#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.

Ode To OCD #4

Garrotted

Besotted

Hypnotic narcotic.

You beckon me

Threaten me

Neural dichotomy.

Tossing me

Turning me

Desperate, I yearn for thee

Obsessive

Compulsive

I yield to thee, OCD.

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?

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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?
  • 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 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.

    120,000 Words Of Stephen

    Writing a book is a great leveller. Take this for example. Buried beneath the tonnes of insecurities and doubts that accompany setting out on such a venture I have always clung desperately to one tiny crumb of comfort – that I was an above average wordsmith and could express my thoughts and emotions eloquently in a manner that would entertain and enthral you – the people who read my daily ramblings with such patience and understanding.

    Wrong.

    Turns out that I’m not the next William Shakespeare after all. Although his endless toilet jokes and use of the phrase ‘Hey nonny nonny’ are not what I aspire to anyway. You see writing is hard work. Sometimes the words flow effortlessly and it’s as if my fingers are alive with passion and creativity as I merrily transmit the ideas and themes from my brain onto the screen of my laptop. Other times I stare at the screen with all the enthusiasm of a constipated caveman.

    There are days I write garbage. There are days I write nonsense. There are days I write nothing at all so devoid am I of energy and inspiration. I write lazily, I write without structure or focus. I ramble, I prevaricate, I repeat myself over and over. I use the same infuriating words and despite repeatedly banging my head off the the wall saying I will not. Lazy, pointless words. Like ‘really’ and ‘though’ and ‘however’. Especially the last one. It has become the bane of my editing life.

    However….

    I still cling to the flickering hope that one day this shambolic story will see the light of day. That hope is fuelled by this blog. Every day you lot loyally read my rants and post encouraging comments which never fail to bolster my flagging confidence. You push me forward on the days when all I want to do is throw the laptop in the river and pretend that I had never started the whole sorry process. You are my cheerleaders.

    Without the short skirts, inane grins and pom poms you will be glad to hear.

    My fear is this though. Gah! There I go again. Focus, Stephen. Focus! My average blog post is 500 words a day. I deliberately restrict myself to that as there is nothing more disheartening than beginning an interesting post only to discover that it is in fact ‘War and Peace’ for the twenty first century. I tend to drift off and rarely finish them. So I keep them short, snappy, succinct. Quality over quantity. That’s the plan anyway.

    500 words. Anyone can endure 500 words of Stephen right? Plus it’s mostly life affirming content aimed at motivating and comforting people going through tough times. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Everyone’s a winner. And they all lived happily ever after. Etc Etc. But what about 120,000 words of Stephen as opposed to 500? 120,000 words of urban fantasy set on the reasonably mean streets of Belfast? How far can I test the resilience of you good, good people?

    It’s the joy of the fledgling writer who aspires to be an author. Who will read this drivel? Did Lewis, Tolkien and King feel like this? Please: no J.K. Rowling anecdotes at this point. I’m not a Potter fan. A number of you have already kindly offered to be test readers for some chapters I will be releasing throughout the summer. I may never hear from them again. And if I do will their ‘constructive’ feedback send me screaming from the halls of WordPress never to darken it’s doors again?

    At the end of the day there’s only one way to find out. Like the first time I stood on the start line of a marathon with knocking knees and churning stomach. 3 hours and 56 minutes later it was done. I was a marathon runner. This process is taking ever so slightly longer than that. It’s a marathon of marathons. But I’m getting there. One anxious step at a time. And I’ll always be grateful for the support and kindness you guys provided along the way.

    Can you handle 120,000 words of Stephen?

    Rowling v Tolkien? You decide.

    What Are You Going To Blog About Today?

    It has come to my attention (well I do investigate for a living after all) that I follow a lot of fantastic bloggers. I try to keep up with as many of them as I can and, where possible, offer encouragement and support. I can’t do that with them all, though, as otherwise I would never be off WordPress but even if it means just liking a post, I do it. Just to let people know that I care and appreciate their written efforts. It’s the least I can do given the tremendous support we receive on a daily basis.

    The flip side of that is that a lot of bloggers don’t blog or, if they do, it is very infrequently. You see it all the time. The ‘Sorry I haven’t blogged in ages but I’ve been soooooo busy/life got in the way/haven’t had anything to say’ type introductions. Delete as appropriate. Whenever I see those words at the start of a blog I tend to keep on scrolling. But no more. I want to address those bloggers today. So here goes. Ahem….

    Firstly no need to apologise. If you don’t want to blog then that’s entirely up to you and the rest of us will muddle on regardless. But ask yourself this question – why did you go to all the bother of creating a blog in the first place for it to lie unattended gathering dust? Didn’t you want to communicate, express yourself, stretch your literary muscles and slobber those creative juices all over your keyboard. There must have been some reason that started the ball rolling before it ground to a shuddering halt.

    Now people often ask me ‘Where do you find the time to blog given all your other interests and commitments?’ Initially this made me a little uncomfortable. Guilty even. Was I neglecting Fionnuala and the kids? But when I reassessed all this I came to the conclusion that Fionnuala and the kids were one of the main reasons I started blogging. It benefits my mental health and allows me to express a message of hope and redemption to all those who have been or are going through similar struggles.

    Yes, I blog most days. It takes around 45 minutes to write, edit and post. Often I do it on my daily commute to and from work. So it’s hardly eating into ‘family time’ as some like to call it. If you are really serious about blogging then surely you can find the time to do so. Nobody’s life is that consistently busy. And if it is, what could you sacrifice in order to find the time? The benefits of regularly blogging far outweigh the time and effort required to do so.

    The community vibe on WordPress is incomparable. You won’t find it on any other social media platform. Twitter is too poisonous, Instagram too artificial, Facebook too close to home. And don’t even get me started about Snapchat. People care, they listen, they reach out to others in times of need. No matter what your problem there is someone on here who can help. There is no more loving tribe.

    Have nothing to say? I also struggle to get my head around that one. We are writers. We write. Life too busy to write? Then all the more reason to find a few moments to tell us all about it. Talk, listen and interact. Don’t just scroll aimlessly. Get involved. Say something. Anything! You won’t regret it. So rant over and I’ll leave you with a challenge. And don’t worry. It involves no cardio vascular activity whatsoever.

    1. Post a blog today. Tell the world about your day, your thoughts and your dreams. And if anyone complains then blame me.

    2. I don’t ask for much but I’m asking you to reblog this post if you agree with my message. Let’s spread the word and get people writing.

    3. Post a comment. Let’s get a debate going. Why have you not been blogging? Do you want to write more? Speak to other bloggers? Make new friends? Well be brave. We are waiting for you.

    4. Post a link to your blog. Your words have value. Share them. Who knows, they could make a massive difference in someone’s life today.

    Take a chance. Blog today. What could possibly go wrong?

    I’m Writing A Book….Still (Part 6)

    Writing makes me happy. Editing and proof reading not so much. I’m now around 30K into draft two of the novel. There have been a few cringe worthy moments (did I really write that?), more than one double take (that makes zero sense, Stephen. Zero sense) and the occasional stunned pause (er….actually that’s not bad). Slow progress continues to be made, despite the constant distraction life throws in the way.

    At this rate I should be finished by around 2045. Well, maybe not but it feels like that sometimes. I’ve had to de-Belfast some of the dialogue because, otherwise, 99.99999% you wouldn’t have a clue what the characters were talking about. I’ve also started some historical research which will form the back story of several of the main characters. Battle of Waterloo anybody? I’m a mine of useless information on it now. Ask me anything.

    I’ve no idea at what stage an author stops tapping their keyboard, leans back and goes ‘That’s it. I’m done.’ I imagine they will have to pry my cold, dead fingers from the manuscript as I’m hauled kicking and screaming off to the nearest padded cell. As ever the support I’ve received from you guys has been amazing. If it wasn’t for your feedback I doubt if I would have ever started this project, let alone persisted to this point.

    I’m going to make these updates a weekly feature. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more but I’ve been advised to keep the plot a closely guarded secret for now. All will be revealed in due course. In the meantime you will just have to be patient. I hope it will be worth the wait for those of you who have expressed an interest in reading the finished product. Now I had better get back to editing this chapter *sighs*

    You’re Never As Useless As You Think You Are

    Some of you may be aware that I’m writing a book. It’s a supernatural fantasy set in Belfast which covers a lot of the themes that I blog about; mental illness, homelessness, faltering faith to name but a few. It’s heroes are deeply flawed outcasts on the fringes of society. They have been rejected by a world that now requires them in order to save it. As individuals they are a pretty motley crew. But together they are a whole different prospect.

