Grief is a long road….

Over a year has passed… a year without my best friend, my grandmother, my confidant. It has been beyond hard. I have cried endless tears. Prayed for signs and truth be told, i have been lucky to have them; dreams of hearing her voice. But it doesn’t stop me missing her or the accompanying loneliness. Mix that with the responsibilities of being a parent and some days, I am simply broken. Add to that further, having a child with special needs that don’t understand their actions, their particularness to impulse control and sensory issues and the worst days can have me feeling even more alone. It all reminds me that I cannot simply go next door with a cup of coffee (for me) and a giant cup of tea (for her) and to simply talk. We used to talk about everything and my nan gave me strength. Sometimes, I feel like that since she has passed, she has taken my strength and happiness with her. Sometimes, I think how the hell do I move forward?
I try to give myself space, I try to be kind to myself. But sometimes, those tears flow and for that day, it is impossible to stop.
For my nan and my family, I put one foot in front of the other and spark that last bit of fight that I have. Because what is right, and good – I cannot stand the thought that people who could have caused so much pain for my nan could carry on in her name and cause more destruction in their paths.

My nan never wanted the proverbial noose of others’ greed around her neck. She used to tell me that she worked hard all of her life, never run up debts and tried her best to bring her children right. She used to cry that if it wasn’t for me, she would have been put in a home or worse. She used to say to me “I’m sorry for being a burden” she never was. I know, though she was embarrassed to be getting help for the basics of things, as I said to her, she helped raise me, and I will always look after her. She knew how much I love her, past and present tense – even at the worst of it, she would always nod when I asked her “do you know how much I love you?”.
I still get flashbacks of her last few weeks. How I had to bury every bit of emotion I had to ensure that she was looked after alongside the little ones, an older one who was still reeling from the death of their father and in a sense acting out, because their last time to see their father was cruelly taken by the actions of another.

I had the house, the dog, the kids, the nurses, my partner, his parents, we all tried to rally around. The dog would lay under her bed day in and day out. My mum kept her company through the day whilst I’d try and keep the other plates spinning.

I put a sofa bed on the other side of her bedroom wall, kept the doors open and would check on her several times, and call out nurses to make sure my nan was pain-free. She passed the early morning, I awoke as the laboured sound of her breathing ceased.

Walking into the bedroom, the bedcovers haven’t moved since she was last tucked in. A simple line of fluid rolled down her chin and her skin began to whiten as the blood stopped. “Oh, nan” was all I could say. I touched her hand and repeated, “do you know how much I love you?” I then called my mum.
My brave mum. A woman who struggles day in and day out herself was there within 5 mins and I left her with nan. Whilst I had to think of all the practicalities. This woman, my mum, has always been by my nan’s side through cancer the first time, the second time, the appointments and then her funeral. Pretty much, it was mum and me (and my little family) through the whole thing. My grandmother deserved more than how she was treated by other family members. She deserved more than she received in life – and I know things need wrapping up for her to have peace. ALL I can do is try to give that to her. Because I love her.
Her ashes take pride of place in my living room. With a sweetpea candle burning by it, a bonsai tree beside her, and a glass of never-dying flowers. I talk to her every day, wishing that she could answer me, or just to sit with me and watch Homes Under the Hammer.

I refused to let her ashes be split up like my grandfathers’, I kept her whole and undisturbed. I reached out through my anger and offered an olive branch by inviting all to her funeral service (she was cremated the day before and followed the request of a peaceful sendoff) yet no one but my mum, my family bothered to reply and attend. Byron (my oldest boy, then 4) sang “I’ll be your sweetheart” as the priest blessed her. At least the only people who ever loved and cared for her surrounded us. But people who still pretend to love her never uttered a sound except for the question of “what am I going to get” as my nan said before – she did not raise them like that.
All I can do is allow my heart to journey with this grief. Feel it until the tears cannot come anymore. Light some candles and pray that everyone i have lost, finds peace and unending, enduring love. In this house, we remember. I try not to let the anger eat me up too. Anger at those that should have cared about my nan, not simply what they could take from her.
This all can hit from the most innocent of things and it can crash into me. The grief is like a black horse that sits on my shoulder and kicks me with the pain of grief. Bites with the blackest rage at my heart. But for my family, I have to be stronger.

