Start writing your story today.

Are you battling demons today? How are you coping?

Flash Fiction Challenge – The Mirror

The sight of a well dressed man hunting through discarded till receipts is never an edifying sight. However, needs must, and I did unearth this beauty for today’s Flash Fiction Challenge. The rules are as ever. Well, there are no rules other than create a piece of fiction based upon the contents. You can write as little or as much as you want. All we ask is that you namecheck A Fractured Faith and link the post.

I will reblog my favourite stories. This is highly subjective on my part and there is no prize or winners and losers. It’s just an exercise to get the creative juices flowing and encourage fellow bloggers to flex their literary muscles. The response to the last challenge was great and I’m hoping for more of the same this time. Even if you aren’t participating feel free to share this blog with your readership in order to offer them the opportunity.

So without further ado I give you…..The Mirror.

I’m Running My Ninth Marathon

The Causeway Coast Marathon is now less than a month away as I enter the toughest week of my training schedule. I’ve already run over 16 miles this week but by the end of it aim to have passed 50. This will include a 20 mile effort at some point over the weekend. Following that I will take my foot off the pedal and begin to ease down as I taper my training until the big day itself. I’m excited but also anxious for this, my 9th marathon.

Excited for this promises to be one of the most challenging running experiences I have tackled to date. This is no ordinary marathon, if such a creature exists. The Causeway Coast takes in some of the most beautiful scenery in Ireland as it traverses the spectacular North Coast which has provided the backdrop for Game of Thrones. I will pass the famous Causeway itself in addition to a number of other stunning locations.

The route is entirely rural but promises never a dull moment. No plodding along bland, grey city streets here. I will be breathing in the sea air and surrounded by all manner of wildlife and countryside. The course takes me uphill and down, across treacherous rocks, windswept beaches and deserted trails. There will be no cheering crowds, but only the occasional screeching seagull to keep me company.

This is a course where survival takes precedence over personal bests. While my normal target for street marathons is sub 4 hours I will be allowing myself an additional 30 minutes to complete this one. It promises to be my toughest test to date. I hope I will be ready but will be in a better position to answer that question at the end of this week. For Causeway Coast is but a lap of honour. The real work takes place in the weeks and months leading up to it.

Which is where the anxiety comes in. Life has been hectic of late and I’m not certain I’m exactly where I want to be in my training schedule. I am a couple of long runs short and feel as if I don’t have enough miles in the bank as opposed to when preparing for previous marathons. I am concerned that Causeway Coast will be the one that catches me out and I will blow up in the latter stages of the race. It is a niggling, nagging doubt.

This is typical me. I’m a past master at self sabotage and my own biggest critic. I’m the hardest of taskmasters and constantly doubt my own ability to deliver the goods. If self doubt was an Olympic event I’m pretty sure I could compete for my country. The real battle of this marathon will be fought in my mind and not on the roads. The biggest struggle is getting to the starting line as mentally resilient as I can possibly be.

My goal is to have run completed 10 marathons by the end of 2018. I will then re-evaluate my running targets for the future in light of many other personal and family priorities. The best jugglers know their limitations and I’d rather juggle four batons like a pro as opposed to try for a fifth and end up with egg on my face. We shall see. I need to be realistic with regards my ambitions. I also need to enjoy these special days.

Well, that’s it for the mandatory running update. If you’ve made it this far then you deserve a medal. I won’t post about Causeway Coast again until nearer the time. Between now and then there are many miles to negotiate. I just hope for an injury free month which will allow me to turn up on the day and give it my best shot. There will be no excuses and I will give it my all. There will be nothing left out on the course.

Confessions Of A Recovering Catfish – Part Two

I never considered myself a catfish until it was recently pointed out to me. I mean, my profile picture was me. I told people the truth regarding where I lived, what I did for a living, the nuts and bolts of my everyday life. But it pretty much ended there. Beneath the veneer of respectability I created a version of myself who was cooler, wittier, more outrageous than the very plain person sitting tapping on their phone.

I escaped into a fantasy, online world where everybody loved me and thought I was the best thing since sliced bread. I became increasingly detached from reality and the people who really mattered. Harmless half truths snowballed to become whopping great lies. I became a master at mind games and manipulating situations to my advantage. I let my family down, I let myself down. I was spiralling out of control. Always down.

It all came to a head when I met someone online who was a bigger catfish than even I was. They, too, were who they said they were. They posted photographs and lived a life but, beneath the seemingly tranquil surface, was a twisted, unhinged mind. I fell for it hook, line and sinker. This catfish was hooked. I felt sorry for them as I was regaled with stories of how crappy their life was and how badly they had been treated by others.

I wasn’t prepared for the blizzard of emotions they blasted me with. They said I was the most incredible person they had ever met. They adored me, they worshipped me, they loved me like they had loved no other. To my eternal shame, I fell for their honey coated words. I was like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I knew it was very wrong but I craved the attention, the adulation, the incessant accolades and adulation.

They was a she of course; and she was very clever. She plucked at my heartstrings like a concert violinist. About her terrible marriage and abusive husband; her eating disorder and self harming; her suicidal thoughts and erratic mood swings. I was the only one who could save her. And if I didn’t do so then, well maybe, bad things would happen her. Maybe one day I would message her and she wouldn’t be there.

Looking back on it all now, I shake my head at my own naivety and gullible nature. I ended up hating her and part of me still does for the damage she caused me and my family. But not as much as I hated myself. For since it ended I have battled thoughts of revulsion and loathing towards myself. I have beaten myself up day after day after day. Even though I have been forgiven by my loved ones I still struggle to forgive myself.

My catfish days have also damaged my relationship with God. I walked away from the church and largely shun organised religion now. I avoid interaction with other Christians as so many of them let me down. I am also better placed now to see beneath the superficial friendships and faux concern of church life. I don’t read my Bible, I don’t talk to God, I don’t even know if I am a Christian anymore.

Most of all I let myself down. This blog is my attempt to put things right, to use my writing skills for good and seek to warn others of the pitfalls that I plunged blindly into; I want to help others and, by doing so, help myself. To put the past behind me and forge ahead with the people who matter. To cast aside the baggage of shame, guilt and despair. To rebuild and resow. To emerge out of the darkness and back into the light.

Confessions Of A Recovering Catfish – Part One

As a teenager I was chubby, shy and extremely quiet. Girls were a foreign species to me and my exploits on the sporting field left a lot to be desired. As a result, I was singled out for my fair share of bullying by both fellow students and, I’m sad to say, teachers whose supposed job was to protect me. Those years left their mark on me. I carry them still.

I retreated into a make believe world where the bullies could not reach me. I hid in books and wreaked revenge on my tormentors in the world of role playing where I could be anyone I wanted. What chance had my psychotic physics teacher against a 12th level berserker armed with the Warhammer of Doom? It was what I needed at that time of my life in order to survive.

And that’s how it continued. Oh, I dropped the dice throwing and axe wielding along the way but I still existed in a world of make believe. Alcohol took centre stage. I discovered my drug, my refuge from social awkwardness where I could be everybody’s friend and the life and soul of the party. People liked this new me, even though I didn’t particularly think much of him.

The downside was the following morning when the inevitable hangover would lumber over the horizon and I would wallow in my self inflicted bed of self pity and recriminations. Never again, I would swear. Until the next time that was when it would be all aboard the Ego Express again. I lived the lie and loved the lie. I could be whoever I wanted to be. It cost me about £40 a night but was a small price to pay.

Then along came social media. If Dungeons & Dragons was my first tentative joint and alcohol the first acid trip, then Twitter and Instagram became my crack cocaine and heroin. I became hopelessly hooked to the extent where I effectively lived online. At its height, or depth depending on how you wished to look at it, I had over 8000 followers! My witty, wry 160 character vignettes were the talk of the town.

I also dabbled in the darker domain of direct messaging. I could tell people whatever I pleased. It’s not that I outright lied but I certainly massaged the truth to paint myself in the best possible light. I realised I had a gift with words online that I could never hope to replicate back in the real world. There was no filter, no comeback. I could be as outrageous or inappropriate as I wanted. It was here that I first became aware of the term ‘catfish’.

Catfish – ‘someone who creates a false online identity. These are commonly found on social media and online dating sites. Often the sole purpose of a catfish is to create and exist in a fantasy reality.’

I encountered people who posted fake profile pictures, people who lied about their age, their job, their relationship status. Anything seemed to go. I was initially appalled but unable to resist the lure of online life. I kept coming back for more. It began to impact upon the people who truly mattered – my wife and children. Yet I allowed myself to be dragged in too deep. And before I realised, it was too late.

Fionnuala often says that my intelligence is only matched by my gullibility and naivety. I am a terrible judge of character and online was no exception. I fell in with some very ‘strange’ people and before I knew it was behaving in a manner which appalled me when I later journaled about it in the cold light of day. It was if I checked in my morals and values whenever I logged in online. I was becoming a catfish myself.

To be continued….

What are your views on catfish?

Have you encountered a catfish online?

Have you ever painted a false picture of yourself on social media?

Why Writing Rubbish Matters

Yesterday I started to edit the first ‘Kirkwood Scott’ chapter I ever wrote, over ten months ago. At the time I thought it was award winning and revolutionary. Turns out I was wrong. It was, in fact, unadulterated rubbish. A bloated, meandering mess with no structure or flow. Just a muddled melee of thoughts and ideas which lurched from sentence to sentence. A bit like this paragraph really.

Deep down I knew this, so had been putting off sitting down and reading it again. It had become the elephant in my literary room. But I knew I would have to eventually. So, yesterday I seized the bull by the horns (because everyone knows elephants don’t have horns) and sat down to re-read the chapter through half closed eyes. Please, Please, Please don’t make it as bad as I recalled it was.

It was. I refer you to my first paragraph. I sighed, for I knew it was a rewrite. Bar the setting. I really liked the setting which was based upon a most unpleasant morning I once spent in a toilet cubicle at Newcastle International Airport. Long story but it goes down as one of the most horrific hangover experiences of my life. And, believe me, there have been a few.

An hour later and I had effectively rewritten the chapter. In one go. Bam! I sat back and scratched my head. I read over it again. It was slick. It flowed. It wasn’t half bad actually. What was all the fuss about? Why had I been so worried about peering under this particular rock again? I had hurdled it effortlessly and was now galloping on towards the next chapter. Wee buns as they say in Northern Ireland.

Producing rubbish is part of the writing process. It’s that first coat of paint on the wall. It’s patchy and streaky. It will never see the light of day when painted over. But it is essential in order to ensure the next layer is of better quality. And the later after that. Until eventually you are staring at the finished product which will last you the rest of your life. Every precious stone needs to be polished and refined, otherwise it is just a stone.

I had to endure two terrible experiences in order to produce a decent end product. The first one involved sticking my head down a public toilet and being violently ill. Classy, I know. The second was a form of verbal vomiting which was no more edifying. They were necessary evils but they forged the way for the finished article. Without them I would still be staring at a blank computer screen.

Rubbish living and rubbish writing can result in something worthwhile if you put your head down and power on through. As a dog returns to its own vomit so a writer returns to their early drafts. We sigh, we cringe, we roll our eyes; but we also roll up our sleeves and begin to sift the corn from the chaff, the golden flakes from the grimy silt. If we dig deep enough, we will strike the untapped creative spring.