    I’ve recently completed the first draft. 120,000 words which I have written here, there and everywhere over the last six months. On the train, in the garden, even in bed. It has been very difficult given my many other commitments and it has been a case of an hour here and an hour there whenever I have had some spare time. There has been no great plan or strategy. I have just written the story as it has unfolded in my mind.

    What I lack in talent I make up for in stubbornness. You can blame good old Mr. OCD for that one. I have refused to give up even though I have been tempted to many times. It’s rubbish, it will never be published, everyone is going to hate it and you will be a laughing stock; all these thoughts have trundled through my mind on a regular basis. Yet somehow I have persevered and here I am six months later with a first draft in my hands.

    Fionnuala and the kids have, as ever, been incredibly supportive, patient and encouraging. Beyond them the reception has not been quite as rapturous. I have mentioned it to a number of friends who have either quickly changed the subject or in, some instances, completely ignored it. It’s as if they are either embarrassed at me daring to have this dream or dismiss it as the most preposterous idea they have ever heard. Such conversations have been disheartening and off putting.

    There have been a few exceptions thankfully. Our friend, Rosie, for example who has been so excited about the project that at times I have worried her head might explode. Her enthusiasm has more than made up for others who….well….frankly don’t care. I hope I get the opportunity to prove them wrong. I like proving people wrong. It’s a novelty after a lifetime of proving them right. Just like those who raised eyebrows whenever I said I wanted to run a marathon, start a blog etc etc etc.

    Another person who I know would have believed in me is my late father. Earlier this year my mother told me that he had dreamt of writing a novel and had actually once started a manuscript. He never got the opportunity to complete it so I guess I’m doing this for him as well. He turned his life around and achieved incredible things in his latter years. I hope I can emulate him for I know he would have been 100% behind me.

    It was with some trepidation therefore that I started the second draft a week ago. I was editing words I had written six months ago. What if it made no sense? What if it was utter nonsense? I was almost too scared to start and considered placing it on the shelf for another day. But something made me persevere. And 20,000 words later guess what? It’s actually alright. Granted it still needs a lot of work but I haven’t been cringing with embarrassment as I’ve gone through it.

    Never be afraid to pursue a dream. To try a new activity. To learn a new skill. You might have convinced yourself a million times that it’s pointless but do it anyway. For you will never be as bad at it as you thought you would be. You might even be quite good. Or very good for that matter. I’m not quite sure where I am on this scale. I hope I’m good enough. Either way, I’m going to find out. As should you. For a little talent, a lot of hard work and the right people supporting you can take you a long, long way.

    Where are you with regards pursuing your dream?

    Do your friends and family support you or throw a wet blanket over your plans?

    On Call 24/7/365

    I go on on call this morning for the next seven days. On a meh scale of 1-10 this scores a 47.757 in my book but unfortunately it’s part of the job and, to be fair, I do get paid well for it. That doesn’t make it any less of a pain, however. Extra pressure, phone calls in the dead of night, tricky decisions to make and always the fear of making a mistake and falling foul of they who must be obeyed on the top floor.

    I’ve been performing on call duties for almost 18 years now and like to think that I’ve always done so to a high standard. I am professional, efficient and effective. I make best use of the resources I have and manage in them in a way that ensures a quality end product. Basically I do the best I can with what I have. And what I don’t know I have the gumption to hold my hands up, admit it, and source an expert opinion from someone who does.

    That won’t stop me counting the hours until next Friday morning though. Back in the not so good old days the end of an on call week would have been celebrated with copious amounts of alcohol after a week of work enforced abstinence. Nowadays I just breathe a sigh of relief and crack open a tin of Diet Coke. Being on call sucks. But it’s only one week in seven so I just have to grin and bear it.

    As a husband and father I need to be permanently on call for my family. Fionnuala sets the gold standard where this is concerned. She always puts the kids and me before herself and has made many sacrifices for us. Without her our lives would be even more chaotic than they already are. She regularly drops everything for other people and never expects anything in return.

    My default setting is a selfish one. I spent many years putting my own needs before those of others. It was all about Stephen and it inevitably ended badly for everyone concerned. I learnt some hard but important lessons. Today I try to be more like my wife. Little things. Like this morning I went to the shop and put diesel in the car as I knew Fionnuala was driving into Belfast later. I did this without being asked to do so. Every long journey begins with a small step.

    I am trying to apply these small steps to all areas of my life. Putting others first. My family, my friends, work colleagues. Even total strangers I encounter on my daily commute to and from work. Some days I fare better than others but at least I recognise it is an area I need to address. Being consciously selfish is an improvement on being unconsciously selfish. I’m striving to improve and evolve into a better person.

    This is a lifetime process. When it comes to selflessness you need to be on call 24/7/365. 366 if it’s a leap year. You won’t get paid for it; in fact some of the time you don’t even get a thank you. But that’s not why I do it. I do it because I want to help other people – those I like and those I’m maybe not so keen on. It doesn’t really matter. Where I can help, I will. If that person accepts my offer, then great; if not, well not so great, but at least I tried.

    The same applies to this blog. Fionnuala and I want to help YOU. We have been through a lot together and hope others can benefit from us sharing our experiences. The good, the bad and the downright ugly. This blog is 24/7/365 or as close as we can get to it. If you are struggling with one of the issues I write about then all you have to do is reach out and we are there for you. There won’t even be a charge.

    Do you work on call? What’s it like for you?

    On a meh scale of 1-10 how is your day going?

    Blogging Is Hard Work

    Blogging is hard work. Never forget that. It requires creativity, determination and hard work. I try to post every day but coming up with original content is no easy matter. Finding the time to write is also a challenge. I blog on the commute to work, on my lunch break, in bed. Anywhere I can find a sliver of time to write. Sometimes my content is rushed but I always do my best to ensure a quality, thought provoking content.

    I put everything into my blogs. I strive to be innovative yet honest; realistic yet hopeful; humble yet proud of what I have achieved. I take risks but they are always carefully considered and calculated. I aim at delivering a varied content that won’t bore the reader but at the same time remains consistent with my core theme and central message – that no matter what your back story you can always recover and lead the life you were created to live.

    The blog has grown beyond our wildest expectations. We don’t overly plug it on other social media platforms. I tend to avoid Twitter, Instagram and Facebook for a variety of reasons. WordPress is my backyard and you, my fellow bloggers, are my neighbours. Since we moved in just over a year ago you have supported and encouraged us every step of the journey. I speak to a number of bloggers every day. Dare I say it but friendships have developed.

    We have been fortunate in that 99% of the comments we receive are positive. And as for the other 1% – well people are entitled to their opinions. If everyone agreed with everyone else then life would be boring, right? Some blogs are more popular than others. Some sink without trace and you wonder why but it is a learning curve that I’m willing to scramble along. Every day is a school day on WordPress.

    You stumble and you fall but you keep going. One comment from a fellow blogger can make the post a worthwhile exercise. It can make up for the hundreds of people who scrolled past your post without a second glance. Even that is a positive. It toughens me as a writer and prepares me for the time when I will be submitting manuscripts and awaiting those dreaded rejection letters. Always moving forward.

    I’ve said before that I hope the blog shows the few people who supported me through the tough times that they were right to do so; and to the many others that did not that they were wrong to do so. Bridges have been burnt but some rivers are never meant to be recrossed. Much as the past seeks to drag me backwards I am determined to look forward to new opportunities on previously untraveled paths.

    Blogging is hard work. But keep writing, keep hitting that publish button. Don’t be one of those ‘Sorry I haven’t blogged in a while guys but I’ve been sooooooo busy’ people. I don’t totally buy that. If you are determined to succeed as a blogger then you will find the time to write. And surely a busy life provides you with all the ammunition you need to blog more. You will be bursting with ideas and keen to share them with the world.

    So I will keep writing. I will keep posting. I will continue to interact with other bloggers and support their work. I will keep moving forward as there is no other viable alternative. I will battle my demons, both internal and external, for this is my battlefield. I will make my family proud and I will share my message loud. Nothing is impossible and hope is a bottomless commodity. Never give up on yourself.

    How is your blogging career going?

    Where does your blogging inspiration come from?

    Morior Invictus

    The paths of the dead

    Are where we must tread

    To vanquish the demons

    Who reign in our head

    Death itches and twitches

    Denying us riches

    Our God given right

    Morior Invictus

    Yet I fear it not

    For X marks the spot

    New treasures revealed

    And an end to the rot.

    Why Do You Write?

    Why do I bother?

    Why do I write?

    Why do I struggle with words every night?

    To convince all the wronged

    The despised and forlorn

    That they’re not alone and can survive the scorn.