One day, they will have to answer for all that they have done. And I am sure there is a few awaiting to see them again because my nan is not the first and won’t be the last of the people that have been damaged through those people.
One day, I will be reunited with her and the others that I have loved and lost. We all have to face our maker, stripped away and the truth of your soul laid out. I have nothing to hide. I have never been perfect and I accept my flaws. But my heart is broken and I wonder, will it forever be so?

Thank you for reading. I know this is a charged piece but today, i needed to explain.

Love and light ❤

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A Writers Rambles on Writing

The art of writing combines dexterity with imagination, stamina, procrastination and insane mental journeys. You have to be worthy of being a criminal mastermind as well as be worthy of an asylum [at times]. You must also write. A hurdle in the process, but one necessary. Be prepared to feel bewildered, afraid and feeling the sweat of anticipation, precipitate on your brow. New life flows from your fingertips so you may need to relax before you release the hidden truths locked in your very universes. Writers are gods of the hidden realms and the keeper of the keys of knowledge. Weavers of magic and wonder, the storm winds of change. They are the ones that have made history and recorded it. The beginning and the end.

 

Your very body is composed of words in your own language spoken internally, a voice that never stays quiet. Writers are the ones that can transmute that disquiet into something new, something real.

 

So as a writer, I live in those pockets between existence and ethereal. I fall into them without trying to. New voices and destinies cascade across my very dreams. Their lives live out in disquiet, wanting their truths known. The living and dead exist together, like threads bound to this world. One golden thread shimmering with breath, heartbeat and roaring noises screaming to the sky. The other, a thin translucent line, glittering like glass, whispering like the wind. The hidden. Clinging together and staying true to its course. I write for the whispers because it is only then, that the noise makes sense.

 

You. You fascinate me.

Why?

We are our own universes… how you live, who you are, the things you love, your day… everything is beautiful and unknown to me. I want to know. I want to watch you. I want to breathe you in. I want to love your ways. You are like a veil; I want to see what is underneath. Yet, I do not want to move amongst you, I am comfortable, happy even, in my own cave. I am a child of heavy black curtains drawn, and candlelight at all hours. The light is not the friend of my own church – the place I get to, to fall into the mode of just writing.

 

As you can see, I have free wrote. I have simply sat here and let my hands and mind speak, freely. Post Malone playing in the background. My heart and soul lay open. Awaiting the crows to peck out my soul. Each crow wears my face; the face of extreme exhaustion, the face of distraction, the face of time going to fast. Deep breath. Stop. Now go.

WORKING TITLE: Notorious

Sharing my latest writing project: It is about a British gangster boss, his life in and out of the job, peddling drugs and sex. He shares his “crown” with four others, dividing London up by location: North, East, South and West. Meeting weekly with the other bosses to sort whatever needs sorting. Thinking this could be a BRITISH series or one off movie. You don’t actually see many about real British modern gangsters, how it can be passed down and the mob mentality of true bosses. Yeah it is only a few pages. But you can see where it is going.

Writing activity

SCRIPT FOR FILM:

FADE UP TO THE MUSIC – TASTE by TYGA (FT. OFFSET)

INT – SCENE 1: Smoky dark underground club – Night – Men are stood against the wall as women dance on strip poles and in cages.

CUTS to a waitress carrying a tray through the crowd, following her, through the music, through doors, the music FADES the further along she goes down the hall, until you can barely hear it. It abruptly stops as she enters into the bright light of a restaurant, you can hear noise of many people talking (it’s busy), she continues through the restaurant, through another set of doors, down stairs, to a basement, where she stands as four men are sat around a large black table.

CUTS to one of the men who nods to her (MARCOS).

CUTS to her smiling

CUTS to her placing the tray at the centre of the table

CUTS to another man taking out a wad of twenty pound notes (VALENTINO), you see her hands as she takes it, cuts to her pudding the money in her bra, smiling and nodding.

CUTS to her kissing the man who paid her (VALENTINO) on the cheek.

CUTS to him smiling as he takes his double shot of whiskey and takes a shot.

CUTS to his hands putting the whiskey down, his hands are full of gold and silver rings, his knuckles look bruised.