Write, write and then write some more. Just don’t give up. For you are laying the groundwork, pouring in the foundations and erecting the scaffolding. Every architectural masterpiece resembles a monumental monstrosity at some point in the building process. Just ask Kirkwood Scott. He’s seen it all. Life from the inside of a toilet bowl ain’t a pretty sight. But it’s still life.

How do you feel when you write rubbish?

Where are you at in your writing process?

Have you ever been sick in a public place? Care to share? I’ll hold your hair.

Do You Write Truthfully?

Coming from Northern Ireland I have an accent, just like we all have accents. It’s not the broadest of accents. While I work in Belfast, I’m a bit of a country boy having been raised in the market town of Omagh in the west of the country. So basically my accent is a bit of a hybrid. My mother claims I have a city accent whereas my work colleagues maintain I have a rural twang.

This has been a bit of a challenge for me when writing the novel. A few of the characters have strong Belfast dialects so I’m trying to reflect that in some of the slang they use; without making it impenetrable for non Irish readers. An example is the word ‘wee’. In Northern Ireland we prefix everything with ‘wee’ no matter what its shape or size.

‘Would you like a wee cup of tea?’

‘Did you see that wee cruise liner that has just docked?’

‘What about that wee direct nuclear strike the other night?’

Wee….I mean we….have our own colloquialisms just like every region or state does. Accents are slippery beasts. I have known people go to university in Scotland and come back home after a term with thick Glaswegian brogues. Adversely, other folk emigrate to the other side of the world and, thirty years later, still retain their original dialects. Accents define us, yet why then are some of us so keen to ditch them?

Some argue that retaining our accents in foreign climes evidences a strong personality. We are comfortable with who we are and, therefore, have no desire to conform to those around us. We don’t mind standing out or attracting attention. Others are less confident and, be it consciously or unconsciously, need to merge with their new environments in order to feel included and safe.

I fear I fall into the latter camp. I would be that idiot who returns from a month in Australia sounding like Crocodile Dundee. I’ve spent most of my life a needy, neurotic mess. I craved popularity and being liked to the extent that everything else was jettisoned in the process, be that accent, beliefs or ethics. I was a cultural chameleon, a master of malleability. Which got me into all sorts of trouble.

It got to the stage where even I didn’t know who I was. I would look in the mirror in the morning and shake my head in disbelief at the man I had become. My moral compass was permanently spinning out of control. I kept a private journal and it was as if I was writing about a different person most days. I disgusted myself and was my own biggest critic. I led a quadruple life as opposed to a double one.

The penny finally dropped when it was pointed out to me that my true voice was in my writing. In a perverse twist I discovered that, whereas I lived a lie, I couldn’t write anything but the truth. Even if my toes cringed in embarrassment and shame as I did so, I knew no other way. The evolution of A Fractured Faith lay within this revelation. It had been staring me in the face all along.

The Truth is in the Word.

Some bloggers express difficulty in writing about what is really going on, or has gone on, in their lives. I understand how difficult that can be. But today’s blog is all about being yourself no matter what your circumstances or surroundings. We all need an anchor when buffeted by daily storms. Let your anchor be your writing and the rest will follow. Now I’m away for a wee five mile run.

Do you read blogs in other accents?

What words or expressions are unique to your dialect?

Do you speak and write the truth?

I Have Another Shameful Secret

Regular readers will know that I am a massive fantasy fan. As a teenager I was a proud, card carrying member of my school’s Dungeons & Dragons society. This meant I didn’t speak to a girl until I was around nineteen but, boy, did my fellow dorks and I have some rock n roll times in the library on Wednesday afternoons after Double Geography with Mrs. O’Neill. Which, seamlessly, brings me onto the subject of dragons….

And orcs. And dwarves. And even boring old Ents. For at the heart of my love of all things fantasy was J.R.R. Tolkien. I was obsessed with Middle Earth. I devoured The Lord of the Rings trilogy as a young boy. Okay, I skipped all the poetry and silly songs but, apart from that, I devoured it. I thought I was Stryder the Ranger before he became the (in my humble opinion) considerably less cool Aragorn the King. Yes, I was that socially awkward, heavy metaller you probably all avoided in the corridors.

Which brings me to my shameful secret. You see, there is a dark side to my LOTR memoirs. And it involves the ‘H’ word. For, as in Part One, the other week I wrote about my Harry Potter phobia, today I must cough up another dark globule of shame which begins with the letter after ‘G’. Many of you may unfollow the blog when you read these words. Others may contact Social Services. That is your prerogative. For I must confess….

I don’t like hobbits.

There, I’ve said it. Has the world stopped spinning? No? Okay then, good, I’ll continue. What is it with the world’s love affair with hobbits? When there are infinitely cooler races out there to fanboy over. Like elves and dwarves and….and…..well…..orcs! I admit it. I like orcs. I wanted The Pale Orc to squish the incredibly annoying Martin Freeman into the dust all the way throughout The Hobbit movies. And as for Samwise Gamgee? Don’t get me started.

Yes Mr. Frodo. No Mr, Frodo. Three bags full, Mr. Frodo. No wonder Gollum’s eyes looked as if they were permanently about to pop out of their sockets. I mean, how difficult is it to carry a teensy, weensy ring up a mountain. Especially when you’ve got all powerful wizards and armies of humans, dwarves and elves doing all the dirty work for you while you whine about how hungry you are and how much you miss The Shire. Grow up! Oh hang on, they can’t grow up. They’re hobbits.

Hobbits are lazy, greedy, chain smoking borderline alcoholics. They have bad hair and appalling foot hygiene. They are not to be trusted, especially when it comes to items of jewellery. They attract trouble left, right and centre and then complain about just wanting to settle down and lead a quiet life. Hang around a hobbit for any length of time and odds are you will end up dead. Although you may also get to meet Evangeline Lily. Every cloud I suppose.

So I say nay, nay and thrice nay to the cuddliness and the cuteness; to the ridiculous names and the endless smoke rings. Sir Ian McKellen should be stripped off his knighthood for deciding that this most odious of races were the ones who would save the universe from whatever Sauron had up his sleeve. And as for Peter Jackson? Well, he looks like a giant hobbit anyway so I guess I shouldn’t have expected any better from him.

Well, here endeth today’s rant. I feel so much better now I’ve got that off my chest. But fear not. My closet is far from empty. There are still a few more shameful secrets rattling around inside, desperate to see the light of day. So you have all been warned. I’m off now to calm down. I might roll my twenty sided dice for a bit. Or possibly admire the vital statistics of my Level 15 sorceress. She looks a bit like Angelina Jolie, y’know.

What are your views on hobbits?

Were you/Are you an awkward teenager?

What shameful secrets would you care to share?

Flash Fiction Challenge – A Song of Fire and Mints

Flash Fiction Challenge – A Song of Fire and Mints

http://mused.blog/2018/08/12/flash-fiction-challenge-a-song-of-fire-and-mints/
— Read on mused.blog/2018/08/12/flash-fiction-challenge-a-song-of-fire-and-mints/

This creepy, atmospheric piece from Chris ticked a lot of my boxes in response to our recent Flash Fiction Challenge. All we were missing was Fox Mulder and The Cigarette Smoking Man. Chris is a very gifted writer. Please support his blog.

Rebecca Has Started Her Own Blog!

I am a worried man. I face competition. Our 11 year old daughter, Rebecca, has gone solo and set up her own blog which you can access here. https://rebeccashub.wordpress.com/2018/08/17/hello-%f0%9f%91%8b/

Rebecca will be writing regularly about her adventures and, no doubt, lifting the lid on what really goes on in the Black household. Fionnuala and I will be supervising the account but all the words will belong to Rebecca.

Please support her account but don’t forget about little old me as well. I’m looking over my shoulder now and fear these young up and coming types.

Every Good Plan A Requires A Plan B

Over the weekend I intend to have completed the ‘beta’ draft of Chapters 1-10 of my first book and will be in a position to forward it to a number of kind souls who have expressed an interest in taking part in the beta reading process. We were bowled over by the initial response and I’d like to thank everyone in advance for the time and effort they will be expending to review my work.

Unfortunately we have had to set a limit on the number of people we can accept for the process. Otherwise it becomes an overly complicated venture that defeats the purpose of the exercise. I’m hoping, however, those who are involved are looking forward to the journey as much as I am. Although I will confess I am also filled with more than a little trepidation and nerves. I’m going for it, though.

Like Kirkwood Scott, the eponymous hero of the book, I am a master at snatching defeat from the jaws of victory; at falling flat on my face with the finish line just ahead; at knocking over a tin of paint onto the canvas as I’m applying the final touches to my labour of love. I’m determined not to do that this time as I have worked too hard on this project for it not to see the light of day.

My family and friends also deserve this. They have listened to me whine and complain for almost a year. Fionnuala has endured this more than anyone to the point where she has turned around and pleaded to me ‘Just finish the thing’. The kids have been patient and understanding. There have been times when Daddy hasn’t been ‘Fun Daddy’ as he sits hunched over his laptop, hammering away at the keyboard.

The dream is that the book will get picked up by an agent and sold to a publisher. I am realistic, however, and realise how difficult it is for a first time author to secure such a deal. All I can do is try, though, and that is my favoured option. Plan A, so to speak. All good generals have a back up plan, however. So I’m also exploring several other options. Self publishing being one of them.

What I’m trying to say is that those of you who want to read the finished work will get an opportunity to do so, even if it means publishing it as a serial on WordPress. For I believe ‘Skelly’s Square’ continues a story of hope and redemption from the dark places that lies at the heart of all my writing. I believe it is a story that needs to be told as I believe there are those who desperately need such a lifeline to clutch to.

The only fly in the ointment to date is that I have had no male victims….I mean volunteers willing to take part in the beta process. I am keen to cover as many demographics as I can so come on chaps, don’t be shy and step up to the plate. Let’s show the ladies how it’s done, right? If any of you are interested then drop me a line over the weekend. It’s still not too late to get involved.

So that’s the update for now. If you never hear from me again it’s because the betas hated it and I’ve went on a sulk of epic proportions. But let’s hope that this is another small step towards revealing the finished product. And then I can start telling you about my plans for Part Two of The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles. For even the baddest of bad guys deserves a second chance, right? Thank you and stay tuned.

If you have questions or comments about my first novel: ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles : Part One – Skelly’s Square’ then please leave them below. Thank you.

Do you have a Plan B?

Summer Update

Hi everyone Fionnuala here sorry I haven’t posted anything in a while we’ve had an extremely busy few months and now the children’s summer holidays are almost over it has flown in this year.

Firstly I want to thank everybody who sent me kind words after the passing of my Father in June. It has been a very strange and difficult time for me but with the love and support off Stephen, the children and my family and friends I have got through it and will continue to.

As you know I work a lot behind the scenes of the blog doing the social media and managing our email account. Stephen has done his best on trying to keep on top of the emails for me lately due to me being unwell so from today normal services will be resumed.