    So I’m penning a story

    Of hope and redemption

    I’m screaming it loud so I’ll get your attention.

    You click and you like and you comment and follow

    But have you considered why you feel so hollow?

    So empty inside, so frayed at the seams.

    Consumed by dark nightmares which once were bright dreams.

    Your plight has been sanctioned

    Left bitter and vanquished

    And try as you might you’re all out of lost chances.

    Friendships, romances all of them dead

    You made this mess so best lie in your bed.

    Your soul is in tatters

    You’ve lost all that matters.

    Dragged down rabbit holes, you’re the maddest of hatters.

    But I’ve been where you are

    I will show you my scars

    I was dead in the gutter

    But could still taste the stars.

    Stripped bare but He cared

    He reached down to me there

    Grace cloaked my disgrace

    From the whispers and stares.

    So that’s why I write

    I’ve recovered my sight

    Scales fallen from eyes

    To reveal truth and might.

    Better times lie ahead

    For the damned and the dead

    Turn your back to the lies and embrace truth instead.

    Why do you write?

    I’m Writing A Book….Still

    It’s been a quiet week on the novel writing front due to weddings, marathons and life in general. As ever this has raised my anxiety levels but I realise there are only so many hours in the day and I need to sleep at some point. I’m currently working on the final climactic chapters of the first draft which are largely action based and which draw all the main characters for the first time to the one location.

    The word count is hovering at just over 100K and I reckon another 20K should do it. I just have to cram in a satisfying conclusion for Book 1 plus enough loose ends to tease the reader into Book 2. This is no easy task let me tell you. I have major decisions to make as I know not all of my main characters are going to see Book 2. Creating and maintaining tension whilst simultaneously remaining credible and ensuring consistency and continuity is a serious feat of mental juggling.

    It’s sad putting so much effort into developing characters when you suddenly realise you have reached the end of the road with them. Such sacrifices, however, are necessary for the overall plot and structure. This is dark YA fantasy literature so everyone cannot happily sail off into the sunset much as I might like them to. The main characters are continually walking the paths of the dead and, inevitably, some will not make it to the other side.

    Following the first draft the serious editing process begins. My fear is that I discover chapters I wrote some months ago are utterly rubbish and have to start all over again. I’m almost afraid to dip into them again. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve and am my own worst critic. I know, as an author, that constructive feedback is essential in order to develop and improve but the scared little boy inside of me is still terrified to take that step. Hopefully it will come with time and experience.

    I also have a stack of research work to complete in respect of developing the back stories of several of the main characters. This will involve books on mental health, military history and a plethora of other topics. I warn you now. My characters are an eclectic bunch thrown together by circumstance from all corners of the globe and history onto the streets of modern day Belfast. There will be carnage and lots of it.

    I’m currently preparing a review of a book by a well established, published author who contacted me after she read my blog and thought we had similar writing styles. I hope to post that in the next week or so but if any other published or unpublished writers would like me to review their work then please get in touch. I’m also checking out a site where unpublished writers can connect and share feedback and ideas.

    As far as the blog itself, Fionnuala posted sneakily yesterday after we passed 5000 followers. I wanted to pass this milestone quietly but, as ever, she had different ideas. I would just like to take this opportunity to thank those of you who sent me such kind and thoughtful messages. I’m just me and very undeserving of them but thank you anyway. They have bolstered my confidence and motivated me to forge on with my writing and running.

    As for future plans. Well you can expect posts on topics as diverse as the noble art of boiling an egg to the considerably less noble art of catfishing; more of my unique take on famous biblical stories; and news of my next marathon project which I hope to tackle during the summer months. Plus all of the usual crazy nonsense that incorporates our million mile an hour lives. Thank you again for your continued support.

    Are you a published or unpublished author? Where are you at on your journey?

    Would you read a dark fantasy adventure set in modern day Belfast with spiritual and historical themes as detailed above?

    All feedback is much appreciated. Please post your comments below.

    The Vultures Are Circling

    Life can seem pretty perfect at times. Everything is trundling along just as it should be and we are enveloped in the comforting glow of permanent sunshine. We are in love and loved. We are healthy and bursting with positivity for the future. We have big plans and bigger dreams. Our family form a protective circle around us. Nobody is missing. Everything is as it should be.

    Our friends are genuine, loyal and ever present. They are there for us, just as we are for them. They are selfless and attentive, responding to our needs and concerns as we do theirs. They are relationships based on trust and equality. There is no Judas in the room, no silent assassin the shadows waiting to lunge forward and slide a dagger of deceit between our ribs. Piercing organs, tasting death.

    We are physically and mentally strong. We fear nothing. The demons within us are silent for they have been conquered and vanquished. Where once they were sovereign and many they are now scattered and few. They skulk in the shadows of our psyche, licking their wounds and dreaming of times when they wreaked havoc and rampaged through our consciousness, hellbent on destroying everything we held sacred.

    We are confident and comfortable as we stand on the ramparts and look out across the plain. We see no dangers on the horizon, no dust clouds to indicate an approaching enemy. Our defences are high and strong. We raise our faces to the blue skies above and let the sun caress our skin. Yes, life is perfect. For we have made it that way through our blood, sweat and tears. We have built this sanctuary with our own hands. We deserve no less.

    But suddenly something catches our attention high above. The tiniest of specks. Just the one…no wait…two….three. Silently circling our citadel of calm. Circling. Waiting. For the inevitable storm is coming. It could arrive in the dead of night when the phone rings unexpectedly. Or it may be more subtle and innocuous. An innocent text message, a conversation, a glance. That is when they will swoop from above.

    When they do it will be sudden and brutal. They will take no prisoners and they will show no mercy. Their goal is a simple one – your complete and utter destruction. They will butcher everything and everyone you once held precious until the streets are awash with blood and the cries of the desperate are silenced. Then they will turn and laugh in your face. For you knew nothing after all. You are broken and beaten, your fortress lying in ruins around you.

    Rain or shine, they are always there. Our hovering harbingers. Their eyes miss nothing, they are ever vigilant. Their patience is immeasurable. Waiting, always waiting. For the slightest chink in your armour, the tiniest gap in your defences. And when that first breach is made they will flood through with an unprecedented fury, slaying all those foolish enough to stand in their path.

    So use these days wisely. When all around you seems serene never let your guard down. Never become complacent, never relax. For that is all they require. One lapse, one slip, one moment of madness. Then you will look to the skies above and watch helplessly as your carefully constructed world implodes around you. Their joy is your devastation. The vultures are coming….

    How are your defences today? Do they require bolstering?

    Are you aware of vultures circling above in your life?

    I’m Writing A Book….Still

    The irony is not lost on me that if this series continues for much longer I will have effectively written a book about writing a book. That aside, I made further steady process this week. Around 5000 words to be precise. This involved a series of dialogues between several of the main characters which sets the scene for the final chapters which will be primarily action based.

    I enjoy writing dialogue and watching the characters bounce off one another and develop accordingly. I’ve blogged before that many of my narrative ideas come to me during the physical act of writing so my fingers often find it hard to keep up with the plot as it comes tumbling out of my mind. These are my best moments when the book feels as if it is writing itself and I’m just frantically fighting to cling on to this particular literary runaway train.

    The main characters continue to come to life before my very eyes. They are broken underdogs struggling to come to terms with the frightening responsibility which has been heaped upon their shoulders. A week ago in the story arc they were just struggling to get by in their drab, dreary worlds. Now those struggles are the least of the worries as they interact with creatures and conflicts far beyond their craziest dreams.

    They do so with a healthy dollop of cynicism, sarcasm and dark humour. So much so that I often forget that I have a story to drive forward when often I find the dialogue meandering off script into tributaries of obscure pop culture reference and ‘in jokes’. I also have to constantly remind myself that I’m writing for a universal audience so therefore have to cut back on the Northern Irish colloquialisms. Bout ye. Dead on. Stick it out. Etc. Ad nauseum.

    I’ve been circling the final chapters for some weeks now but feel I have reached the point where I can finally swoop and feast upon them. I’m also at the stage where I’m ready to send a sample chapter out to some trusted people for review and feedback. This is one of the most nerve wracking parts of the process. I need honesty but have I a thick enough skin to deal with that. There is only one way to find out I suppose.

    As ever time is an issue. In an ideal world I would lock myself away for a month and just blast it out. Unfortunately I live in the real world so I’ve been writing where I can and when I can. This has been a disjointed and largely unsatisfactory process but it’s all I’ve got at present until that first six figure advance drops into my bank account. Yeah right, Stephen. Meanwhile back in the real world.