UNKNOWN VOICE:

i-i-i-I’m s-s-s-s-orry

CAMERA PANS INTO VALENTINO’s FACE as he talks:

(Calmly) Sorry? (Louder, exasperated) SORRY? Check out this guy… You knew what you signed up for… yet you take money out of my pocket so you can try what you’re supposed to sell. How is that good for business? How is SORRY going to pay me back?

CAMERA STAYS ON VALENTINOS FACE

UNKNOWN VOICE:

Please. I will pay you back – with interest. Please, no more, please.

VALENTINO BRINGS A CIGERETTE TO HIS MOUTH, TAKES A PUFF THEN BLOWS OUT THE SMOKE

VALENTINO:

(Laughs, settling on a smile) Now what kind of boss would I be, If I simply let you walk. You’ve taken the piss outta me. Do I want everyone taking the piss? (STARING STRAIGHT DOWN THE CAMERA) Do I want people going – oh look there’s Valentino, he don’t care about his stash being used, he don’t care, so lets take the piss. Do you know what comes after that? Hmm? Do you? (says slowly, deliberately nods) Challenge. With it? War. Now my associates here, would not appreciate a weak leader, would you fellas.

CUTS TO THREE MEN STILL SEATED, SMILING. NOT SAYING A WORD.

CUT TO VALENTINO as he takes another drag of his cigarette. He stares for a few moments.

VALENTINO:

Nah, untie him, you can go.

CAMERA STAYS ON VALENTINO AS YOU HEAR ROPES BEING UNDONE, CAMERA SLIGHTLY PANS OUT AS YOU SEE THE BACK OF A OLDER SCRUFFY TEENAGER, HE LOOKS AT VALENTINO WHO MOTIONS TO THE STAIRS, THEN TURNS TO THE OTHERS LAUGHING.

Cut to the teenager running as fast as he can up the stairs until you only see feet.

SCENE 2: OUTSIDE THE CLUB, NIGHT.

CUTS TO OUTSIDE, THE TEENAGER STARTS WALKING TO THE TRAIN STATION WHEN A MOPED PULLS UP BESIDE HIM. TWO PEOPLE WITH BLACK HELMETS TURN.

CUTS TO THE BACK OF THE OLDER TEENAGER, YOU CAN SEE THE PASSENGER ON THE MOPED RAISE A HANDGUN SHOOT HIM FOURS TIMES, THEN THEY TAKE OFF QUICKLY DOWN A SIDE STREET. OLDER TEENAGER COLLAPSES.

IT STARTS TO RAIN AS THE CAMERA PANS FROM THE TOP VIEW OF THE DEAD TEENAGER, HE STARES AT THE SKY AS A PASSER BY RUNS TO HIM AND BRINGS OUT THEIR MOBILE.

SCENE 3: IN THE BASEMENT – NIGHT

VALENTINO – Still smoking ends, he is on the phone call.

VALENTINO:

Thanks. Great news.

CUTS TO PHONE CALL ENDING, THE NUMBER READS: H1

He turns to the other three men and sits back down.

VALENTINO:

Now where were we.

END SCENE.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

I understand F. Scott Fitzgerald. I am the first to say that I too, am both insecure and passionate about my own abilities in writing. From the regular existential crisis’ of “what the capital F am I doing” and “I’m not good enough” to the belief that “surely someone will get it”. I am completely imperfect; certainly not knowledgable and my punctuation and use of grammar certainly needs work. I like stories to be linear unless the break feeds into the linear narrative, but even then, my mind can spiral. I live with depression; self-medicating with legal alternative therapies in the form of vaping liquids procured through health farms, too much wine and allowing the rollercoaster ups, downs and dreamscapes from too much sleep take hold, unless I’m an insomniac for that particular week. I feel like I will fail everything; becoming another negative government statistic. Taking a step or trying to focus IS hard! *deep breath* F. Scott Fitzgerald died feeling like a failure. He struggled financially, personally and did not get that critical acclaim until after his death. What do I want? Not fame, nor a lot of money, not intense recognition nor critiques. Thinking about it, perhaps all I want is freedom. To write, to take pictures, to travel, and things that I do to be read and actually enjoyed. I want to feel pride in myself and a nice regular income, from the safety of my own four walls.

How do you feel?

What do you want?