We had a great response to Stephen’s blog asking for BETA readers https://fracturedfaithblog.com/2018/08/02/beta-readers-required/ and we will, over the next few evenings, start to sift through those responses. One thing we have noticed is that we didn’t receive any responses from males so if you think this is something you’d be interested in please drop us a line. I have read the first 6 Chapters and it’s very good

Over this summer the blog has crept to over 6500 followers this is amazing and I want to thank each and everyone for your love and support. This blog is a family blog were occasionally myself and Rebecca would pop on and post little updates on what we are doing. When we started it our purpose was to help others through both Stephen’s and my own living testimonies. It is very raw and honest we have nothing to hide but plenty to share and through doing this it has made us stronger as a couple and a family. We are here to help and support anybody as best we can if we can.

Stephen is incredibly busy right now he is working a full time job which is very stressful, he comes home in the evening to tend to whatever family drama is happening that day, did you know he is writing a novel and he try’s to squeeze a run in between all of that not to mention write a blog post each day. I always said he can’t multitask but he’s proving me wrong these days he’s actually giving me a run for my money 😆 That being said if we don’t get around to replying to a comment or an email right away it is nothing personal and we will try and get around to it as soon as we can.

I hope you are all having a great summer and I look forward to getting to know you better now I’m back to my old self again.

Love and Blessings

Fionnuala

Waking Up Hungover When I Haven’t Been Drinking

Last night, after dinner, Adam and I went to the park to work on his rugby skills. The new season is less than three weeks away and he is pushing for a place in the first team this season where he would be playing against boys two years older than him. I say boys but these guys are huge. Adam has been working hard in our garage which he has turned into a gym to prepare for this step up to the next level.

You can be strong, fast and super fit but it means little if you can’t catch and pass the ball. So last night was all about ball handling. We performed a series of drills which he performed with ease before I sent up a series of high kicks for him to catch. These varied in terms of height and difficulty but, once again, they posed little problems for my talented son. He caught every ball with ease.

I actually think he was becoming a little bored by the end of it as I concluded the session by sending up probably the easiest kick of the evening. I could even catch that I mused as I watched the ball arc through the sky and then descend to where he awaited it, perfectly positioned as ever. It was an absolute dolly, and 99 times out of a 100 he would have caught it with his eyes closed.

Except this time he didn’t. At the last second he took his eye off the ball and it squirmed through his fingers before falling to the ground. ‘What happened there?’ I asked in astonishment. ‘Sorry it was so easy I just assumed I had it so took my eye off the ball.’ I sent up a few more testing kicks to end the session which he caught with ease. Just that one mishap. Because he took his eye off the ball.

This morning I woke up with a hungover. Which is odd because I gave up drinking alcohol more than five years ago. I felt nauseous, my throat was dry and I was gripped by fear and doubt. It took me several minutes to convince myself that I hadn’t been drinking the night before. I could even taste the stale alcohol on my breath, the smell of it filled my nostrils. I call these experiences, phantom hangovers.

Thankfully they are few and far between. I have no interest in returning to my drinking past. I am never tempted to succumb, it just isn’t an issue for me. Yet, just like Adam last night, I can never afford to take my eye off the ball. For, to quote the old adage, to ASSUME makes an ASS out of both YOU and ME. When it comes to patterns of addictive behaviour there is no such thing as an easy day.

This doesn’t just relate to my drinking. It applies to a lot of other destructive ‘bad habits’ from my past that I have worked hard at overcoming. I know that I can have 364 good days but they will mean nothing if I mess up on day 365. I need to be open, accountable and transparent. My integrity is non-negotiable just as my time on this planet has a limited shelf life. I cannot afford to stumble again, I have too much ground to cover yet.

Never underestimate your demons. They are master strategists and play the long game, lying dormant in the shadows; waiting for the slightest slip on your part whereupon they will slip between your defences and catch you napping. Always be on your guard for your enemies prowl around you like hungry lions, waiting to pounce and devour you. Never take your eye off the ball.

What strategies do you apply to your life in order to keep your eye on the ball?

Do you know where your demons are today?

Our Eleven Year Old Daughter Has Moved Out

There is never a dull moment at chez Black and this weekend has been no exception. But it has been a little quieter than usual. The reason? Rebecca, our youngest daughter, has been sleeping over at her Granny’s house in Belfast. This was initially meant to be a single night sleepover but she announced to Fionnuala yesterday, who had called to pick her up, that she was staying another night as she was having so much fun.

Adam and Hannah were overjoyed at the news. No more annoying little sister barging into their rooms and asking a million and one pointless questions. Hannah actually punched the air in delight when I told her. Ahhhh, sisterly love. Biscuit and crisp supplies have also been notably healthier. Who knew an eleven year old girl could eat so much? The house has also been considerably tidier.

No more trainers lying on the floor where they have been hurriedly kicked off. No bicycles or scooters abandoned in the front driveway just waiting to be stolen by the first opportunistic thief who wanders by. Dishes have been washed, dried and put away instead of left in messy piles by the sink or found three weeks later cultivating alien organisms in the dark abyss that is her bedroom.

I have been missing my comedy sidekick, however. She is the only member of the family who appreciates my Dad dancing and rapping. She laughs at all my jokes even when I know they’re not funny. We talk in silly voices and watch Nickelodeon together. I now feel like I am an only child, sharing the house with three disapproving, eye rolling ‘grown ups’. I am Embarrassing Dad as opposed to Cool Daddy. It’s a tough gig.

I messaged her last night to express my loneliness. I expected empathy, understanding, perhaps compassion. Her reply was a suggestion that I play with Charlie, the border terrier. Sheesh! Eleven year olds can be brutal. And besides, Charlie seemed much more interested in licking his nether regions as opposed to entertaining the human who feeds and homes him. There’s gratitude for you.

She will return later today and normal service will be resumed. It will be World War III. Fionnuala will scream at her for not bringing down her clothes for washing, Adam will scream at her for barging into his room unannounced and Hannah will scream at her because well….that’s what older sisters do to their siblings. Her and I will talk in silly voices, exchange jokes about unicorn poo and binge on Haribos.

The house has felt empty without her. We have all missed Rebecca in our own ways, just like I know she would miss one of us if we were away. It’s weird and a little disquieting to see her empty bed in the morning. We are a family and when one of us is away it feels as if we are missing a limb. Maybe I’m getting sentimental in my old age but I like having us all under the same roof at the end of the day.

Sometimes you only appreciate your most precious commodities when they are not there. Fionnuala and I joke about the joy and freedom we will experience when the kids eventually move out but I also dread that day. We need to harvest hay while the sun shines and make the most of these times. The together times. For one day my little girl will be all grown up and unicorn poo jokes will be a thing of the past.

How do you cope with an empty house when family members are away?

Jokes about unicorn poo are hilarious. Discuss?

What are your views on Dad rapping?

Flash Fiction Challenge

Feeling a little creative today? Well let your fingers do the talking then. A few weeks ago I told you of my interest (some might call it weird fascination) with discarded till receipts in shops. I would look at them and then imagine the life of the person who had made the relevant purchase. What sort of day were they having? Where were they headed? And with who? To do what?

The last challenge provoked some great pieces of writing and I hope todays will as well. Apologies for the tatty receipt. It has been living the back pocket of my jeans for a few days now. I know. Gross. But for those struggling to read it the person in question bought:

  • 1 packet of Fox’s Glacier Mints
  • 24 pack of Diet Coke (cans)
  • £20 of diesel (gasoline)
  • Hmmmmm. Interesting. Looks like someone was planning a road trip. And a man or woman after my own heart regarding their love of Diet Coke. And as for the mints? Well, somebody wanted to freshen up their breath for some reason. The plot thickens? Have I got your creative juices flowing? Are you up for the challenge. There are no rules. All I ask is you give this blog a shout out in your related post.
  • Your pieces can be as long or short as you want and I’ll reblog the best ones. Let me know what you think. Happy writing!
  • Are you up for today’s flash fiction challenge?
  • How Are You Really Feeling Today?

    This may come across as a bit personal but I’m asking the question anyway – how are you feeling today? Sad? Happy? Worried? Hopeful? Every day of our lives we are exposed to a diverse range of scenarios which impact upon our mood and outlook on life. These can be temporary and superficial or more serious and long standing. How we respond to them moulds our character and shapes our personality. It contributes towards who we are.

    So many of us though are reluctant to show the world how we truly feel. It feels….well wrong. Especially if those feelings are not what are expected by our peers. So we wear a mask, we play a role and when asked reply cheerily that everything is fine when in fact it is anything but. We lie to our loved ones and to ourselves. It is necessary in order to fit in, to be accepted. Nobody has time for worry warts or harbingers of doom, right?

    I’ve seen it in the workplace, the church and many other social settings. People running around with smiles plastered on their faces when inside they are falling apart. They are afraid to admit they are struggling for fear of what others will think of them. It is both a vicious circle and an ever decreasing one. Why wear your heart on your sleeve when you can bury it under layers of empty words and glib cliches.

    I used to be like that. When my father died eight years ago I was expected by some to carry on. There was a funeral to organise and a million and one other matters to attend to. I didn’t have time to grieve. I recall going home that first night and drinking beer in the living room after everyone else had gone to bed. It was to become a ritual that religiously adhered to for the next few years. Yet to the outside world I was a rock.

    Inside I was a frightened little boy. Struggling with a loss that it was impossible to rationalise. How could a sore hip that everyone thought was a gardening injury suddenly become terminal prostate cancer? How did so many doctors, consultants and other specialists miss it? How did I miss it? How did I ever think he was going to get better when the evidence that he was not was staring us all in the face?

    My father was dying and I was fine. My father died and I was fine. My father was dead and I was fine. Yet I wasn’t fine. I was anything but fine. I wanted to scream at the heavens and claw at the earth like a crazed, feral animal. I wanted things to be as they were before. I wanted to say goodbye properly, I wanted to say sorry, I wanted to say all the unsaid words which instead lay festering on my conscience.

    It was only when I started writing that I found the means to lance the boil. This has been a painful, ugly but ultimately cleansing and liberating process. I have allowed the mask to slip and finally looked in the mirror. I see the real me staring back, not the distorted charade I used to be. I’ve thrown away the crutches and stand tall now. What you see is what you get. I wear my scars like trophies of war.

    What would you see if you allowed the mask to slip? Would it be good, bad, ugly? Or perhaps a combination of all three. It takes courage and not all of us are at that stage of our journey yet. But ultimately in order to heal we must first reveal. Reveal the truth for what it is and face it unashamed and unbowed. Give the real you a fighting chance to show the world the real reason you were placed upon it. You can only accomplish that by dropping the act.

    How are you really feeling today?

    How often do you put on a performance for the watching world?

    Plastic Policemen

    I lost my father eight years ago to prostate cancer. I lost myself the same day and it has been a long, painful journey to claw my way back from there to where I am today. Writing has played a huge part in my recovery. I have self medicated with words and blogged my way out of the depths and back to the surface. These eight years have seen unspeakable depths but also breathtaking highs. It has been quite the experience.

    Last night I completed the third draft of the book I am writing. I worked my way through a chapter titled ‘Plastic Policemen’ which was one of the first I wrote when I started work on the book last November. It covers an incident in the childhood of Kirkwood Scott which deeply affected him and set in progress a series of events which would change his life and the lives of countless others forever.

    The chapter is based on a real life event which I experienced when I was an eleven year old boy. It is one of four chapters which paint the picture of Kirkwood’s relationship with his father. They are deeply personal chapters and I regard them as the cornerstone of the book. Without them there is no story. Without wishing to sound arrogant I view them as some of my best written work. It was as if they wrote themselves.

