Jonny Cox's Blog, page 3
April 10, 2014
An Inner Monologue
When I walk in the dark evening with my dog it is usually very quiet. In the distance over the forest is traffic. People rushing somewhere but to me it's just a faint hum. The houses are quiet, the folk having gone to bed. Sometimes a dog barks, but no-one pays him heed. A startled bird is roused from its perch and bats fly silent as the shadows from the street lights.
It's quiet.
But there is a voice telling me secrets. A silent voice, if there can be such. I listen, for it makes sense to listen when no-one else can hear, and it narrates my day, expresses my thoughts and plans my future. The voice considers my problems, balances the risks and considers the options so that I have some-one to discus things with and make the decisions that govern my life. There is no-one else to discus things with now.
And my inner monologue also plots out my stories, develops my characters and describes the scenes that I then write up almost without cognisance. The words appear on the page like leaves falling from autumn trees until there is a pattern on the page that just needs the most gentle arrangement for it to make sense. Then there is the story that I wanted to tell but didn't know how. The story of a girl, who once was my lover, then became my wife and the mother of my sons and then became a stranger in my house, seemingly without pause.
That is why I listen to the silent voice.
It's quiet.
But there is a voice telling me secrets. A silent voice, if there can be such. I listen, for it makes sense to listen when no-one else can hear, and it narrates my day, expresses my thoughts and plans my future. The voice considers my problems, balances the risks and considers the options so that I have some-one to discus things with and make the decisions that govern my life. There is no-one else to discus things with now.
And my inner monologue also plots out my stories, develops my characters and describes the scenes that I then write up almost without cognisance. The words appear on the page like leaves falling from autumn trees until there is a pattern on the page that just needs the most gentle arrangement for it to make sense. Then there is the story that I wanted to tell but didn't know how. The story of a girl, who once was my lover, then became my wife and the mother of my sons and then became a stranger in my house, seemingly without pause.
That is why I listen to the silent voice.
March 29, 2014
Female Independence
An author that I have read and follow occasionally posted an article about 'purity ceremonies' in the US and linked it to a disturbing survey about attitudes to rape. The thread of the author's argument seems to be that by cosseting young girls in an overly protective, patriarchal environment, we make them more susceptible to exploitation in later life. The implication is that girls need to learn to be independent: a sentiment with which I strongly concur.
http://chloethurlow.com/2014/03/purit...
Extend the sentiment beyond sex; passing a woman from her father's house to that of her husband, entrenches the sense that a woman has no rights and no responsibilities. No responsibility to keep herself safe, to provide for herself or her family. By extension, that is the man's responsibility but why, isn't it a bit nineteenth century? I have been married twice to two strong, independent women who I naively thought loved me. I quickly found out that what they actually wanted was someone to pay the bills. Having done that, my utility in marriage expired like old fruit. I agree with all the sentiments expressed following the article: the best way of keeping girls safe is to teach them to be independent and teach them about their rights and responsibilities.
These are conclusions that I had already made, that are already being incorporated into the sequel to my first book. My working title is 'The Truth About Girls'.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
http://chloethurlow.com/2014/03/purit...
Extend the sentiment beyond sex; passing a woman from her father's house to that of her husband, entrenches the sense that a woman has no rights and no responsibilities. No responsibility to keep herself safe, to provide for herself or her family. By extension, that is the man's responsibility but why, isn't it a bit nineteenth century? I have been married twice to two strong, independent women who I naively thought loved me. I quickly found out that what they actually wanted was someone to pay the bills. Having done that, my utility in marriage expired like old fruit. I agree with all the sentiments expressed following the article: the best way of keeping girls safe is to teach them to be independent and teach them about their rights and responsibilities.
These are conclusions that I had already made, that are already being incorporated into the sequel to my first book. My working title is 'The Truth About Girls'.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
March 16, 2014
Watching
My ex-wife has already supplanted me with another bloke. There is strong implication that he pre-existed our break up; potentially expedited it and I sense that I should be angry. Actually, other than the impact on my children, I'm largely indifferent. I have no lingering sentiment towards her and observe their developing relationship from the periphery of Facebook.
I joined FB only recently, mainly to try and find new audiences for my scribblings, but I am also finding it to be a useful espionage tool; perhaps Snowdon's whistle blowing did have some positive outcomes. As they publicly frolic, they are writing the plot of the sequel to 'The Trouble With Girls'. I am thinking of entitling it "The Truth About Girls".