Revelations of the flu

Sadly, I have been infected with the dreaded lurgies, which has, for over four weeks, left me in a state of complete and utter disrepair. Not only have I appeared gross, but my energy has been pretty much null. Leading me to be a silkworm wrapped in two bed-covers. Somehow, I have put one foot in front of the other and kept three children alive. Not always easy, mind. The tiredness alone has been all consuming.

On another note, linking to my last blog. I am a published writer! Woot. Win. Awesome sauce eh! Though I really need to get out of the house at some point; work on the photography aspect of my artistry. I had to give up my full-frame but I have a replacement and wish to play with it, with a defined goal. I thought about revisiting the half-burnt carcass of Mountain Ash Hospital; if it is even reachable. I have also thought about exploring more of Cardiff, or revisiting London or even just taking a train to nowhere in particular. The world (or at least the UK) is my oyster and considering I’m usually stuck in doors, getting by with life stuff, I need to get out there!

I’d love to revisit New York too – that city has always held my heart with how grand and concrete it is. I would love to see San Francisco too. Well, one day I may just get the chance.

But for now, I will work on what I can. I need to revamp my website, and this blog needs a facelift. Gotta plan how what and why. Read textbooks and illuminate my still-tired brain. I will get there, I always do. It’s a mix of energy drinks and will that will get me through the mountains that I have to climb. To be the best you gotta put in the effort.

On another note, I have submitted a major bit of coursework yesterday. A post-apocalyptic story of a man who loses everything, is unable to mentally leave his flat so ends up wanting to commit suicide, tries and fails. Big twist as to why. Found writing the commentary hard, but I am not good at spinning words in that way. More of a intuitive writer. My next part of the course starts next week – screenwriting, scriptwriting and creating a 15 minute play. Something I know nothing about but enough books to sift through.

Though reading textbooks; is it just me, whose brain puts the most boring mental voice to them, to the point that you cannot concentrate and end up wanting to fall asleep… no? no??? Help me… lol.

Today is my 12 year olds’ birthday, so I will sign off with – have a nice day. She is growing up too quickly, though the tantrums and hormones drives me bananas. Love her to bits though. Will always fight for her, forever and ever. Even if I have to be the bad guy at times. Life of a mother, eh?

BUY MY BOOK!

I’M AN AUTHOR WOOOOO

My debut novel “Black Moon Rises: The First Book” is now available via Amazon!

Paperback: https://lnkd.in/eipi3m3

Ebook: https://lnkd.in/e3YyXBa

“Imagine having a perfect life, to have it ripped away by an obsessive ex – who just so happens to be a werewolf. This is the story of Lana Lane; once just a girl, now forced into a world that she never knew existed.
What would you do in her position?”

Let me know what you think 🙂

Always learning and becoming…

I have been chewing myself lately; to be the best, you have work. WORK WORK WORK. And i have, dear lord. I have.

This personal blog will soon be redesigned – to optimise readability etc yeah yeah, i know i got my official business one via website (LINK) but i think it is important to keep something personal for those super BLAH days when you just need to work yourself out. Or make lists or just be… you. You know?

My socials have been steadily gaining the odd bit of traction, receding, then growing again. It is kind of like the waves on the sand… but it is getting there. And my degree has been going surprisingly well. Why is it surprising, you may ask, well, i generally think my stuff is not as good, or i’m not as learned. Normal insecure writer stuff. I think a few of the students get me now, which has been invaluable for feedback. I can already see improvement.

I am also doing some work for people and trying to fit time in to self-publish – i got two books i am working on. One, is a collection of short stories, the other is my debut novel. But the novel is stuck in limbo in the editing stage, then i gotta learn how the heck to get it on amazon! I know once i have one up there, i’ll be laughing. I’d be proud of myself if it just made a pound.

Also, I am working on articles, currently inundated with prime research, i gotta get the time to get them written, because some of the stuff i’ve discovered is GOLD. I mean, i have been researching about men that use sex sites, married men who cheat (how, why, when etc) and sexuality as a commodity. I’ve interviewed men and women, under strict anonymity (but can use quotes as long as not identifiable) as well as the use of social media as sexual springboards. So you can imagine how much information i have to use. Some i’ll think about pitching, some i will be self-publishing. Which brings me to the never ending to-do list.

I so have to start getting editors emails and the like, so I can really start to push myself out there. I have made a great start. I know who I am, I like myself and I am confident enough to say “gurrrrlll you got this”