    I’ve never been able to put my finger on where ‘Plastic Policemen’ fitted into the running order, chapter wise. It always floated about on the fringes. Until yesterday that was. Yesterday it dawned on me. This is your opening chapter, you idiot. This paints the picture for all that follows. They say open your book with a bang, hook the reader and reel them in. I’ve been searching for that ‘bang’ for months and it was sitting in front of me the whole time.

    Last week I reached out, via the blog, for test readers willing to review the book in its draft form and provide feedback. I was amazed and humbled by the response. Talented, intelligent fellow bloggers willing to give up their valuable time in order to help little old me. It has left me excited but also a little nervous. What would I send them? That question was answered last night. It will be ‘Plastic Policemen’.

    It is the beginning. The beginning of a book? Definitely. The beginning of a new stage of my life? Hopefully. But if nothing else it has exorcised demons which have lay dormant in my soul for too long. Which makes it an ending as well. The end of a journey. A writing journey, yes, but also a personal one which has brought me to where I am today. On the cusp of revealing my deepest, most personal memories to the world.

    Thank you to the test readers who have bravely raised their heads above the parapet to face the bombardment which is about to commence. And thank you to those who stop by here every day and provide such support and encouragement. I will never be able to repay you or express my gratitude sufficiently. I hope one day you will read this book and go ‘Oh I know the guy who wrote this. It was thingy. Fractured something.’

    What do you look for in the opening chapter of a book?

    What is the best opening chapter you have ever read?

    Do You Want To Be In Our Tribe?

    Today is the final day of the transfer window for English football clubs; a day of frenetic activity where the top teams look to improve their squads for the coming season by adding quality players to their ranks. Hundreds of millions of pounds will be spent and moves will be completed right down to the wire. When the clock strikes 5pm that’s it. No more transfers until the next window opens in January 2019.

    It is an exciting day for fans and clubs alike, but also a worrying and slightly desperate one. Some are forced to pay more than they intended to in order to secure the player they wanted; transfers can collapse due to contract wrangles or failed medicals. Agents connive to secure the best possible personal terms for their clients. Promises are reneged upon and skullduggery abounds in club boardrooms across the land.

    There is little loyalty these days in the world of professional sport. The days of the ‘one club’ player are gone. Players have finite careers so are keen to earn as much money as they can while they can. If that means twisting the knife into the hearts of adoring fans and jumping ship for a better deal with a bitter rival then so be it. Cash overrides conscience every time. There is no room for loyalty when a £100,000 a week is sitting on the table waiting to be signed.

    The individual is more important than the team. It is all about self-promotion, selling the self. The grass is greener on the other pitch and the desire to ingratiate yourself with others more befitting of your skill and ability is overwhelming. It’s an unsettling and uncomfortable time for all. Players show their true colours as opposed to the colours of your team which they used to wear with pride. But at least it ends today whereupon the dust will settle and we can all focus on the upcoming season.

    It’s a pity we cannot say that about real life where I increasingly witness the same behaviour in our wider society. The transfer window is open 24/7-365. There are so many people who seem permanently dissatisfied with their lives. They are never happy with the hand God dealt them and are always seeking a better job, a faster car, cooler friends. What they have is never enough. They are forever chasing that mythical pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

    Promises and hearts are broken. Best friends pass each other in the street without a word being exchanged. Lifelong business partners end up glaring at each other across the courtroom. Marriages dissolve in bitter acrimony and families are ripped apart. Irreplaceable, lifelong damage is caused and deep wounds inflicted that never properly heal. We become distrusting and defensive, a siege mentality of the soul.

    The tribe used to be everything, the glue that bonded families and generations together. The tribe offered solidity and substance. It was our moral compass and the foundation upon which our lives were built. It was both a sounding board and a springboard; a stepping stone from which we launched our dreams and aspirations. Without it we were nothing. Without it we are nothing.

    Are you loyal to your tribe? Do you show them the love and respect they deserve? Be it at the kitchen table, around the boardroom or on the field of play. Are you fickle or faithful? Willing to stand tall as the storm approaches or more apt to jump ship at the first sign of choppy waters ahead? For in today’s dog eat dog world we need each other more than ever. Tribe looks inwards as opposed to outwards, they cultivate depth and meaning.

    Here at A Fractured Faith we seek to offer that in our own little corner of the online world. We want to build community, a safe environment where bloggers from all around the world can find support and encouragement. We want to be your sanctuary, your safe place, somewhere you can heal and thrive. This is a place where you can be you. We cannot offer heaven, but we can provide a haven. And that’s a start.

    How important is tribe to you?

    Have you been a victim of tribal warfare?

    Do you consider yourself part of A Fractured Faith’s tribe?

    We All Have A Little Gollum In Us

    The book. The book. It’s always the book. So by the end of this week I will have finished the third draft of ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square’. 120K words. 90 plus chapters. 400 ish pages. I’m now in a position where it can be printed out, bound and attacked with a red pen. I have beta readers waiting in the wings and the pressure is most definitely on. Suddenly this dream of mine is starting to feel very real.

    Last night in bed I had a mini panic attack. I suddenly didn’t want to be a blogger or aspiring author. I wanted to step back into the shadows of anonymity and forget I ever started this crazy journey. I didn’t want the attention, the expectation, the pressure. I wanted to bin the manuscript, delete the blog and pretend the last 15 months never happened. Why did I ever think I was talented? I can’t even decide on Meredith’s hair colour for goodness sake?

    It was as if I was a nervous groom on the eve of his wedding, dithering on whether or not he was going to put in an appearance on the big day itself. All the hard work had been done and people are relying on him to be there. Without him there is no wedding. Without me there is no book. But the world will still keep spinning. Thousands of other books will be written and published. Civilisation will muddle on and survive without learning of Kirkwood Scott and his strange story.

    As I edit I am plagued with doubts. Why do I keep using the same words over and over again? Why does the plot resemble a leaky, old boat in places? The list goes on. I know that the beta reading process is designed to pick up on a lot of this but the actual thought of letting real people digest and dissect a years work? Well it’s terrifying if I’m honest. Will my skin be thick enough to endure the feedback I know is needed in order for this project to get off the ground?

    I’m chain drinking Diet Coke as if it’s going out of fashion. My nails are bitten to the quick. I’m driving Fionnuala insane. Okay, no change with the last point but you get my drift. I’m sacrificing time and energy in order to drag this albatross around my neck to completion. And for what? To be torn asunder at the beta stage? To be rejected again and again and again by countless agents and publishers? To fritter away my money on self publishing only to never recoup a fraction of the money.

    These are my fears and doubts. This is me being honest. I’m sure I am not alone in these thoughts. Most competitors are afflicted with pre-match nerves before the start of an event. The knees of soldiers always knocked together on the eve of battle. This is part of the journey, the process, the experience. It goes with the territory. Aspiring authors are paranoid, despairing, needy creatures. We are the Gollums of the literary world.

    Oh to be a Sméagol again I sometimes think. A carefree, happy go lucky hobbit whose only concern was what he was going to have for his second breakfast. Before he stumbled across The Ring and was submerged into a world of obsession and darkness. I don’t want to be a Gollum. I seek the light for I have lived long enough in the abyss. I’m a little bit like Kirkwood Scott in that regard. Now there’s a coincidence.

    For here’s the thing. The book is one of many beacons in my life, keeping me on this path less traveled. It might seem pie in the sky to some but it grounds and focuses me. It is my reality. Which steels my resolve and convinces me that it is worth the worry and the doubt. It is worth the tossing and turning at night and the bitten nails. We all have a little Gollum in us. Just don’t let him take over my precioussssssss readers.

    Are you a Gollum or a Sméagol?

    Do you struggle with worry and doubt?

    Would You Sit Beside This Man On A Train?

    The 17:00 express train from central Belfast to Portadown is normally packed. As in standing room only. Even sardines would find it a tad oppressive. If you have issues with personal space or spending 25 minutes with your face crammed into a stranger’s armpit then I suggest you avoid it. This is the less than perfect environment where I do a lot of my writing. I bet Tolkien didn’t have these problems.

    Yesterday started like any other commute home. Having battled my way onto the carriage I was prepared for the usual torturous experience but, lo and behold, there in front of me were not one, but two, empty seats. Displaying an acceleration that Usain Bolt would have been proud of, I lurched forward in order to secure one of them. I felt like Charlie when he opened the wrapper to find the golden ticket to the Chocolate Factory..

    Having hit paydirt I braced myself for the expected cavalry charge as my fellow passengers fought tooth and nail for the vacant berth beside me. The only other empty seat on the carriage, if not the entire train, for all I could tell. People would kill for this ordinarily. Old ladies and young children would be flung aside as grown men grappled like Grecian wrestlers. All for the Holy Grail that is sitting down on the 17:00 express.

    Nothing.

    There was no stampede, no fisticuffs, no tears or tantrums. My fellow commuters squeezed onto the carriage and stood, sweating and swaying, as the train lurched out of the station. They appeared oblivious to the empty seat, as if it had been cloaked with a shield of invisibility. I was left alone with my thoughts. Which proceeded to wreak havoc on my ever fragile self confidence. Did I smell? Nope. Exhibit an aggressive, intimidating aura? Oh please.

    I was left with only one logical explanation which the voice proceeded to gleefully whisper in my ear for the remaining 24 minutes of my lonely journey. They knew. Knew what? I spluttered back indignantly. That didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they knew. I warily eyed a few of them and was met with blank expressions. Yet that was just a ruse, a ploy on their part. For they knew. They all knew. I had been found out as I always am.

    I have spent most of my adult life feeling like a fraud, a fake, the odd one out. I’m more a fish in the Sahara, as opposed to a fish out of water. I’m socially awkward, find it hard to make friends and invariably was the one left standing on his own in the corner at the party. Which was why I drank to excess in order to acquire the necessary fortitude to interact with others like a normal member of the human race.

    These thoughts of inadequacy and exclusion are never far from the surface of my mind. I battle them every day. Writing helps me lance and drain the boil. As does running. They purge and cleanse me of the unhealthy toxins which used to course through my veins. I constantly remind myself that I am as good as the next person, that I deserve to be where I am in life and that I can walk into a room with my head held high.

    I hate selfies. I’ve written about my disdain for them. Yet I discreetly took one yesterday as I sat on the train home. For myself as much as anyone. To convince myself that I don’t have two heads or the word ‘loser’ tattooed on my forehead. To convince the voice that I’m just an ordinary commuter in a suit, no different from the thousands of others who shuttle in and out of the city every day. I am me and that is enough.

    Tomorrow is a new day. I hope I get a seat. I hope even more that someone sits beside me. I promise to spray on extra deodorant and not initiate a creepy conversation with them as they studiously attempt to ignore me. But even more than that I hope I get the chance to show the world that I’m a better person than the one the voice tries to convince me I am. I hope, I hope, I hope. Sometimes that is all I can do.

    Would you sit beside this man on a train? I promise not to read over your shoulder.

    How do you combat anxiety and doubt on public transport? Or in any social setting for that matter.

    Hands Up If You’re Tired?

    Hands up who’s tired?

    I imagine quite a few of you now are staring at your screens feeling a little awkward that you have a hand in the air at the request of some random guy from Northern Ireland. But don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you to simultaneously pat your head and rub your tummy for that would be just plain weird. Plus you might drop your phone or laptop and I’m not sure the insurance would cover the circumstances.