    As ever I want to thank my family for their support. Fionnuala is not a ‘book’ person (she’s far too busy with life for that) but patiently listens to my writing gripes and complaints while providing IT emergency response every time I forget to save three hours of writing and go into full blown meltdown. She really is the brains (and looks) behind the operation. She also administers well placed kicks in the backside every time I wallow in self pity.

    I want to thank our WordPress readers as well for the constant stream of support and encouragement. Your advice and willingness to share your own writing experiences, good and bad, continue to comfort, inspire and motivate me. Without your support of the blog I would never have had the belief or confidence to step out on this journey in the first place. For that I will always be grateful irrespective of whether or not this book ever sees light of day.

    Please add your comments and feedback below. My skin needs toughening!

    If Love Is A Mist….

    If love is a mist

    Then I must persist

    For cords of affliction

    And wisps of addiction

    Are flogging my faith on a rack of derision.

    The demons are screaming

    Stop me from believing

    Oozing lies, succubi

    Leave me battered and bleeding.

    Their hunger is fed

    On the paths of the dead

    As my starved, broken soul craves the wine and the bread

    Cutting ties, crushing lives

    We can all sympathise

    But the blame lies with me

    Wrapped in guilt, when once free

    Destruction their function

    Impaled at this junction

    Slicing my soul without fear or compunction.

    Yet I will resist

    I’ll repent and desist

    And walk through the mist

    Towards fresh joy and bliss.

    For this kingdom of sighs

    Will give way to new life

    And I will be vanquished

    A thorn in their side.

    I’m Writing A Book….Still

    So there we have it. Ten months into this project and almost 100,000 words later I find all my characters in the same place at the same time. All nine of them. Number ten couldn’t make it but then he is a master of delegation and has sent along some more than able deputies to represent his interests. I reckon another 20,000 words should do it et voila we have the first draft of my my first novel. There might not be ten of them left at the end of it all but I guess you will just have to wait and see.

    It’s rough, it’s raw and it’s riddled with grammatical errors and continuity issues. But it’s real. it exists. I have unlikely, irritating, unwilling heroes and dashing, likeable and utterly evil villains. I’ve got witty dialogue (well I thought it was funny when I was writing it) and tonnes of naff pop culture references. I’ve got action; chase scenes, explosions and the occasional dead body. It’s gritty in places, ethereal in others and hopefully showcases the wonderful, horrible juxtaposition of a city that is Belfast.

    There are flashbacks, fast forwards and occasionally sitting about not really doing a lot. Some chapters cover seconds while others span centuries. It’s geeky, it’s nerdy and occasionally other worldly. I hope the next time I update you that the first draft will be in the bag. That’s when the real work will begin. The editing, the rewriting, the polishing and weaving together of various themes and sub plots. I also have a tonne of research to do in order to flesh out a number of characters and their back stories. Will it ever see the light of day? I don’t know the answer to that question.

    Maybe a literary agent will pick it up and sell it to a publisher. Maybe I’ll end up going down the self-publishing route. Maybe it will sit on my laptop and never be read by anyone except a trusted few. Maybe even they won’t be bothered. But I will be able to say I gave it my very best shot. Just like I said I would give this blog my very best shot 11 months ago. And it kind of turned out alright. I’ll keep you all updated over the next few months but, as always, your support and enthusiasm is what keeps my writing alive. The journey hasn’t even started yet.

    Fun Friday Continues….Even Though It’s Saturday

    Today’s question is for all you bookworms out there. What was the last book you read and what did you make of it? To get the ball rolling here are the last few I’ve read. I read a lot much to Fionnuala’s dismay but I know that in order to succeed as an author you need to soak up as many other styles and genres as you can. Read, Read and then Read some more. I think Stephen King said that. And he’s done alright I suppose.

    • Miss Peregrine’s Home For Peculiar Children – Ransom Riggs
    • The Very Worst Missionary – Jamie Wright
    • Recovery: Freedom From Our Addictions – Russell Brand
    • Sylvia Plath: A Biography – Linda Wagner-Martin

    Happy Reading!

    Stephen 🙂

    Binge

    Sometimes a word settles in my mind and refuses to budge. I suppose that’s the joy of writing. We get obsessed with words. They are our tools, the vehicles or medium through which we communicate our thoughts to the outside world. It’s my birthday at the end of the month (please no need for presents) and if you asked me what I truly needed at the moment (as opposed to wanted) then I’d probably plump for a thesaurus.

    Rock & Roll I most certainly am not….

    Todays word? Well the clue is in the title. Well the clue is the title. It’s binge. So I googled it as I don’t have a thesaurus….yet; and discovered that it originates from a 19th Century English practice where wooden vessels were immersed or soaked in water in order to allow the wood to swell and seal up any cracks so as to prevent leaking. Mind. Blown. It was a positive, practical activity in order to stop boats sinking when launched.

    Of course all good things come to an end and the word soon became slang for excessive drinking; people would literally immerse or soak themselves in alcohol. And today the term has been expanded to include any excessive activity. We binge. Be it alcohol, drugs, food, Netflix or whatever. It is when we consume something or someone to excess. The positive, practical meaning of the word has largely disappeared. It has been replaced by more negative connotations.

    I have binged throughout my adult life. I am impulsive and display obsessive, compulsive traits that verge on addictive. I do not know the meaning of the word ‘moderation’. With me it is a million miles per hour or not at all. I have binged on food, alcohol, social media and people. My foot was permanently on the accelerator and before I knew it, too late, I had caused another car wreck. I need and I want but I rarely think. Think of the damage I am causing myself and others through the act of binging.

    When we binge the object of our excess becomes an idol. It becomes an all consuming sun that blinds us from reality and obscures us from the people and activities around us that really matter. We have no internal alarm system that tells us to slow down or stop. We fly too close to the sun and, like Icarus in the famous fable, our wings are burnt and we plummet to our doom. We are destroyed by that which we loved. Our act of love towards the idol becomes an act of hatred towards ourselves.

    The people that used to matter no longer seem to matter. We binged. Our wings singed. And we fell. To our hell. Our idols made us idle. To the truth. We become disoriented and end up lost and confused. To binge is to run in an ever decreasing circle. A maddening maze from which there is no escape. It is as infuriating as it is illogical. When you binge it is like running a race wearing blinkers. You are oblivious to your external environment and can focus on nothing but the object of your desires. The object of your destruction.

    I’m not quite sure how the original positive meaning of the word ‘binge’ was contorted into the largely negative associations it has now. Why can’t we binge on the good stuff? Family, friends, exercise, art, literature? Why can’t we binge on loyalty, love and life? I guess we can and do except we use different words to describe those actions and emotions. The difference as I see it is a loss of control. When we binge we lose control. And loss of control will invariably end in heartache and despair.

    It’s time to take control again and bin our binging proclivities. I still am vulnerable to binging tendencies but the good days now far outweigh the bad. If you are currently in a binging cycle I want you to know that it can be broken and you can emerge on the other side. You might not be unscathed but you will be alive. Freedom is a possibility. I can’t wave a magic wand and make it all disappear but I can offer hope. There is always hope. Cling to it. You are better than the binge.

    Do you binge? Or have you in the past? Our community would love to hear your stories. We are non judgmental and supportive. Please comment below if you would like to get involved.

    Alternatively if you would feel more comfortable communicating in private we can be contacted via the blog’ ‘contact’ tab.

    For It Was Written Long Before You

    I wear my heart upon my sleeve. Pick at the stitches, watch it bleed. I thought it contained all my needs. Yet I was wrong, so wrong and now. I watch the scarlet droplets one by one. Communion wine upon my tongue. The acrid fumes they fill my lungs. And I am done.

    I’m done with all the hollow words. I’m done with following the herd. The vacuous nothingness I yearned. The chances spurned, the bridges burned. Scorched earth and ashes fill my urn. Fresh lashes tear my skin and burn. Hard lessons learned.

    I spurned fresh opportunities galore. So I could gorge myself on more. The score was settled long ago. But on I forged, ablaze with sin. Oblivious to the deafening din. Of voices old and voices new. Imploring me to start afresh. To step out of my stinking mess.

    I wore my heart upon my sleeve. You watched me grieve in silence though. I started high yet finished low. The perfect storm, I can’t conform. I am the eye, the sickening still. Imploring you to heed my will. You watched me from that bloody hill.

    I was a sick man, not a slick man. A blinded patient with no patience. Demented by fermented juices, hanging over, dry and useless. Dreaming of those silken nooses. Choking on my wordless mucus. Intervention, not attention saved me; days too dark to mention.