But there is a more beguiling, sinister aspect to my electronic voyeurism: I am strangely titilated by it. I know not why this is. I had suggested to her that we might expand our carnal horizons by phoning a friend but whilst my ex was quite playful within the constraints of a one to one relationship, she was reluctant to include anyone else. Now she has, but excluded me in the process. I have never understood why most women appear unwilling to be loved by more than one man at a time. Indeed, in all my amorous adventures, I have only taken this path a few times.
It's a strange, confusing, exciting experience to share a girlfriend with another man. To watch her slowly exposed to his scrutiny, watch her yield to his touch, see her chin raise to meet his lips. It is enticing and frightening to see his fingers gently stroke her skin, squeeze her flesh, worship her altar. But it is more frightening still to see her respond to him, her breath quicken, her lips parting and hear her sigh in appreciation and anticipation.
And to watch her lie down, ready to receive him, accept him over you, is the most exquisite agony: doubt, arousal, misgiving, adrenaline all vie for dominance of mind. Should I intervene or encourage, watch or engage? In the end we both indulged her at once so that we must have been indiscriminate, indeterminate, and she took us both in continuous, endless loving. It takes a special woman to be so loved.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trouble-Girls...
I joined FB only recently, mainly to try and find new audiences for my scribblings, but I am also finding it to be a useful espionage tool; perhaps Snowdon's whistle blowing did have some positive outcomes. As they publicly frolic, they are writing the plot of the sequel to 'The Trouble With Girls'. I am thinking of entitling it "The Truth About Girls".
But there is a more beguiling, sinister aspect to my electronic voyeurism: I am strangely titilated by it. I know not why this is. I had suggested to her that we might expand our carnal horizons by phoning a friend but whilst my ex was quite playful within the constraints of a one to one relationship, she was reluctant to include anyone else. Now she has, but excluded me in the process. I have never understood why most women appear unwilling to be loved by more than one man at a time. Indeed, in all my amorous adventures, I have only taken this path a few times.
It's a strange, confusing, exciting experience to share a girlfriend with another man. To watch her slowly exposed to his scrutiny, watch her yield to his touch, see her chin raise to meet his lips. It is enticing and frightening to see his fingers gently stroke her skin, squeeze her flesh, worship her altar. But it is more frightening still to see her respond to him, her breath quicken, her lips parting and hear her sigh in appreciation and anticipation.
And to watch her lie down, ready to receive him, accept him over you, is the most exquisite agony: doubt, arousal, misgiving, adrenaline all vie for dominance of mind. Should I intervene or encourage, watch or engage? In the end we both indulged her at once so that we must have been indiscriminate, indeterminate, and she took us both in continuous, endless loving. It takes a special woman to be so loved.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trouble-Girls...
March 1, 2014
Give the dog a bone.
Being deserted by your wife because you walk with a limp is a very disconcerting experience; especially when it happens twice. There are some advantages, however, the most important being that you don’t get nagged, no matter what you do or don’t do. That’s not quite true since my dog does get a bit grumpy if I don’t take her out often enough. Still, I can beat the dog and no-one complains. Indeed there are many advantages to having a dog over a wife as a companion. The dog does not come stumbling drunk into the house at 3 a.m. looking very unappealing and collapsing on the kitchen table. No matter how late home from the pub or work I am, the dog is always pleased to see me. If I play with another dog, my own dog won't get cross; she will want to join in. When I take the dog out, she’s happy to chase a ball, have a dump and go home in half an hour. She doesn’t need to spend three hours getting ready, spend £100 getting her hair done, £200 on a dress and a similar amount on a formal ball. Nor she does she want to stay out until dawn. Finally, my dog is always pleased to get a big bone. In reality though, the one disadvantage of a dog is that you can’t have sex with it. Well, I suppose you could but my dog is quite feisty and would no doubt snarl at me if I tried to mount her. Still, so did my wife.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trouble-Girls-J ... =Jonny+cox
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trouble-Girls-J ... =Jonny+cox
February 19, 2014
Old Git
I am officially an old git. A colleague at work started a social group for the older members of staff called the Old Gits Club. I tried to protest that I was not eligible and could perhaps be a young upstart but she said I am plenty old enough and certainly a git. It's my turn to organise the next meeting. I hope some of the lady members turn up because half a dozen middle aged men sat in a tapas bar together is not an image I want to perpetuate.
Organising events has proved to be difficult since few people turn up regularly. It'a a stark contrast to the large, rowdy social activities that I used to get involved with. Perhaps it is a sign of age, a declining empathy with fellow beings. But there is a potential love interest for me; a female colleague with whom I share a flirtatiously professional relationship, if that's feasible.