    Tiredness is everywhere and everybody is tired. Fionnuala and I are constantly telling each other we are tired. There is always something to do and not enough time to do it. The list of tasks and demands stretches far over the horizon into the days and weeks ahead. Who needs ebola or the zombie apocalypse when we have tiredness. It is highly infectious and has reached epidemic proportions.

    It’s Monday morning and I don’t want to get up. I feel more tired now than when I left work on Friday. I don’t want to get out of bed and run. I don’t want to put on my work clothes and get the train to work. I just want to go back to sleep and start the weekend all over again. And I’m certain that many of you experience those exact same emotions every time the alarm goes off and Monday morning comes around again.

    We are a community of tired people. It is the strand that connects us all, the common denominator in our eclectic and varied lives. It is the great leveller which brings us all, whatever our backgrounds and beliefs, together. We are Team Tired. We are tired of being tired but there is no pill or potion to cure this condition. So we soldier on and do our best because, well, that’s what we do right?

    Oh you can put your arm back down by the way. I’ll be finished in a few paragraphs.

    When the battery on a car runs flat it needs a jump start, a spark to reignite it’s engine and bring it back to life. We are the same. It can be an unexpected phone call or message from a friend to say they are thinking of you; an encouraging word from a colleague; or an unsolicited blog from half way across the world that you stumble across on your lunch break. Whatever it is or wherever it comes from, we need it all the same.

    We are not defined by our tiredness just like we are not defined by our colour or creed. The spark we so desperately desire is just beyond the veil, tantalisingly out of our reach. All it requires is a few steps and you are there. Energy is life. Without it we may as well wave the white flag of surrender. Give in to the exhaustion and fatigue. Lie down, close our eyes and wait for the inevitable coup de grace.

    I choose not to lie down. So I’m going to throw back the covers and crawl out of bed. I’m going to go to work, I’m going to force myself to run at lunchtime, endure a three hour afternoon meeting and then come home to a million and one questions from our irrepressible 11 year old daughter. I’m going to go through the motions but I’m going to do it with emotion. Knowing that victory lies on the other side.

    Tiredness doesn’t have to be a life sentence. You just have to find a purpose, your reason to keep going. Put one step in front of the other. I know you can do it no matter how exhausted you might feel as you read these words. Rise above it. The world awaits you and you were born to walk this path. It is a long and hard path at times but the rewards await you. Just around the next corner.

    How tired are you today?

    How do you combat tiredness?

    Losing The Battle….Winning The War

    I am supposed to be running the Longford Marathon in two weeks time. It was the target I set myself after completing the Belfast equivalent in May and some of you may recall I blogged about my intentions at the time. I thought it was a realistic proposition and I could juggle it with all my other competing priorities. I had before, right? I’m Super Stephen and you name it I can do it.

    Wrong.

    I’m not super. Far from it. And as I neared Longford I realised I wasn’t quite there. I was a couple of long runs short of where I needed to be. My times weren’t quite right, my diet hadn’t been great and other matters had meant the running had slid further down the pecking order. There have been family issues, work demands and the little matter of wrestling with a 120,000 word manuscript.

    This has sucked both time and energy from my sails. I have been left stranded in the running doldrums. So I’ve taken the decision to miss out on Longford and instead aim for the Causeway Coast Marathon at the end of September. It ticks a lot of boxes for me at the moment. It’s closer than Longford and offers a greater challenge as it incorporates road, trail and beach sections.

    The latter mean that it is not a Personal Best course. I can take my time and enjoy the experience, take in the amazing scenery and not place myself under quite as much pressure. Because, whilst pressure can inspire and motivate, it can also deflate and crumple dreams and ambitions. At the minute I’m trying to convince the voice in my head that I’ve made the right call.

    The voice that nags and niggles my every thought, telling me that I’ve bottled it and taken the easy way out. I’ve fought this voice for most of my adult life. It has been at the heart of many of my most spectacular personal car crashes. Always pressing the accelerator and taking stupid, unnecessary risks when I should be adhering to the speed limit and checking my rear view mirror at regular intervals.

    Although not defined or restricted by her disability, Hannah’s spina bifida means she requires our constant care and attention. Fionnuala’s health has not been great this summer either and Rebecca starts junior high school next month. Adam is about to start a big year as well, both academically and with regards his rugby. They all require me to be around, as a husband and father.

    Something has to give and, this time, it is the Longford Marathon. Who knows, Causeway Coast may have to give as well because there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to squeeze it all in. And if the voice regards that as failure then so be it. I’ll take that one on the chin. I believe it requires more courage to say no and hit the brakes as opposed to careering blindly over the edge of the cliff.

    This is not defeat. Defeat is letting the enemy crush you so that you can never rise against it again. Call it more a tactical retreat. The most skilful strategists play the long game, they consider the bigger picture. They soar like eagles above the battlefield, seeing everything. They are blue sky thinkers, 20/20 generals. Wisdom is a 360 degree perspective. I want to soar with them. So farewell Longford.

    There’s always next year.

    Are you winning your battle?

    What does the voice in your head say?

    99% Of You Won’t Read This….But I’m Okay With That

    I love the eclectic bunch of people who follow this blog. One of the joys of writing is meeting and interacting with other folk who, ordinarily, you would never have an opportunity to engage with. People who share your worldview and people who don’t. All walks of life converge on WordPress to create a wonderful creative stew of humanity. Community is the oxygen of blogging. Without it we wither and wilt.

    This blog currently has over 6400 followers, an amazing figure given that we have only been up and running for fifteen months. It has exceeded our wildest dreams and I’m often left scratching my head as to why people keep hitting the follow button. We are grateful for every one of you and our blogging door will always be open. We encourage healthy debate and interaction no matter where you come from and what your beliefs are.

    But it’s not all rosy in the garden. I’ve written before about the downside of blogging. The posts that sink without a trace for no apparent reason, the occasional not so complimentary comment and the hard work involved in writing original material on a regular basis. The post I put up yesterday got 68 views. 68. That means that roughly 1% of our followers read it. Approximately a tenth of them commented on said post.

    99% of people just kept on scrolling down their feeds. That’s quite a stark statistic when viewed in the cold light of day. A statistic that could wreak havoc amidst my fragile self confidence if I allowed it to. People hate my writing which means that they hate me. I’m a bore, I’m a failure, I’m a fraud who will never amount to anything. This is the voice that whispers constantly in my ear, seducing me with its distorted version of the truth.

    Raw statistics can be manipulated. They are malleable. Just ask any politician. Yes, I can brood over the 99% and feel sorry for myself. That would be the old Stephen. Or I can focus on the 1%, the people who cared enough to give up a portion of their precious time to read and comment. To share their wisdom and humour with me. The regular visitors, those who drop by once in a while and others who I will never hear from again. They made the post a worthwhile exercise.

    Focusing on the 99% is selfish. Focusing on the 1% is selfless. It is a subtle, yet mammoth, shift in perspective, one that has taken me many years to acknowledge, let alone regularly practice. I am here to serve others, not feed my own ravenous ego. For, once you start, it can never be satisfied and the incessant hunger will drive you over the edge and into the abyss. The darkest and most lonely of places.

    I have no idea how many likes or views this post will get. That’s not the point. The point is that it reaches out to one person and makes a positive impact on their day. If I can achieve that then my work is done here. Focus on the 1%. For that is where the real treasure is buried. They are the reason you will keep returning to your keyboard, even when it is the last thing you want to do. Persevere.

    Jesus said something similar once about sheep. Leaving the ninety nine who were safe and sound in order to search for the one which had wandered off and needed help. You should look it up. You’ll find it in the Bible. A big book about God. I don’t read it as much I should. But today might be the day I pick it up again. Today might be the day I become the 1% myself. For it is always there for me when I need it.

    Just like this blog is for you.

    99%? 1%? What are your thoughts on this post? Please comment below.

    I Have No Idea What Day Of The Week It Is

    I returned to work yesterday (Thursday) after three days leave. The problem with this was that while my colleagues were beginning to unwind for the weekend (some might query did they ever wind up in the first place) I bounced into the office with a bad case of Mondayitis. In my mind it was the first day of the working week as opposed to the fourth. I had no idea what day of the week it was.

    This led to all sorts of problems. I made phone calls arranging meetings on Tuesday when I meant Friday. This made me look an even bigger idiot than I normally am when I make such calls. And my relaxed five day list of tasks suddenly became a panic stricken race for survival as I desperately tried to cram them all into two. My time management and prioritisation skills went out the metaphorical window as I struggled to adapt.

    It was all a bit disorientating, like being in a different time zone from everybody else. They were buzzing along in an East Coast stylee while I was plodding along several thousand miles behind them, just off the coast of California. I was trudging through treacle as they shot out of the starting blocks and sprinted towards the weekend. For once, Stephen the Tortoise was not winning the race.

    I often feel the odd one out where I work. As I head out for a lunchtime run, many of them are tucking into not so healthy lunches. When I mention I’m writing a novel, most of them look at me as if I have two heads. And a tail. They scramble over each other to ascend the slippery career ladder. I care about my job and what it involves but now have other competing priorities in my life. Work is no longer the be all and end all.

    This can be a lonely existence at times. Some might view me as a dreamer who needs to wake up and smell the coffee. Who needs to get his head back in the game and his body back on the hamster wheel of reality. But that’s not me anymore. And yes, while I may dream, I am working towards making those dreams a reality. A reality that will provide a better future and lifestyle for my family. While at the same time scratching an inch that I have had for most of my adult life.

    What I am trying to say in my own hamfisted way is that it is okay to march out of step from the masses. You are not a rat and this is not a race. You might be sitting reading this feeling unhappy or unfulfilled. That is good believe it or not for those negative emotions are the fuse you need to light in order to propel yourself towards a better, brighter future. Towards becoming the person that you were created to be.

    Become a Thursday person. Or a Friday person. Or an any day of the week you want to be person. Life is about making choices and you have been blessed with the freewill to do so. It might result in a few wrong choices but that is how we learn. And who cares if your choice is against the flow and results in a few funny looks or snide remarks. To me that proves you are headed in the right direction….wherever that may be.

    I write this on a Friday morning. When I woke up I was convinced it was Saturday before realising I had to get up and go to work. I have no idea what day of the week it is. But I do have an idea of what I want to achieve today. And the day after that. And the week after that. I encourage you to do the same. Get up, stand tall and walk free. The rest of your life is just around the next corner.

    Do you ever get your days muddled up?

    Are you stuck on the hamster wheel of life?

    Beta Readers Required

    Happy August one and all.

    This looks like being a big month for me. I’m now nearing the end of the third edit of my debut novel ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square’. This has been a long road and I’m sure regular readers are sick to the back teeth of my updates on the topic. For that I apologise once more. But I have one last favour to ask of you all. So bear with me please.

    I am setting up a team of beta (test readers); that is people who are willing to give up their valuable time to read a draft of the novel and provide constructive, honest feedback as to areas such as plot, grammar, structure etc. I will provide detailed instructions as to what is required in due course but, for now, I’m purely looking expressions of interest. It’s a sizeable undertaking so please only put your name forward if serious.