    The light it came, I sought it not. I’m standing at a desolate plot. You can be proud of me again. I kicked my habits to the flames. They burn and squirm and beg for mercy. Silently I take their curses. Turn my eyes to ancient verses. Holy words from empty churches.

    I tear my heart from off my sleeve. I empty it of fear and greed. And fill it with these words of glory. Dripping from that Cross so gory. Wisdom etched in ancient stories. For it was written long before you. Words of love sent to restore you.

    My Big Fat Irish Black Toenail

    Half Marathons are great fun. You pay the organisers £27 for the privilege of running for nearly two hours whereupon you end up a big, aching, sweaty mess. At the end you queue ten minutes with hundreds of other aching, sweaty messes for a banana, chocolate bar and bottle of orange juice. I’m off chocolate at the minute so I took that home for Fionnuala. You also get an (admittedly) pretty cool medal and T-Shirt. That fits like a Small even though I ordered a Large.

    I woke up the following morning to discover that I had obtained another race memento. A black toenail. The big toe on my left foot to be precise. Don’t worry. I’m not going to post a photo of said toe as I fear that would be a bridge too far for many of you. Suffice to say it’s not a pretty sight. Just one of the many perks of being a decidedly average distance runner. Along with blisters, stress fractures and plantar fasciitis. Don’t know what the last one is? Google it. Or look it up in the dictionary under ‘Agony’.

    It’s not painful but strangely fascinating in a hypnotic kind of way. It has a mesmeric quality that enthrals and repulses in equal measure. I reckon I could have snagged a role as an extra in ‘The Greatest Showman’ along with Wolverine, Troy Bolton and that lady with the beard. Apart from the fact that I can’t sing. Or act. Trifling details I know but anyway. Had I sustained this injury around Halloween I reckon I would have been a massive hit with the local trick and treating community. Yup, I would have been pulling them in from miles around. Roll up! Roll up! See the man with the blackest toenail in Ireland. Vomit inducing guaranteed or your money back.

    Bruises are par for the course when it comes to running, or any physical activity. We pick them up as we traipse through life and wear them like an external purple badge of honour before they go that horrible yellowy-green colour and then fade away. Some are bigger than others, some last longer than others but even the most gruesome one should eventually disappear. They are a temporary phenomenon and if we are just patient enough the body will do what it does best – heal itself.

    It’s a shame the same can’t be said for bruised hearts and souls. We accumulate them just as easily as we travel through life. They aren’t as visible though and we hide them away rather than admit we are hurting and in need of help. We hope they will fade away in time and some do. But others are so deep that we carry them around for life, damaged and broken, unable to cope with what has happened and unwilling to reach out for aid. These invisible bruises are uglier than any busted toenail and the ripples of repercussion emanating from them can echo through lives and generations.

    Every day I read about fellow bloggers who are nursing these invisible bruises. WordPress is the one safe place where they can reveal their wounds to the world. Many choose anonymity as they are still too raw and painful to publicise. We are all damaged goods. Damaged by others. Damaged by ourselves. Damaged by the random awfulness of life. Addiction, Depression, Anxiety, Physical Disability and Illness, Bereavement, the list is endless. Suicidal thoughts and images of self harm. They haunt my timeline and scar my thoughts. They impact me deeply.

    Fionnuala and I want to remind you that you are not alone. We started this blog in order to reach out and help others. We are all broken but we are not beyond repair. Healing is possible. If you feel the need the talk then please do – we have a private e-mail which you can access via the ‘contact’ or ‘prayer request’ tabs on the blog site. Please use it. Some of my posts have been quite negative of late. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I want you to see my bruises as I know no other way to write. So I rant and I rave but it’s only because I care.

    I’m going to post a poem later *collective groan* titled ‘Bruises’ but until then know that you are not alone. Not as long as this blog exists.

    What Is Your Worst Habit?

    Fionnuala often affectionately tells me (at least I hope it is affectionate. Can you be affectionate and annoyed at the same time?) that if there is an awkward way to do something then I will find it. Take Lent for example. My sincere intention to refrain from biscuits, chocolate and crisps lasted all of…oh….let me see now….around 4 minutes. I displayed all the willpower of an anaemic gnat before I went snuffling off to the cupboard in search of sugary sustenance.

    My ‘problem’ reached new heights (or depths depending on your perspective) over Easter itself when I devoured anything remotely unhealthy within arms reach. My eating Everest was a huge (as in HUGE) Cadbury’s chocolate Fruit & Nut egg which Fionnuala bought me as otherwise I would probably have sulked when the kids got their eggs. Or stolen them. So it’s my wife’s fault really. She forced me to cram every last chunk of it into my greedy gullet. I’m the innocent party in all of this don’t you see? Don’t you??

    A chocolate egg. With raisins in it! And nuts!! What evil genius created this delicious delight. I was powerless in its grasp. Fast forward to the following morning and I woke up with a momentous food hangover. I felt nauseous, sluggish and very, very guilty. I’m a binge eater and with my running I can largely get away with it. I don’t put on much weight and if I do I tend to lose it fairly quickly again. Yet that morning I felt rubbish and resolved I was going to eat healthily between now and the marathon in just over a months time.

    That’s right. I’m giving up chocolate…..after Lent!

    It’s back to front thinking of the highest order but that’s the beauty of life. You can make a decision to change at any time and contrary to popular belief it doesn’t just have to be on 1st January. I’ve had more than my fair share of bad habits down the years. I’ve successfully knocked some on the head while others have proven more difficult to shake off. I would include a chronic Diet Coke problem, nail biting (just fingers, not toes) and binge eating in the latter category. Fionnuala has also mentioned my talking and breathing at times but I’m pretty certain this was in the heat of the moment and she didn’t really mean it.

    I am proud that these bad habits are relatively minor in the greater scheme of things and that the bigger demons I have slain have far outweighed them in terms of significance. I also contend that my good habits now outnumber the not so good ones. It’s all part of the process of trying to become a better human being as you battle through life. You mess up, you learn from it and you resolve to do better the next time. Sometimes you do and sometimes you don’t but that doesn’t mean you should stop trying. The day you stop doing that is the day you might as well throw them towel in.

    So I have a challenge for you all. I’m off all the aforementioned junk food until 7th May. I want YOU to join me. What bad habit are you willing to kick into touch for the next month and possibly beyond? Comment below and we can create an online accountability network. If it is a sensitive or private issue then feel free to send an e-mail. You are greater than your worst habit. Give it up rather than simply giving up. You will be shocked and surprised with the levels of willpower and discipline you can dredge up.

    What is your worst habit?

    What habit are you prepared to give up for the next month and possibly beyond?

    I’m Writing A Book….Still

    Sooooo….I wrote earlier today about my training for the Belfast Marathon on 7th May and how that’s been going. Now it’s time for ’round two’ so to speak as I post an update about how the novel I am attempting to write is coming along. Which is a tad trickier. I mean I think it’s going okay but how can you objectively self assess five months of writing which nobody has read outside of your immediate family. Who are, of course, contractually obliged (check the small print folks) to say that they liked it.

    I’m only really getting a chance to devote time to it at weekends and when on leave. I set myself the target of 10,000 words over the Easter break which I passed today. But that’s 10,000 words of what? Genius? Drivel? I haven’t a foggy if I’m honest. All I know is that it’s careering along at the moment and getting easier to write as I delve deeper into the story. I’ve found out a few hard truths along the way as well. Such as ‘learning’ to write a novel is not for me; nor structuring and formatting, not at this stage anyway. I just need to get this first draft out of me by hook or by crook. It needs to be birthed before the labour pains become too much for me to bear.

    When that’s all done and dusted it will require a serious amount of polishing and fine tuning. I am in serious need of a thesaurus and have been shocked at how limited my vocabulary is when all along I thought I was quite eloquent and ‘wordy’. I’ve realised that I use certain words repeatedly. As in every. single. paragraph. Lazy. Lazy. Lazy. I will also need some serious work with continuity. One minute a character is standing at a bar ordering a round of drinks. The next he’s back at the table waist deep in dialogue. Teleportation sub plot perhaps?

    The self doubt is reaching ridiculous levels. Stephen doubts he can run 20 miles. Solution? Stephen puts on trainers, opens front door and runs 20 miles. Simples. Pity the same can’t be said about writing. I’m excited about it but if a marathon seems a slog then this a marathon of marathons. It’s akin (*repetitive word klaxon sounds*) to triumphantly spending five months scaling a hillock only to find Mount Everest looming on the other side. Even if it is half decent what about literary agents, publishers, self publishing, the law stuff?! The mind boggles and I think I need a lie down.