And there's potential mileage in the idea for a book: The Old Gits Club - A silver romance? I'm not sure how exciting that's going to be, however, either to do it or write about it. Nor am I grey haired yet.
Bah humbug.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trouble-Girls-J ... =jonny+cox
Organising events has proved to be difficult since few people turn up regularly. It'a a stark contrast to the large, rowdy social activities that I used to get involved with. Perhaps it is a sign of age, a declining empathy with fellow beings. But there is a potential love interest for me; a female colleague with whom I share a flirtatiously professional relationship, if that's feasible.
And there's potential mileage in the idea for a book: The Old Gits Club - A silver romance? I'm not sure how exciting that's going to be, however, either to do it or write about it. Nor am I grey haired yet.
Bah humbug.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trouble-Girls-J ... =jonny+cox
February 10, 2014
Who Wants to Live Forever?
After a formal dinner recently, I was stood at the bar drinking whiskey with a friend, sharing the camraderie that only old soldiers can enjoy.
"How's your wife?" he asked. I had to confess to the failure.
"She left me."
He squeezed me around the shoulders. I'm not big on hugging other men but this is a bloke I stood next to in Afghanistan, and would stand next to wherever the fight took us.
We are brothers in arms. That is how our relationship is defined; we try to look strong but he has read my book and knows my weaknesses. He also has more medals than me and so I value his opinion. Indeed, he has so many medals that in his uniform, his chest has the compelling attraction of a lady's cleavage: It's rude to stare but you just can't stop yourself.
"At least it will give you a sequel." Hs Irish grin was understated but no less meaningful. "Now you've written a book," he said, "you'll live forever."
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
"How's your wife?" he asked. I had to confess to the failure.
"She left me."
He squeezed me around the shoulders. I'm not big on hugging other men but this is a bloke I stood next to in Afghanistan, and would stand next to wherever the fight took us.
We are brothers in arms. That is how our relationship is defined; we try to look strong but he has read my book and knows my weaknesses. He also has more medals than me and so I value his opinion. Indeed, he has so many medals that in his uniform, his chest has the compelling attraction of a lady's cleavage: It's rude to stare but you just can't stop yourself.
"At least it will give you a sequel." Hs Irish grin was understated but no less meaningful. "Now you've written a book," he said, "you'll live forever."
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
February 3, 2014
Forced to be Dominant.
My Kindle lies neglected under my pillow. She is forlorn, unloved, unused.
“I’ve been busy,” I protest, “working, buying a house, getting divorced.” But she is full of disdain, as any spurned lover might be. It’s an excuse, of course. I have neglected her because I don’t know how to handle her and when I do hold her in my hands she regales me with stories of discipline and the exquisite agony of being loved by a dominant, caring, spiteful, considerate partner.
“Really,” I ask, “are these sentiments not exclusive? Can you be all of these things at the same time?” She deigns to answer and I still don’t know.
I have had many lovers but never have I wanted to dominate or be dominated. I thought love was about sharing; balance. Perhaps it is, but the scales don’t have to be equal and one person’s submission of responsibility could be balanced by another person’s assumption of it. Is this the essence of Fifty Shades? Was the trilogy such a phenomenon because it opened up a hidden world of opportunity, or did it simply reflect a growing practice of dominant love?
Only once have I had such a relationship and our love ultimately failed because I did not understand her needs, did not appreciate that she wanted to go well beyond the limits I thought we had already surpassed. We went for a nocturnal swim one night on holiday and, hidden in the dark water of the pool, I removed her bikini, expecting to be chastised but simultaneously indulged as we played together, just out of sight of the late night drinkers who were sat on the terrace. It was not until we grew cold that I began to glimpse behind the veil.
“We should get out,” I said. She nodded and silently climbed the steps to emerge shining wet and naked into the glare of the flickering torchlight which caressed her form in mimicry of the hands that the rowdy drinkers wanted to run over her in exploratory exultation. She walked past them with such a submissive demeanour that she dominated them in to silence. They looked to me as she followed me obediently to our chalet. I had not expected this display of capitulation, and had not particularly wanted it, but I realise now that she did.
Later in our relationship, she suggested we attend a fancy dress party. We had been to a formal dinner the night before and I had nothing to wear to a casual party.
“Wear your dinner jacket with an open necked shirt,” she said, “you’ll look like my pimp.”
“What will you wear?” I asked.
“I’ll go like this,” she said, standing before me in stockings and basque. “And you can fasten this around my neck.” She held out a velvet collar with a leather leash attached. I could not accept the responsibility she wanted me to take. I could not lead my lover around by a collar. I could not dominate her as she wanted and, somehow, because I did not want to demean her, I sense that is exactly what I did.