    The book is set in modern day Belfast and tells the story of a troubled young man who forms an unlikely alliance with a homeless girl when they discover they are at the heart of a supernatural struggle between ancient forces of good and evil that is being waged in the city. Their destinies become intertwined as they face a battle against time to defeat a fearsome enemy while, at the same time, slaying their own personal demons.

    Still interested? If so please comment expressing why you believe you would make a good beta reader for this project. Ideally I am looking for 6-8 readers so, if oversubscribed, please do not be offended if not selected. I will choose those who I feel are best fitted to perform the role. Thank you.

    Stephen

    Please reblog this post as I’m keen to spread the word. Thank you 😊

    Make Every Blog Count

    The deeper I immerse myself in the book I am currently writing the more concerned I become about the quality of my blogging. I worry that I’ll only be able to make so many trips to the literary well before it runs dry and I am left bereft of ideas and words to pour out onto WordPress. I want my writing to be relevant and fresh. I don’t want to be simply going through the motions. I call it sleep blogging.

    We all have gears. I know that from my running and work. It is oh so easy to hit cruise control and drift along in your comfort zone. You are loathe to put the pedal to the medal as with that come inherent risks and dangers. Why confront and challenge when you can conform and collude. Breaking through and pushing on is painful. It hurts and takes a toll. You pay a price in order to progress.

    Writers must have a purpose when they set pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. There must be a reason for the activity, a message that they want to impart. Writing without purpose leads to lazy language as we drift from sentence to sentence, meandering from one paragraph to the next. It is padding, filling the empty expanses of the page or screen with the creative equivalent of white noise. Night of the Literary Undead.

    Not all my blogs hit a nerve or strike a chord. Some result in healthy discussions which can last for months while others slip relatively unnoticed beneath the radar. The goal of the blogger is to find that bullseye, that common thread which brings people together and gets them talking. In order to promote debate a blogger must be passionate about their subject matter. If you blog solely for likes, follows or, dare I say it, financial gain then you are less likely to succeed.

    This blog is on a mission. A mission which I view as eminently possible and will not involve me swinging from a treacherous precipice a la Tom Cruise while flicking the camera a cheesy grin. I am no hero but I am here. Every day. Seeking to encourage and motivate others to be the best possible version of themselves that they can be. Offering a helping hand to pull them out of the pit and back into solid ground.

    I hope that this vision and these values come across in my writing. Otherwise I might as well retire my typing thumb and pull down the shutters on fracturedfaithblog. I encourage you to do the same. Every time you sit down to draft a post ask yourself why are you doing it, what message are you hoping to put out there. Really think. Because your words matter. They cannot afford to be wasted. We need to hear them.

    Blog from the heart. Shoot that flare up into the night sky for it needs to be seen as opposed to spluttering like a damp squib, neglected and soon forgotten. Blogging is a privilege, we must never forget that. For others throughout the world to be able to express themselves freely is but a dream. Your words today can bring solace and healing to the battered and bleeding online tribe gathered around you.

    I hope today hasn’t been too heavy for anyone. That wasn’t my intention but I woke up with these words on my heart and needed to share them. I’ll post something silly next time to restore the equilibrium. I look forward to hearing your comments on this post. I love this community and I love your words. You each have a message. One that matters. Make every blog count.

    How do you seek to make your blogs relevant and impactive?

    What are your thoughts on sleep blogging?

    What Are You Reading This Month?

    Pay Day used to be such an exciting time for us. We would go out carousing, buy shiny new things and generally spoil ourselves after a long, hard month at the coal face. Then kids arrived. Three, no less. Pay day is now watching direct debit after direct debit devastate our bank balance. Pay day is new school uniforms, deposits for upcoming school outings and a million and one other small person related outgoings.

    They suck us dry. We bleed. Yet we wouldn’t have it any other way. The little darlings. Nope, pay day isn’t what it used to be. That said, I still cling on to one selfish tradition when the pay cheque lands every month. I always treat myself to a few new books. I read every day of my life yet realise that I rarely blog about it. I write about my family, my running (yawn), and the book I am writing (double yawn) but never about what I am reading.

    So in a very occasional feature I’m going to tell you what I am reading. Who knows, this may develop into a book review although where I am going to find the time for that I have no idea. This month I really splashed the cash and made three purchases. I know, I’m out of control. Below are said purchases with a little blurb as to why I bought them and what my hopes are for them.

    The Lovely Bones – Alice Seebold

    I have been meaning to read this for some time as it regularly pops up in my recommended reads. The premise sounds intriguing and I’m fascinated by anything to do with life after death. I believe in an afterlife so I reckon it’s best being as prepared as I can for when the Big D comes a knocking. That’s D for death of course. Not Dominos.

    The Dark Places – Gillian Flynn

    I’ve started watching Sharp Objects on Netflix primarily because it stars Amy Adams and I love all things Amy Adams. I’m a 48 year old man and I love Enchanted! There, I’ve said it. Anyway, I didn’t know the series was based on a Gillian Flynn book and, as I haven’t read any of her work, plumped for this one. Mainly due to the title for all the best stories begin in the dark places.

    Throne of Glass – Sarah J. Maas

    Everywhere I turn online these days I am assailed by Throne of Glass hysteria. Maas seems to be a bit like marmite – you either love her or hate her. I have finally succumbed. Fantasy is my go to genre and I was raised on a diet of hobbits and dragons. Although give me zombies and orcs any day of the week. Imagine if they bred? Zorcs! Now I have died and gone to heaven.

    Have you read any of the above titles or authors? What did you make of them?

    What are you reading this month? Any recommendations?


    I Have A Shameful Secret

    I have a secret. A dark, shameful secret that I have kept locked away for years, deep inside of me. I never thought it would see the light of day for I feared, to do so, would turn me immediately into a social outcast, a literary leper who would be mocked and ridiculed wherever he went. But, today, the world must know the truth and I will take whatever society chooses to throw at me. It is time for you all to know….

    I’ve never read a Harry Potter book.

    There I’ve said it. Are you still reading? I hope so for I will need all the support and counselling I can get in the coming days and weeks. What’s more I’ve never watched a Harry Potter film from start to finish. And believe me I’ve tried. I so want to fit in with the rest of the reading universe. Yet something holds me back. It leaves me cold. I just don’t get it. I change the channel always about half way through the quidditch game. Is that even the right word? Sighs….

    I should love Harry, adore him and Emma Watson and the other one; you know, the annoying ginger bloke. Robbie Coltrane is in it. He was brilliant in Cracker. And Young Adult Fantasy is my favourite genre. Hunger Games? Loved it. Twilight? Read them all before they made the movies and everyone decided they weren’t cool anymore. Divergent? Yes, Yes and three times Yes. I was raised on a diet of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. This should soooooo be my cup of tea. Yet I retch on it like yucky coffee.

    We hatezzzzz the coffeeeeee…..

    It’s not as if I’m a literary snob either. I’ll give anything a go and am not one to be put off by a bucket of hype. After Game of Thrones exploded into our consciousness I watched the first season, became hooked and then read all the books before Season 2 came out. I stalked the cast all over Belfast city centre, cornering the Starc girls in jewellery stores, accosting Samwell Tarly in a coffee shop for a selfie. I had no shame.

    I even gave the First Fifty Shades book a rattle to see what all the fuss was about. I found Christian robotic and Anastasia well….a bit annoying if I’m honest. Fun fact. My office colleague, Claire, used to play tennis with Jamie Dornan when they were teenagers. She said he was a bit quiet. Just thought I’d drop that in there. You’re welcome. So you see, I’m not one to be put off by fads and gimmicks. I’m as gullible as they come, a marketing dream.

    As an aspiring author, J.K. Rowling should be my hero. The whole writing the first book in a coffee shop in her spare time, getting rejected by how many publishers before she got signed. It’s the rags to riches that keeps so many of us returning to our keyboards, day after thankless day. I haven’t even given Harry and her a chance. It’s as if I have a mental block when it comes to all things Hogwarts.

    This troubles me. Should I seek professional help? Harry hypnotherapy? Are there support groups out there that I can attend? I’m willing to give anything a go. Anything to avoid the social alienation of being ‘that guy who hasn’t read the Harry Potter books.’ A social pariah of my generation, pointed at by people in the street who protectively usher their children away from me as I pass them by. The man who puts the Dumb into Dumbledore.

    I write this post from my knees, a broken and desperate shadow of my former self. Please help me. Tell me I’m not on my own. Is there anybody out there who feels my pain? Who share my guilty secret? And if not, what do I have to do to become a PotterHead? Is there a magic potion I can take? Or perhaps one of you can wave your wizards wand and that will do the trick. I’ll try anything.

    Are you a Harry Potter addict? Or does he leave you cold?

    What are your ‘guilty secrets’ when it comes to your book collection?

    What Makes A Good Writer?

    I wrote yesterday that I’m taking a mini blogging hiatus over the next few days as I focus on completing the third draft of my novel. I’m happy to report that progress is being made as I now have the first 14 chapters, roughly 12000 words, in a coherent running order. Yesterday was the first time I saw a tiny chink of light at the end of this very long tunnel. My jumbled thoughts were coming together into a more structured, seamless story.

    At the heart of this process remains the blog, There would be no book without it as the daily routine of writing has given me the self belief to bring the story which has been bouncing about in my head for the best part of a year to life. While I’m still an utter novice as an unpublished author at least I have the blog to fall back upon if the former dream never comes to fruition. My dream is to write for a living but, if not, my writing will always remain a passion.

    I’ve been blogging consistently for 14 months now but it still baffles me as to what makes a good writer? What baffles me even more is when fellow bloggers ask my advice on the same subject. I never know what to say as I have no creative writing qualifications or any real grasp of the mechanics of writing. I just tend to sit at my keyboard and the posts and chapters tend to write themselves. In some ways it’s akin to an out of body experience. Sometimes when I read over a piece again I don’t even recall writing it.

    Does that make sense? So I’m sorry if my answers to such questions come across as a bit half baked. Because I don’t intend them to be. Consequently I’m going to return the serve today and bounce the question back to you lot. What attracts you to a writer? What makes you want to desire more of their thoughts and words? What lures you into the imaginary worlds they create and tempts you to give up your valuable time to curl up with them in your favourite chair?

    Over to you. What makes a good writer?

    Flash Fiction: Rice Cereal & San Pellegrino

    Flash Fiction: Rice Cereal & San Pellegrino

    https://mywayhomelife.wordpress.com/2018/07/27/flash-fiction-rice-cereal-san-pellegrino/
    — Read on mywayhomelife.wordpress.com/2018/07/27/flash-fiction-rice-cereal-san-pellegrino/

    Meredith has produced a lovely piece of writing in response to my Flash Fiction challenge. She captures the reality of life as a young mother; exhausted yet utterly devoted to her baby. I’m sure this will strike a chord with all you mothers out there. Check out her blog as she writes of her family and faith.

    I’m Writing A Book….Still (Part I Can’t Remember I’ve Lost Count)

    After a busy week at work writing reports and battling to restock the office fridge with Diet Coke, I now have five days off to recharge. There will be training runs as my next marathon is just over three weeks away and we are also planning a few family outings, including a trip to Belfast Zoo. Rebecca will be reunited with all the other cheeky monkeys there and Hannah will be whizzing up and down the hills in her new motorised wheelchair.