    The other annoying issue is not being able to talk to anyone about it. When I mention that I’m writing a book in the ‘real world’ most people smile patiently, say ‘that’s nice’ and then move on to more ‘grown up’ topics such as, say, the weather or the price of a loaf of bread. I’m just waiting for the day someone ruffles my hair, gives me a pat on the head and tells me to run along now. It’s not that people are deliberately being rude it’s just that this burning passion of mine does not register on the adulting scale where work deadlines, unpaid bills and domestic dramas take precedence.

    So I soldier on. Baring my artistic soul in private and periodically posting vaguely worded blogs citing impressive word counts but little else. Did Dickens have these problems? Is this why so many writers turn to the demon drink? Am I doomed to drone about this on WordPress, because nobody else particularly cares until my dying day? Have I set a new record for the use of question marks in a blog post???? If you have any advice, suggestions or simply wish to provide a virtual shoulder for me to blubber over then please comment below.

    Achilles Heel

    Achilles heel. Scabbed. Won’t heal. Pick at it. Secrets revealed. Itching. Twisting. Tired of bitching. Peel it off and start again. Take the pain but what remains? Scarlet blood flows free and proud. Love and grace replace disgrace. Grit your teeth to save your face. Love again to run your race.

    Achilles heel. Tensed and taut. Athletes crouch and pistols pop. Off they hurtle down the track. Forward. Onwards. Don’t look back. Sinews straining. Years of training. And for what? A crowning glory? Crowds are roaring. But if it snaps a different story.

    Achilles heel. Ancient tales. Heroes turning in their graves. Arrows piercing exposed skin. Unsheathed swords sliding within. Scraping bone and piercing organs. Writhing hydras. Towering gorgons. Monsters unleashed. Ravenous beasts. Havoc wreaked. An end to peace.

    Achilles heel. Guard it well. For heels are gateways to a hell of such dimensions that it will melt away all your pretensions. And leave you bony, broken, baffled. All hope snaffled. Life’s a raffle and you have lost. What’s the cost? Pay the ferryman and come across.

    Achilles heel. Doesn’t matter if you run or walk, limp or crawl. He’ll welcome you all. With open arms and boundless charm. No need for pyrotechnics or alarm. But once you’re in the doors are locked. The clocks are stopped. The lights go out. You learn your plight. Eternal night.

    Achilles heel. Painfully real. We all have two and here’s the deal. Slice open one you’ve still a chance. To get away, still save the day. But lose the second and you’re down. A helpless mess upon the ground. Vultures circle high above. Hyenas feast upon your blood. All for what for you gained naught.

    Achilles heel. So now you’re dead. Scavengers fed and long since fled. And what of you? A pile of bones, stripped of your pride and left alone. No wifi here or mobile phones. But never fear. You won’t be bored. For we have so much to explore. New depths of pain you’ll not ignore.

    Achilles heel. And here it ends. The train wreck just around the bend. You knew it all yet you knew nothing. The years of lies, deceit and plotting. It brought you here where you’ll remain. Eternal pain, forever stained. Alone and shackled in your chains. And there is only you to blame.

    Who Are Your Favourite Bloggers?

    I’m always delighted and slightly surprised when someone compliments me on my writing. It’s that inbuilt inferiority complex that I have dragged around behind me for most of my life. A nasty case of you’re-not-good-enough-itis. For many years I was so disenchanted with myself that I hid behind different characters that I created in order to gain attention and cover up the many glaring flaws that I perceived as having.

    It took me to the brink in more ways than one. I almost lost everything. But over the last year or so I have come to the conclusion that maybe I’m not such a bad person after all. Maybe there is hope for me and a purpose for my life. And that is why the majority of my writing focuses on my faith, family and fitness. For they are the three constants in my life that I have clung on to when the rest of my world has been crumbling apart. Likewise they have been the foundations on which I have started to rebuild.

    This blog has been part of the rebuilding process. The more I have written and revealed myself to the blogging community the more you have supported and encouraged me. It has been refreshing and invigorating to discover a social media platform where people put others first and talk openly and honestly about their lives and struggles. Where vanity and ego play second fiddle to compassion and selflessness. If only Facebook, Instagram et al could follow that example.

    They say a picture paints a thousand words. Personally I’ll take the thousand words any day of the week. The rampant selfie culture holds no interest for me anymore. Beauty fades, prose and poetry do not. They are timeless and irreversible. New words lead to new worlds. Worlds overflowing with possibilities and opportunities. Words bring people together and create caring communities where before there was separation and isolation.

    WordPress typifies this bringing together of like minded souls. So the purpose of this post today is to further promote and spread our community. If you would like to I would encourage you to either reblog or post a link to your favourite blog or blogs below. This will create a list of new sites for people to check out and follow. It is about putting others before ourselves and encouraging fellow bloggers to write and read more.

    Death By Blogging

    Today was largely spent chained to the laptop, revisiting and editing a number of chapters for the book. It was a graft and once again, as if I needed reminding, I realised what hard work writing can be. Some days the words just refuse to flow and you have to drag them kicking and screaming out of your imagination and onto the computer screen. Every sentence is a battle and every chapter a war.

    I managed to get to where I needed to be and, before I closed the laptop down for the day, decided to carry out a word count. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the first draft is now sitting at 68,000 words. That’s over 200 pages. For the first time I felt as if I could actually do this. There is still a world of pain ahead and many long hours of rewriting and editing. But I’ve overcome a very awkward second quarter of the book and feel I’m roughly where I need to be now.

    I’m literally bursting to share the plot and characters with you all but know I can’t do that yet for obvious reasons. All I can divulge is that it’s set in modern day Belfast and genre wise would be young adult fiction with very gritty themes and a sprinkling of the supernatural. In my head it is a trilogy and this first instalment largely sets the scene for a bigger and bolder story arc in the second and third books. This book largely concentrates on the inner struggles of the main characters before they turn their attention to the outside world.

    I’m fairly word blind as I type this so apologies if my thinking is a bit skewed this evening. My neck aches which is a tell tale symptom that my brain is shot for the day. But I feel it’s important I blog about the book in order to hold myself accountable to you guys who support me on a daily basis in my writing and running ventures. The blog keeps me honest and underpins everything I do. Without it there would be no book and there would be no marathons.

    Blogging helps keep me sane. It keeps my feet on the ground as the majority of my writing here explores my very flawed and fractured character. I’m my own biggest critic and I use my past failings to hopefully ensure that others do not make the same mistakes. My faith and my family feature heavily in my blogging and I make no apologies for that. They are the reason I am where I am today. All of the above ensure I remain grounded and keep my dreaded ego in check.

    So I’ll go to bed tonight and probably dream of words and letters. We have come a long way since the blog launched last May. But there is still a long way to go. I wrote some months ago about how I regarded 2018 as ‘The Year Of Death.’ Death of the old ways, death of the old me, death of the demons who ensnared and almost destroyed me. I encourage you to join me in burying your past as well. Here’s to life and love and light. Here’s to words and miles. Here’s to you people.

    What are you seeking to bury this year?

    What does FracturedFaithBlog mean to you?

    I’m Out On My Feet

    I’m out on my feet. Ideas replete. Shackled and stymied by lies and deceit. I’ve tried and I’ve failed. My dreams are derailed. My hopes on a ship that has long ago sailed. I’m struggling to think. Do I need a drink? Cowering from demons I thought long extinct. Their malice so plain as before them I shrink. I’m out on my feet.

    I’m out on my feet. So tired I can’t sleep. Lucid yet broken, beyond counting sheep. I’m bored of addiction, four decades of fiction. The tales of a fool who was ruled by restrictions. Possessing my thoughts, this brain full of rot. Delaying, decaying, amounting to naught. I’m out on my feet.

    I’m out on my feet, no respite or relief. So burdened by thoughts, my head like concrete. Cracked lips, yellowed teeth stained by years of deceit. Entombed in a realm where I’m king of the thieves. Believing the lies, ignoring the signs. Condemned to a life of frustration and sighs. I’m out on my feet.

    I’m out on my feet I heard myself bleat. Obsessing, regressing, wrapped in my own grief. I was digging my own grave, refusing to be saved, reliving the guilt and the sin being replayed. My head in the clouds and my foot in my mouth, the bottle I’d throttle to drown out the noise. The noise of my past, dreams shattered like glass. I’m out on my feet.

    I’m out on my feet, so battered and bruised. Shattered, in tatters, soiled and abused. Rejecting the poison that sickens my soul, running amok as it swallows me whole. Placed my head in the noose to discover the truth. Choking to death on this facade of health. Would rather die poor than inherit your wealth. I’m out on my feet.

