I’m going to let her shine…

On Friday it was four years since the day I lost my little sister. I’ll admit I have trouble with a sentence like that one. Since my little sister’s passing? Passing into what, where? Since my little sister’s death? It’s too true and too harsh. I go with since I lost my little sister, like…

frustrated writer lets loose in coffee shop

Another day, another café, another attempt at keeping it real with the new novel. I haven’t been to this café for weeks and weeks. I bet they thought I was dead. That’s what I think when a regular stops showing up. ‘Hey, where’s Flat White, Not Too Hot, Guy?’ Was he killed on the weekend?…

no real through line except noticing.

    On the wall of the cafe where I’m meant to be writing the next novel is a watercolour of a tree house. The roof is gabled, the window frames are blue and the trusses supporting the structure are red. the tree itself is a magnificent, a tree-climber’s tree, a tree where dreams are…

spin and roll your way to peace

On the way to the bloody doctor tonight I realised the metaphors I use to describe this journey are about control. Washing machines and roller-skates. You’re wet and spinning, cyclical, or your up and skating and down on your arse, repeat. Either way, you’re out of control. Anxiety is like that. Grief is a lot…