    I also intend to devote some time to the third draft of my first and possibly only novel – The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square. I’m currently at the stage where I am plugging some plot gaps and fine tuning the structure. Some chapters are being moved around, others trimmed down and others again chucked into the reject bin. It’s a slow and painful process but every day I know I’m inching a step closer towards the finished product.

    I’m hoping to be in a position that by the end of September I will be in a position to start drip feeding a draft to my beta readers. I know it’s difficult to set a date in stone to finish a book as the creative process is so hard to channel and contain. Often I see it as a roaring line as I stand shaking before it with a chair and whip, fearing I’m about to be tossed about like a rag doll.

    I will continue to blog over this period as I know you would all be devastated without your daily dose of Stephen but they will be shorter posts with a less heavy content. Perhaps another flash fiction challenge and certainly some photos from our trip to the zoo. I also have letters to respond to all those lovely people who took the time to write to us. Feel free to keep in touch by dropping a line below. I’m also happy to answer any questions you have about the book or my writing journey.

    Laters….

    Why Are You Settling For Second Best?

    There was uproar in the office yesterday when ‘Fast’ Eddie, my colleague and proprietor of our charity tuck shop, returned from his lunch break with fresh supplies for the ravenous hordes I like to call ‘the team’. Tayto Cheese & Onion Crisps? Check. Double Decker chocolate bars? Double Check. But most importantly, cans of Diet Coke? Er….no. He produced a box of Pepsi Max and, looking very pleased with himself, announced that it had been offer and was too good an opportunity to miss out on.

    Now call me a prima donna (and nobody wants to see these legs in a tutu) but I was at a very delicate stage of writing a complex, sensitive report that required total focus and concentration. In order to drag it kicking and screaming over the finish line I needed Diet Coke and lots of it. What was this Pepsi Max madness? I cautiously circled the office fridge, inspecting its contents dubiously while berating ‘Fast’ Eddie for his utter lack of respect for moi, his most loyal customer.

    ‘Doesn’t it all taste the same?’ was his response. It was like a red rag to a bull for a Coca-Cola connoisseur such as yours truly. ‘No it most certainly does not’ I spluttered in disbelief. ‘It’s like giving a new born mother somebody else’s child and saying It’s a baby. They all look the same anyway’. An uneasy ceasefire settled across the office interrupted by occasional sarcastic exchanges and thinly veiled threats to withdraw my custom from his business empire.

    I mulled my options over. While I can quite happily run ten miles on my lunch break I am much too lazy to walk the five minutes it takes to go around the corner to the nearest shop to buy my own supplies. Plus it was now a matter of principle. To back down would be a sign of weakness and my principled stance would be in tatters. I decided to tough it out for the afternoon and settled down to scale the north west face of the report from Hell sans my favourite beverage.

    This resilience lasted approximately 23 minutes before I cracked, flounced to the fridge and admitted defeat. As a decidedly smug ‘Fast’ Eddie looked on I flung open the fridge door and removed a can of this ever so second rate substitute. I opened it and took a very reluctant swig before retiring sheepishly to my desk. I spent the remainder of the afternoon sulking at my work station, only occasionally raising my head to mutter ‘It doesn’t taste the same’ and ‘This had better be a one-off.’

    I had settled for second best. I wasn’t prepared to go the extra mile (or 100 yards in this case) to get what I truly wanted. I caved in and opted for the easier, less demanding option. The comfort zone of a spacious, air conditioned office tool precedence over trudging through the mean streets of Belfast in order to satiate my aspartame addiction. ‘Fast’ Eddie claimed the moral ground and the office hyenas roared their approval.

    I have spent most of my life settling for second best. Traveling the safer, more well worn path as opposed to taking a risk and pursuing my dreams. My family deserve better than that. Heck, I deserve better than that. We get one chance and it is only this late in the day that I’m finally realising that. It involves a lot more hard work on my part but isn’t that what makes it all so worthwhile in the end?

    This morning my on call week ends and the weekend begins. Fionnuala and the kids are picking me up after work and we are going to spend the evening at the seaside before watching a blood red moon set over the horizon. The old Stephen would have turned his nose up at this in the past as it would have eaten into his precious beer drinking time. But that was then and this is now. Why settle for less when what you really want is more?

    I’m off to work now. But I’m stopping en route to purchase my Diet Coke supplies for the day.

    Have you been settling for second best?

    What path are you traveling at the moment?

    What is holding you back from seeking a better life?

    Competing Priorities

    These last few weeks the pressure has been on big style in my office as the powers that be have demanded the delivery of a number of long term projects within an increasingly short term deadline. I have been shackled at my desk, pounding away at my keyboard like one of those harassed detectives you always see in the movies. Without the cloud of cigarette smoke engulfing me and glass of bourbon surgically attached to my right hand.

    I’m comfortable with handling such pressure as I’ve been doing it for over 17 years now. I also trust my analytical and report writing skills sufficiently to know that I will deliver a quality report on time. If they would just leave me to get on with it. What doesn’t help is hordes of stressed colleagues continually circling me like vultures over a dying animal in the desert. Leave be people in my focus bubble and the job will get done.

    Everything is a priority. On Monday, Task A is the priority. Then someone else will tell you that Task B is urgent before the next knock at the door demands Task C ASAP. I might clown about a bit but I’m no juggler despite this place increasingly resembling a circus. It’s fire fighting of the highest order and the priorities pile up as the next crisis lumbers over the horizon. It’s inevitable that it will all end in tears.

    Declaring everything a priority actually means that nothing is a priority. Jumping mindlessly from one test to the next without any plan or structure is a sure fire way of ensuring that nothing is seen through to its completion. When we panic or become stressed then we are more likely to rush and make mistakes. There can only be one priority at a time, otherwise we may as well pull down the shutters and all go home.

    I have many competing demands. I am busy at work but desperately trying to get my head above water so that I can take some leave. I’m training for a marathon next month and have set the month after that as the deadline for finishing my book. There are bills to be paid, telephone calls to be made and jobs around the house that have been overlooked for too long. There is also the small business of blogging.

    You might think these are all worthwhile pursuits and you would be correct in that assessment. All of the above are a far cry from the not so distance past when my priorities were making it to the weekend so I could get ridiculously drunk and predicting next year’s Champion Chase winner. My interests now are physically and mentally edifying whereas before they were shallow and destructive.

    None of them, however, are my priority. Note the use of the singular there as opposed to that term I despise – competing priorities. There can only be one be it a Highlander, a ring to rule them all or in the busy, barmy world of Mr. Stephen Robert Black. That priority is my family; for without them I’m incapable of delivering any of the other stuff. They are the foundation upon which everything else is constructed.

    The job pays the bills, the running keeps me in shape and the writing is my dream. But I would drop them all in an instance if they came between my family at myself. Choose your priority wisely. It can fuel your other dreams powerfully and blast you off on the adventure of a lifetime. Or it can bring you crashing back to the ground and reality in a ball of flames. There can only be one.

    Do you struggle with competing priorities in your life at present?

    What is your priority?

    Do you have a middle name? The more embarrassing the better.

    Do Christians And Three Legged Dogs Go To Hell?

    The man over the bridge has 16 dogs. He used to have 16 3/4 dogs but the old three legged one that used to lag behind the others has gone to doggy heaven. Do three legged dogs get their other leg back when they go to heaven? I’d like to think they do. I have no idea how he lost the limb in question but I’m sure it wasn’t his fault. But now I’m assuming he’s going to heaven. What if he’s going to doggy hell?

    If such a place exists that is. A lot of people don’t believe in hell. I’ll take that a step further. A lot of people who profess to be Christians don’t believe in hell. Or at least their behaviour indicates that they don’t. Others smile knowingly and tell us not to worry about such matters. Jesus loves us and we are going to heaven and anyway it’s all symbolism and allegory right? A bit like the Garden of Eden and that big boat that Noah supposedly built.

    My biggest problem with hell is that I believe in it. I often wish I didn’t. Life would be so much easier if I wasn’t fretting over death all of the time. I could do and say what I wanted without having to worry about consequences and repercussions. I sometimes feel like the ‘ghost’ at the end of a Scooby Doo episode when they are unmasked to reveal that it was kindly old Curtis the Caretaker all along.

    And I would have gotten away with it if wasn’t for that pesky Hell.

    Thinking about hell all the time and the distinct possibility that I might end up there does have its benefits. For a start I reckon Jesus would be proud of me as he spoke about hell more than any other subject during his missionary on earth. Which is all the more startling because many church leaders rarely mention it. All that hell stuff isn’t good for morale in ‘church land’ where everything is wonderful and nobody ever has any problems.

    So if it’s good enough for Jesus then it’s good enough for me. He didn’t pull any punches either, painting a vivid, graphic picture of what we could (not) look forward too if that was to be our final destination. Anyone with even the most sketchy knowledge of the Bible can’t turn around and say they weren’t warned. It is as vivid and visceral as the story of the Cross. Jesus can be a real party pooper at times.

    Hell is the ultimate style cramper. How am I supposed to live the life I want to live with all these rules and restrictions holding me back? Isn’t being a Christian meant to be about freedom and not having to worry? Well I did all that yet I don’t feel particularly liberated and I fret more than ever. Hell is the ultimate life beyond life sentence. It is the dark cloud on the horizon of all my good intentions. I can hear it, taste it, almost touch it. It’s coming for me.

    But there we have the nub of it. Hell exists for a reason. Hell is love. Because Jesus doesn’t want us to go there. So he laid it on thick and told us how it really was. Like one of those anti smoking campaigns where they show terminal cancer patients talking about their nicotine habits. Ignoring Hell is choosing to live your life how you want to. Accepting Hell is an opportunity to live life the way you were meant to.

    I believe in Hell. I don’t know where it is or what it looks like and I sincerely hope I never find out. I want to go to the other place where there are bottomless bottles of Diet Coke and you can eat honeycomb ice cream all day long without having to run ten miles afterwards to burn it off. I want to take that three legged dog for walks and not have to worry about worrying all the time. Hell gives me that opportunity. Hell is freedom. Hell is grace. Hell is truth.

    Woooaaaaah!! That was a serious one, Stephen. Bring back the running and writing posts. All is forgiven.

    What are your thoughts on Hell?

    I ‘Forgot’ To Take My Meds

    Last week I ran out of the medication which I take for OCD. 20mg of Escitaloprem has kept me on an even keel these last six years or so. One of them a day and Stephen is content. They prevent the slavering, starving wolf that is OCD from clawing at my front door and blowing down the house of cards which constitute my always fragile mental health. I rely on these pills. They are literally my first port of call every morning, washed down with a slug of Diet Coke.

    This was utterly inexcusable on my part of course. I knew well in advance that supplies were running low yet did nothing about it. Why? I don’t know. Ask me a question on sport. For I knew the consequences if I came off my medication for any length of time. The tiredness, tetchiness and tension would descend upon me like three little prescription pigs, the precursors for Mr. Wolf’s grand entrance a short time later.

    I’ve done this before. I know the score and it’s a bloated, lopsided one. When it comes to going toe to toe with the big bad OCD it’s a horrendous mismatch. I rarely see beyond the second round before I’m on the ropes, being pounded and pummelled to within an inch of my life. The referee has no option but to step in to spare me from any further punishment and I slump to my knees, battered and beaten. Same old story, same old stupid Stephen.