    I was out on my feet but I’m not going down. Determined to fight and recover lost ground. So burn your white flags for I’m turning the tide, increasing my pace and regaining my stride. A glimmer, a shimmer, a hope oft denied igniting our dream that has somehow survived. For I’m back on my feet.

    For All Demons Bleed….

    It’s all about me. I’m selfish you see. So vain and conceited, it’s all about me. I fight the urge, this endless dirge, the need to purge myself of me. My needs. They feed my brain. They inflict pain. I smother others with my greed. It sows the seeds which grow the roots which, when afoot, choke and constrict. Restrict the man I want to be. Beautifully and wonderfully formed. Yet I conform to shallow sins, the endless din of voices fuelled by evil whims.

    Yes, it’s all about me. For I’m selfish you see. You want an example? I’m so glad you asked. For I’ll put down my glass and trample the dreams of my loved ones aghast. I just want the best but it ends up a mess as the baby obsessions emerge from their nest. They’re as blessed as I’m cursed, they wish only the worst, driven forward by demons for actions rehearsed a million, a billion, a trillion of times. I’ll tell you I’m fine, I’m feeling sublime, yet inside their fingers are gouging my mind.

    For it’s all about me. I’m selfish you see. The world keeps revolving round my gravity. I’m clever and witty and everyone’s friend. I’ll bend to your blend at the drop of a hat. I crave the attention and, oh did I mention, I run and I blog and I’m writing a book. So have a good look, gather round young and old. Click follow and swallow the lies that you’re sold. A slippery slope, a dope on a rope, I hope beyond hope that the demons are choked. By a force beyond words. A force beyond me. A life giving spirit, at last I’m set free.

    It was all about me. I was selfish you see. But little by little I’m trying to change. They had me deranged but I’m prying away. They bite and they pull but I’m stronger each day. I’ve escaped from the filth and the guilt and the silt of my past which has clogged up my laughs and sliced through my life like a knife through warm butter. From gutter to author. I’m better than this and I’m better than you. I’ll run and I’ll write and I’ll love and I’ll smile. For with every mile you’re a mile down the road. That odious toad that I must offload, the demons they’re screaming as I grow more bold.

    Now it’s all about them. I’ve discarded my past like the rags that they were. So dirty and soiled, they were drenched in the oil of earthly transgressions and shallow desires. Now I stack the dry bonfire and strike up a match. To raze to the ground those demonic clowns who clung to my soul like a leech fat and round. So bloated and soaked in the filth that they found. Now I’m watching them burn and then turning and walking away. To start a new day, a new week a new life. With the people that matter, free from relentless chatter.

    Yes it’s all about us. That’s the thrust of these words. And I trust you see through them, the prose and the verse. To the truth of a man who was saved from disgrace. By a grace with no depths and a love with no bounds. I was lost, now I’m found. And I hope you see hope in the words that I write. That they open your eyes and offer fresh sight, a glimmer of light. To vanquish the darkness that’s raging inside. You’re better than that and you will succeed. For all demons bleed when faced with the truth. Your power over them is about to take root.

    The Library Fine Police

    Yesterday I paid a visit to Belfast City Library. There were a number of reasons for this lunchtime jaunt. Firstly I had just emerged from the three hour ‘meeting from hell’ so needed to get out of the office to shower my head. I also needed to get a book as part of my research for the novel I am currently writing. Have I mentioned I’m writing a novel? And finally I wanted to pay a visit to the library cafe which features in a scene of said novel.

    My head had been spinning from the meeting but went into overdrive when I realised that the cafe no longer existed but had been replaced by a couple of soulless vending machines and a sorry collection of plastic tables and chairs. Where was the little old lady behind the counter and her collection of delicious, homemade sandwiches? Where were all the scholarly types brushing crumbs from their copies of the Irish Times? And most importantly where were all the caramel squares and German biscuits??

    I turned on my heels in total (but very silent) outrage and sulked up the stairway to the next floor where the History section was housed. I was amazed to find the research book I required within minutes and even more amazed to discover that there were no outstanding fines on my library card which I hadn’t used in about 479 years. I had built myself up into a complete tizzy that I had a £1 fine from 2012 that had accumulated unbeknownst to me into a six figure payment. Cue visions of alarms screeching, metal shutters clattering down and men in dark suits and sunglasses dragging me off into the bowels of the building. ‘We have the target contained and neutralised. Go Go Go’.

    Thankfully this was not to be. The librarian scanned the book, handed it back to me and asked that I return it within three books. Which I will. On pain of death. Must not forget about book….must not forget about book….must not forget about the book. As I gratefully scuttled back down the stairs I was struck by how much the floor had stank of stale cigarette smoke which did nothing to make me want to linger. Yet when I stepped outside onto the street again I saw no smoking area or huddle of patrons sucking on their Marlboro lights and sharing critiques on Hemingway and Steinbeck.

    Where were all the smokers? Had I imagined the smell? I sometimes wake up with phantom smells in my nostrils. Cigarettes and alcohol mostly. Even though I have never smoked and gave up drinking almost five years ago. Had my library visit been a journey into a parallel universe? Was there a secret library cafe where smokers rubbed shoulders and consumed ‘Rocky Roads’ and ‘Fifteens’ at an alarming rate? Was this next to the cells where the men in black housed those who had failed to pay their overdue book fines? Dragged off to a dank dungeon never to be seen again.

    My library visit had mixed results then. I’m going to have to use my imagination and recollection to write the library cafe scene. And I returned to work mildly nauseated with the odour of stale tobacco. Eurrghhh. I can actually smell it now as I write this. But I did get the book I wanted and avoided the evil clutches of the Library Fine Police. And I did come up with several ideas if I ever feel the literary urge to further explore the dark underbelly and hidden recesses of Belfast City Library further. I might save that for the second novel. That’s if I ever get around to finishing the first one.

    When did you last visit your local library?

    What’s the largest fine you’ve ever paid?

    Do you ever experience phantom smells or tastes?

    What Are You Writing About Today ? (1)

    I took a day off from novel writing yesterday. I ran and I blogged and I worked. I was still a father, a husband, a son and a brother. But I didn’t write. Which was weird as in the last week I’ve churned out in excess of 11,000 words which is prolific for me. 50,000 plus in total now. But I realised it was time to hit the brakes and reflect on what I have produced so far.

    I need to spend a little more time on planning and preparation. I’m in the second third of the book now and I know exactly where I’m going. It has a flow and a direction that I’m pleased with. It is chronologically written in this third which I find so much easier. I wish I could say the same for the first section which involves a lot of flashback scenes. It jumps around a lot which is necessary in order to build the story and for character development. But it means I need to devote some serious time towards editing and structure.

    The more I write the more I realise that there is so much more to writing than the physical activity of writing. It the tip of the iceberg, the cherry on top of the cake, the serene swan on the surface while below the waters it paddles furiously to maintain its dignity. The best writers make it appear so effortless, the words flow so naturally. It all seems so simple to the point where one wonders ‘Why can’t I write like that?’ But this is deceiving. Behind the scenes and beyond the pages the reader does not see the blood, sweat and tears that go into crafting every sentence.

    They don’t see the frustration, the doubt and the failures. Often you have to take ninety nine steps back in order to move one step forward. And that’s where I am at the moment. I need to pause, put my foot on the ball and reflect on where I am, where I’ve been and where I’m going. In order to do so I’m going to post a series of mini blogs today about that process. I’m hoping this will entertain and educate you as to the creative literary genius that is Stephen Black. Er….right. But I’m also hoping I will unearth some nuggets of knowledge myself along the way.

    What are you writing about today?

    Ode To OCD #2

    If silence cuts like a knife

    Then I have died the death of a thousand cuts at your hands

    Your scars have scarred me

    You have sliced me with your lies

    Strangled by our soul ties

    More lies

    You’ve broke me in two

    But I’ve broken me too

    Now I’m breaking on through

    To what?

    Nothing that’s what

    For I am everything that you have allowed me to become.

    Ode To OCD #1

    You let me binge

    And now I’m singed

    Unhinged.

    Swinging from the gallows that I constructed for

    You.

    As you look on

    The idle god of all you survey.

    You smile

    As I decay

    Dismayed and flayed.

    Splayed in my grave

    Of rotating routine.

    How Is Your Writing Coming Along?

    Yesterday lunchtime I had a walk around areas of Belfast city centre where scenes of my first novel are to be set. The plan was to capture details that have evaded my memory to date so that when I am writing I can refer to them there and then. Ideally I would like to write the relevant scene while sitting at the location but it was minus 4 yesterday. I’m a wannabe author but I’m not that crazy!