She is gone now, long ago, and there is only my Kindle Lover left. Her silent challenge haunts me: Chloe, Elizabeth and the others, all wanting to dominate me with their submissive taunts.
“I’ve been busy,” I protest, “working, buying a house, getting divorced.” But she is full of disdain, as any spurned lover might be. It’s an excuse, of course. I have neglected her because I don’t know how to handle her and when I do hold her in my hands she regales me with stories of discipline and the exquisite agony of being loved by a dominant, caring, spiteful, considerate partner.
“Really,” I ask, “are these sentiments not exclusive? Can you be all of these things at the same time?” She deigns to answer and I still don’t know.
I have had many lovers but never have I wanted to dominate or be dominated. I thought love was about sharing; balance. Perhaps it is, but the scales don’t have to be equal and one person’s submission of responsibility could be balanced by another person’s assumption of it. Is this the essence of Fifty Shades? Was the trilogy such a phenomenon because it opened up a hidden world of opportunity, or did it simply reflect a growing practice of dominant love?
Only once have I had such a relationship and our love ultimately failed because I did not understand her needs, did not appreciate that she wanted to go well beyond the limits I thought we had already surpassed. We went for a nocturnal swim one night on holiday and, hidden in the dark water of the pool, I removed her bikini, expecting to be chastised but simultaneously indulged as we played together, just out of sight of the late night drinkers who were sat on the terrace. It was not until we grew cold that I began to glimpse behind the veil.
“We should get out,” I said. She nodded and silently climbed the steps to emerge shining wet and naked into the glare of the flickering torchlight which caressed her form in mimicry of the hands that the rowdy drinkers wanted to run over her in exploratory exultation. She walked past them with such a submissive demeanour that she dominated them in to silence. They looked to me as she followed me obediently to our chalet. I had not expected this display of capitulation, and had not particularly wanted it, but I realise now that she did.
Later in our relationship, she suggested we attend a fancy dress party. We had been to a formal dinner the night before and I had nothing to wear to a casual party.
“Wear your dinner jacket with an open necked shirt,” she said, “you’ll look like my pimp.”
“What will you wear?” I asked.
“I’ll go like this,” she said, standing before me in stockings and basque. “And you can fasten this around my neck.” She held out a velvet collar with a leather leash attached. I could not accept the responsibility she wanted me to take. I could not lead my lover around by a collar. I could not dominate her as she wanted and, somehow, because I did not want to demean her, I sense that is exactly what I did.
She is gone now, long ago, and there is only my Kindle Lover left. Her silent challenge haunts me: Chloe, Elizabeth and the others, all wanting to dominate me with their submissive taunts.
January 14, 2014
See You in Two Weeks, Daddy.
My wife finally left my house before Christmas, so I have had a month to adapt to being an estranged husband and detached father; it’s not what you expect when you get married. My three sons stayed with me over the weekend and when I dropped them at school on Monday morning, my eldest waved me off saying, “See you in two weeks, Daddy.”
I think he meant it as a salutation, a positive recognition that he would return with his brothers to my house in the near future, but to me his innocent farewell had a sense of finality about it, a sense that family life is now absolutely over and that hence forth I will see my sons, the core of my life, for only six or nine days a month.
Even though I have been anticipating this, it is a stark change. For the last seven years, I have been with my boys all the time in the evening and at the weekend. I have helped them through infancy to childhood, played their games, started them reading, and started them playing sport, put them to bed, and been there for them in the morning and at any time in the night when they needed me: I have been their father, their mentor.
Now I am an occasional feature in their lives. My wife seems to have finally accepted the responsibility of motherhood, although she still substitutes me with her own mother when it is expedient for her to do so. The boys seem to have adapted well with no apparent stress and that is a blessing, something to console me, although my eldest asked me if I could buy a house in the same place as them so he can come see me every night.
I had to avoid the truth that his mommy has taken all my money and I will have to live in a shed. I have had no acrimony over the split; she simply moved out one day and took the boys with her. They looked back at me, a little confused, and I had to smile and pretend it was a normal thing to do. But I am trying to contain an overwhelming sense of resentment that someone can do this, can take your children just because she does not want to live with you anymore, even if she is their mother.
And I can feel a building tsunami of resentment that she has taken all my money, that a short marriage entitles her to quite significant financial resources, potentially for the rest of my life. It was a good career move for her: prostitution is said to be the oldest profession in the world. That’s a bit unfair towards prostitutes, I suppose, since they are at least honest about how they make a living.