    It can’t be laziness. Ordering a repeat prescription requires a one minute phone call followed by a two minute drive to the local pharmacy in order to collect it. It also doesn’t cost me anything. So it must be arrogance, thinking that this time I’ve tamed the beast, that I’m capable of throwing aside my consistent companion and striding off into the serotonin saturated sunset, a glorious new creation no longer reliant on mass manufactured medication to keep me on the straight and narrow.

    I never cease to be amazed by my own powers of self delusion. Within three days of going ‘cold turkey’ I was a twitchy, neurotic mess. It started with a dull headache above my left eyebrow which gradually descended before taking up residence behind the corresponding eyeball where it proceeded to intensify until I felt like I was being stabbed in the iris with a knitting needle. I became more irascible and intolerant. The reasonably sane front that I presented to the world on a daily basis was no more.

    I was about to blow a la Vesuvius….

    It all came to a head last Thursday when I had two massive arguments at work when normally I would have bitten my tongue and walked away. Middle management meltdowns in the middle of an open planned office are not a good look, career wise. They left me feeling professionally embarrassed and clutching at straws to explain my bizarre behaviour. It was akin to an out of body experience. I was hovering above, powerless to intervene and switch off the torrent of paranoid nonsense that the lunatic below was spouting. Who is that madman? Does anybody know him? Oh hang on….it’s me.

    I came home that evening with my tail between my legs and sheepishly explained the events of the day to Fionnuala. She suggested (insisted) that I reorder my prescription ASAP then collected it herself after I had, once more, forgotten to do so. So here I am, back on the meds. The headache has already eased and I’m ready to face the world again with the help of my little 20mg friends. Just one a day and I’m okay. That’s just the way it has to be.

    I wonder. Am I that reliant on them? Or is it, and I pardon the pun, ‘all in my head?’ Do they actually. correct the chemical imbalance in my brain to such a degree that I cannot function without them. Or are they nothing more than an emotional aide memoire to convince me that I’m one of the ‘normal’ people when most days I feel anything but; I have thoughts that only fellow OCD sufferers could even begin to understand. Incessant images that only the relief of routine can remedy.

    Until they start again that is. Circles of chaos which rise and fall as they rattle round my cranium that a runaway rollercoaster. The thoughts are never fall away, they prowl around the edges of the comforting campfire biding their time. Waiting for the slightest opportunity to pounce and drag down into the darkness of the abyss. I never want to reside their again. So I take the pill. Be it Escitaloprem or M&M’s. I take it.

    Blog God

    I was jokingly referred to as a famous blogger the other day. Once I had stopped howling with laughter, wiped the tears of mirth from my eyes and picked myself up off the floor I started to think. I really don’t want people to think of me that way. For that’s not the intention of this blog at all. Beneath the words and behind the posts I am utterly ordinary. In many ways I am the dullest person I know. Run, Blog, Sleep, Repeat. That’s how I roll.

    Beneath every serene swan gliding elegantly on the surface of the lake is an ugly duckling paddling furiously to keep afloat and on course. The most beautiful cruise liners in days gone by were powered by lots of hot, sweaty men shovelling furiously in the white hot heat of the engine room. And it’s the same when it comes to my writing. Far from a pretty sight. Don’t believe me? Well let’s consider Exhibit A shall we?

    My ever supportive wife took this photo of me the other evening. I am writing. But note the lack of a velvet smoking jacket and silk cravat. The glass of port and expensive cigar. See me for who I really am. I’m decked out in my Buzz Lightyear pyjama bottoms and Washington Redskins t shirt. Both are beyond shapeless. I haven’t shaved in three days. If I went out in public looking like this and remained motionless for any length of time people would lob their spare change at me.

    And yes, yes, you are not mistaken. That is a gallon tub of honeycomb ice cream sitting on my lap. See that slightly crazed expression on my face. That is the lesser spotted Stephenus Blackius in the midst of a feeding frenzy. I haven’t even bothered with a bowl because why bother with dining room etiquette when there is sugary, gooey goodness to be shovelled down my throat. I have reluctantly agreed to use a spoon for the purposes of the photograph.

    Let’s face it I look a bit mad don’t I? This book is slowly turning me into a gibbering, slavering, ice cream snorting freak. I wear this accolade like a red badge of honour. For I am happy in my slovenly attire. I am happier than I have been in many years. Being myself. No longer playing to an audience, no longer people pleasing but revealing the real me to the world. You don’t wear a three piece suit when you’re dragging your sorry body out of the pit.

    The words are flowing as never before. What’s the opposite of writer’s block for I am currently experiencing it. Writer’s can’t stop? For that is me. Of late I’ve had to deliberately rein myself in and ease off the accelerator as I have other competing priorities. I can’t allow my addictive tendencies to cross ‘that line’ and turn a lifeline into a noose. My words are my salvation, the labour pains of rebirth as opposed to the death knell of another pipe dream reduced to acrid ashes in my mouth.

    My words are fuel for I’m no longer a fool, a slave to popularity and attention. I’ve walked the paths of the dead but I now choose to pen words of hope and redemption. No selfies, no gimmicks, just bitter experience and hard won truths. Bettering away at my keyboard like a lunatic with bits of honeycomb in my beard and looking anything like the suave, sophisticated literary legend I used to aspire to be.

    This is me. I am what I am. I am a writer. I aspire to be an author. But I also aspire to be a better husband, father and friend. They are the real rewards on this path to publication. No amount of sales will better that aspiration. Becoming a published author is a long shot. But I’m a sucker for outsiders. Why else would I support the Redskins? And why else would I turn up every day, chipping away at my dream and scooping away at my ice cream.

    What is your go to writing attire?

    Writer’s Block? Or Writing Non Stop? Where do you sit?

    The Tesco check-out

    The Tesco check-out

    https://everythingblog333.wordpress.com/2018/07/22/the-tesco-check-out/
    — Read on everythingblog333.wordpress.com/2018/07/22/the-tesco-check-out/

    Today’s Flash fiction reblog is special for a number of reasons. Firstly it’s from the other side of the world, Australia. The land of kangaroos, didgeridoos and er…..boomerangoos? Secondly it inspired a blogger who hadn’t written in some time to put metaphorical pen to paper. Thirdly it’s just great writing. We have all stood in a store and compared our own less than perfect lives to the ‘beautiful people’ in the next aisle.

    385 Yards To Go

    I wrote the other day about the comparisons between marathon running and writing a novel. Both are wars of attrition and many drop by the wayside, battered and beaten. Both culminate in glory and accolades but the path to the finish line is strewn with the collateral damage of the occupation; for every war has its casualties. Sacrifice and discipline are paramount. Without them you will fail, then fall and the dream will remain just that; discarded and shrivelled away.

    I described where I am currently with my novel as like being at the 26 mile point of a marathon. The point where you feel you have created your personal Everest only to realise that you still have another .2 miles to go. Or 385 yards to be exact but, hey, who’s counting? Well I am to be honest. Every torrid step of the way. For after almost four hours of constant running you feel every stride and obsess over every step. It is one nearer the glory or the ignominy of stopping. Whichever comes first.

    I’ve attempted to describe the agony and beauty of that moment but sometimes a picture speaks the volumes that my muted meanderings can never accomplish. Which is why I’ve dug out this photo. It’s me in the finishing straight at this year’s Belfast Marathon. No smiling, no soaking up the atmosphere and acknowledging the crowds. Just a world of pain as I contemplate nothing but the finish line, just ahead of me.

    I could have posted photos of me smiling with my medal to describe the marathon experience but I feel this one captures its essence so much more accurately. It’s not pretty but it is real. Much like my writing style. I’ll post an equally unflattering image of my writing experience later today but, until then, never give up. Knuckle down and buckle up. For the finish line is within touching distance. Only 385 yards to go.

    How close are you to your finish line?

    Is the pain worth it?

    Flash Fiction Challenge

    So there I was at the self service check-out yesterday purchasing my body weight in Diet Coke and waiting for the receipt. I refuse to walk out of the store without it for fear that the long arm of the law will collar me, accuse me of theft and I’ll be hauled off to the nearest police cell quicker than you can shout ‘But honestly officer. The receipt is sitting on the counter if you’ll only just let me……AAAARGHHHH……… those handcuffs really chafe!’

    As the check-out spewed forth said proof of purchase I noticed that not all of my fellow customers were as paranoid as yours truly. There were half a dozen discarded receipts lying in front of me. It struck me. I wonder who made these varied purchases and then wandered out of the store back to the trials and tribulations of their everyday lives? What kind of days were they having? What kind of lives?

    I am an avid people watcher. It must go hand in hand with commuting to and from work every day. When I was on Twitter, back in the day, I ran a daily series called ‘Train Tweets’ where I created imaginary lives for the regulars who shared the 7:13 express to Belfast with me. I was the original geek on a train until Hollywood turned me into Emily Blunt. Serial killers, angry solicitors and Arsene Wenger lookalikes. We had it all on the 7:13.

    Earlier this week I was educated as to what ‘flash fiction’ is. A light bulb popped on in my head as I realised I write a lot about writing fiction on the blog but don’t actually write a lot of fiction on the blog. Did that last sentence make sense? I sincerely hope so. For otherwise you might struggle with the rest of this post. Which would be a terrible shame for everyone concerned. Most of all me. But also for all you lot.

    Because….

    I have a challenge for you all. Should you choose to accept it, in true Mission Impossible style. Below are two of the receipts that I ‘borrowed’ from the Tesco empire. All you have do is write a piece of prose describing a day in the life of the person who made the purchase. Oh….and post it on WordPress. If this takes off then I will run it on the blog as an occasional feature. If not, then I will probably sulk for a day or two but then forgive you all and we can awkwardly agree that this was a terrible idea that should never have seen the light of day in the first place.

    Over to you now. Gauntlet thrown. If you choose to accept the challenge then feel free to name check fracturedfaithblog on your accompanying post. If not, then at least leave a comment and say hello. We can talk about the weather. Or maybe the extortionate £2:50 that Tesco charge for a coffee. And what’s a San Pellegino anyway? I had to Google it. Sparkling mineral water apparently. Hmmmmm. Somebody must have had a sore head.

    Welcome to Mulberry Square

    Just thought I’d share some images of Bank Street, off Belfast City Centre, I took yesterday. This is my inspiration for the fictional location of Mulberry Square which is the backdrop for several of the key scenes in the novel I am currently working on – tentatively titled ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles: Part One – Skelly’s Square.’ I walk through this part of the city most days on my way to and from work.

    It is a vibrant, thriving part of the city full of colour and laughter. It is steeped in history and includes an eclectic range of businesses and buildings – chapels next to bookmakers, traditional Irish pubs next to modern wine bars; fish and chip shops beside gourmet restaurants. It has a little bit of everything, including a darker side that features heavily in the novel.

    Such locations continue to inspire me on this insane writing journey I have embarked upon. As do the people who inhabit them. I only hope my writing can do justice to the beautiful, brutal Belfast that is my second home. I’ll blog again later. A ‘flash fiction’ writing challenge for you all no less but, for now, apologies for the dodgy photography. Let’s hope the writing that follows isn’t quite so dodgy.

    What parts of your local town or city inspire you to write?

    Where is your ‘second home’?

    What do you think ‘goes down’ in Mulberry Square?

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