    Progress has been slow of late. What with work and family life it is hard to find the quiet time necessary to write. I also don’t want to neglect my blogging which is at the heart of my writing. It is my meat and potatoes. The book is just the dessert. Honeycomb ice cream or strawberry cheesecake I hope.

    I’ve written about 40,000 words but I literally vomited them out during a week off work about a month ago. It’s as if they had been lying on my stomach for years and I just had to get them out of my system. I purged myself. What have I learnt? That I can write, yes, but also that I need a structure to form my words around.

    I’m therefore spending more time on outlining and storyboarding as opposed to just writing blindly. The latter has surprised me in that I’ve realised that I am at my most creative when in the actual act of writing. That is when the ideas come to me, when I am actually sitting at the keyboard. It has resulted in characters leading me off in totally different directions from what I had first anticipated.

    It has also dragged me down a few dead ends, however. A happy medium needs to be struck between spontaneity and preparation. I need a solid foundation upon which to lay these creative bursts. This is slowly coming. I have been using a technique called ‘The Snowflake Method’ where you start with the premise for your novel in one sentence and gradually build it from there. A paragraph, a page, four pages and so on.

    The above technique is teaching me discipline and patience. Writing a novel is hard work. Yes, you have your days when the words flow from you like water from a fountain. But at other times it involves monotony and frustration. Taking five steps back in order to move one step forwards. Chipping away at a block of stone in order to reveal the sculpture beneath.

    I also haven’t decided on my favourite writing device. At times I favour sitting at my desk writing on the laptop but I also jot down ideas and notes on my I-Phone and Kindle Fire. I also have a notebook which I write in. With this ancient writing tool known as a pen. Some of you may have heard of this. If haven’t just google it.

    So that’s my update. I’m getting there but slower than I first expected.

    How is your writing coming along?

    A Biography of C.S. Lewis by Rebecca Black age 11

    Over the last few weeks Rebecca has had to write a biography about a famous person from Ireland/Northern Ireland for her homework and after much questioning of myself and Stephen she decided to go with C.S. Lewis.  She has just completed her project two days ahead of schedule and as promised by her daddy she is allowed to post it on the blog.  We hope you enjoy the read and any feedback you have Rebecca will love to hear it and she will get back to you after school and football practice tomorrow evening.

    Hello, there my name is Rebecca Black and I am in Primary 7 at Ballinderry Primary School. Today I am going to tell you about a wonderful man who is dead now but he was so good he survived through two world wars that would’ve been hard to do, so sit back and enjoy learning about the person I am going to tell you all about his name is Clive Staples Lewis. Clive Staples Lewis was born on the 29th November 1898 and lived until he was 63 years of age. He died on the 22nd November 1963 it was a sad day for all his friends and family and it was even sadder because it was a week before his 64th birthday. He was born in Belfast at the Royal Victoria Hospital which is the same hospital where I was born and also the same hospital that my mum, brother, sister, grandparents, great grandparents and aunts, uncles and cousins were born that is a cool fact what I found out. The first person to hold him was his dad because his mum took ill during child birth and she couldn’t hold him for 7 hours.

    In his family were his mother Flora Lewis, father A.J Lewis and older brother Warren Lewis. C.S. Lewis got married and his wife was called Joy Davidian and changed her name to Lewis. Then they had two children called Douglas and David.

    C.S. Lewis was home schooled until he was 9 by his mum until his mum died at the age of 46 in 1908 what was very sad. After this C.S. Lewis’s dad sent him to a boarding school in England that he did not like because they were very mean to the children and shouted at them for doing nothing. One day the school board and the police went to the school and put the mean teacher in jail because what the teachers were doing was not right. When he was a wee boy he really wanted to be a police officer but because he was so good and loved writing he became an author.

    A few of C.S. Lewis’s friends were his big brother, his best friends at school were Jake, Adam and Ben. Ben lived next door to him so they all ways went outside and played with each other every day.

    C.S. Lewis went to one off the most popular and best universities in England that was called Oxford University. You must be smart to get into it so he must have been proud of himself if I was him I would have been proud. Then in 1914 World War One started so he was lucky to still be alive after the war he did not join the world war because he was too young he was only 16 and you had to be 18 to be in the war.
    When he left university his first job was working in their local shop down the road from their house that would have been easy for him to get to work and back. He worked there for a few years and then he got the job that made him a famous Author and Poet. I am going to tell you a few of the best known books he wrote The Chronicles of Narnia series of books: The Lion the Witch and The Wardrobe, Prince Caspian the Return to Narnia, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, The Silver Chair, The Horse and His Boy, The Magician’s Nephew and The Last Battle. Three of these books were made into movies I have watched the first movie and am reading the second book so you should watch it if you want or read it is good.

    Some of the pomes he wrote are – As The Ruin Falls, Evolutionary Hymn and After Prayers, Lie Cold. As well as the Narnia books he wrote a lot of Christian books like the Four Loves, Surprised by Joy and Mere Christianity my Dad has read Mere Christianity and he said that it is that good he would read it again and he has already read it two times so it must be good.

    1941 was a sad and scary year for all the people who lived in England because at that time Germany bombed England because in World War 1 they started to fight at the end so they then carried it on to World War 2.

    Now am going to tell you some places where you can go and have a look around and find some more facts about C.S. Lewis. The first one is in England there is this walking tour all the way round the University that he went to that is the Oxford University Centre. He has another place where you can go visit is the Blue Plaqvo place that is in Dundela Avenue in Belfast and that was where C.S. Lewis was born. In Belfast C.S. Lewis has a square named after him on the Holywood Road in Belfast.

    This has been a short version of the life of C.S. Lewis from the first day he was born on till he died on the 22nd of November 1963 at the age of 63 years old and I hope you enjoyed it.

    I hope you learnt some new facts and you had fun reading this and remember you can go to the places I told you about and if there was something you wanted to find out and I did not write about it you can go to one off them and ask someone there and am sure that they would know it or if they don’t ask someone different and they will know. I hope you enjoyed this and thank you for reading.

    cslewis

     

     

     

    Witches Road

    They killed him on the Witches Road. Men with black masks and blacker hearts. Two rapid starbursts of white death lighting up the night sky as the silent, wooden sentinels looked impassively on. The body dumped at the roadside where his blood mixed freely with last nights discarded pizza crusts and tonic wine, the communion of the damned. 

    The years roll by but the memories bite back harder, each passing anniversary another crushing blow to the fragile tendrils of hope in the hollow hearts of those left behind. A cross where he fell, meaningless words on a marble monument. Flowers that die where he died.  Tears are shed and harsh words spoken but nothing changes.

    Six years it cost them. One year for each orphaned child he left behind him on the roadside. Jesus wept. There was nothing good about that Friday. They raised their glasses as the Romans raised their cross. ‘Forgive them Father for they know not what they do.’ Oh they knew what they did that night alright. Every war has its casualties they shrugged. As casual as that.

    I run the Witches Road. I run past the spot where they ended his life and my thoughts run on and I think of that night. The horror, the struggle, the realisation that it was over. And I pray for his family but can’t find it in my weary soul to pray for the hard men and their hard hearts. I run on and I never stop for I fear the Witch. She whispers seductively for me to stop and rest, to catch my breath. But I run on for I know her lies and to stop is to never start again.

    So they live their lives and they drive their cars. Along the Witches Road. And they feel no remorse for they fought the good fight like their fathers and their fathers before. They returned the serve. They terrorised the terrorist and every death is regrettable. But sorry? They’ll never say sorry for that would be weak. And weak they are not for they are the people and the people are strong and just. They sleep the sleep of the righteous and God help the man who cries foul murder of them. 

    Yet she is no man. They had heard the old stories but there is no Witch just like there is no way any man will stop them from walking down the street with their heads held high. Where were you when our shops were being blown to pieces and they were shovelling the remains of our loved ones into bin bags? Damn you to hell and damn your Witch too; tired old tales from tired old folk with too much time on their hands and too little wit between their ears.

    They were found in their beds. Twelve years to the day. Their faces twisted and gnarled like the trees under which the trigger was pulled. We scratched our heads and nobody spoke what they were thinking. Heart attacks they said. In their sleep. They would have known nothing about it. Both big men who liked their beer and fags. Natural causes they said. Nobody believed them. There was nothing natural about the look in their eyes. They saw. 

    I run the Witches Road. I run past the spot where he fell. Fresh flowers by the marble. Teddy bears too. Grandchildren now. I smile as I run but not for long. For this is her road and I dare not stop.

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