Like I said, there’s an emotional tsunami coming and I am running for high ground.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
I think he meant it as a salutation, a positive recognition that he would return with his brothers to my house in the near future, but to me his innocent farewell had a sense of finality about it, a sense that family life is now absolutely over and that hence forth I will see my sons, the core of my life, for only six or nine days a month.
Even though I have been anticipating this, it is a stark change. For the last seven years, I have been with my boys all the time in the evening and at the weekend. I have helped them through infancy to childhood, played their games, started them reading, and started them playing sport, put them to bed, and been there for them in the morning and at any time in the night when they needed me: I have been their father, their mentor.
Now I am an occasional feature in their lives. My wife seems to have finally accepted the responsibility of motherhood, although she still substitutes me with her own mother when it is expedient for her to do so. The boys seem to have adapted well with no apparent stress and that is a blessing, something to console me, although my eldest asked me if I could buy a house in the same place as them so he can come see me every night.
I had to avoid the truth that his mommy has taken all my money and I will have to live in a shed. I have had no acrimony over the split; she simply moved out one day and took the boys with her. They looked back at me, a little confused, and I had to smile and pretend it was a normal thing to do. But I am trying to contain an overwhelming sense of resentment that someone can do this, can take your children just because she does not want to live with you anymore, even if she is their mother.
And I can feel a building tsunami of resentment that she has taken all my money, that a short marriage entitles her to quite significant financial resources, potentially for the rest of my life. It was a good career move for her: prostitution is said to be the oldest profession in the world. That’s a bit unfair towards prostitutes, I suppose, since they are at least honest about how they make a living.
Like I said, there’s an emotional tsunami coming and I am running for high ground.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
January 6, 2014
A Truly Devoted Friend
For Christmas, my sons bought me 'Ted'; the bear from last year's Mark Wahlberg movie. He has a classic teddy shape but an unconventionally rude verbal repertoire when you squeeze his paw:
"Hey Johnny, want a beer?"
"What would I like to do to her?"
And several other rude sayings.
The film 'Ted' develops into a love story where Ted finds himself to be a spare part in a relationship between a man and a woman. In Hollywood fashion, of course, it all works out and they all live together happily in the end. Real life is not like that.
My Ted is now sat with two other teddies and a big threadbare panda I had as a kid. They are the remnants of a teddy collection that I had before I got married, before my wife forced their eviction. I had not actually collected teddies as such but I once bought one for a girlfriend who dumped me before I could deliver him. He sat next to my old panda, the last of my childhood, and when the next girl came along and asked why I had a couple of teddies in my room, all I could think to say was that I collected them. She bought me one, as did the next girlfriend and the one after until I had a menagerie of stuffed bears.
For a while, I successfully passed them off as being a genuine collection since there were some quality bears; Steif, etc. But my wife immediately saw through that flimsy excuse and I had to send them away; it was her or the bears. With the bears went many happy memories of previous lovers, of innocent toys held lovingly by naked girls. I don't suppose a teddy bear is supposed to evoke such sentiments but memory association is a personal thing.
The thing about teddies, though, is that they are true friends. They don't judge or criticise, go off with other boys or tell you they don't love you anymore. These are sentiments that I passed to my sons in a more innocent way.
"Teddy will be here with you all night, my son, and I am only next door."
A teddy is a real friend. This is the opening stanza of a poem I wrote as a kid:
"He's as old as me, my teddy,
A truly devoted friend.
Never moaning or complaining,
And always an ear to lend."
I should have stuck with the bears.
"Hey Johnny, want a beer?"
"What would I like to do to her?"
And several other rude sayings.
The film 'Ted' develops into a love story where Ted finds himself to be a spare part in a relationship between a man and a woman. In Hollywood fashion, of course, it all works out and they all live together happily in the end. Real life is not like that.
My Ted is now sat with two other teddies and a big threadbare panda I had as a kid. They are the remnants of a teddy collection that I had before I got married, before my wife forced their eviction. I had not actually collected teddies as such but I once bought one for a girlfriend who dumped me before I could deliver him. He sat next to my old panda, the last of my childhood, and when the next girl came along and asked why I had a couple of teddies in my room, all I could think to say was that I collected them. She bought me one, as did the next girlfriend and the one after until I had a menagerie of stuffed bears.
For a while, I successfully passed them off as being a genuine collection since there were some quality bears; Steif, etc. But my wife immediately saw through that flimsy excuse and I had to send them away; it was her or the bears. With the bears went many happy memories of previous lovers, of innocent toys held lovingly by naked girls. I don't suppose a teddy bear is supposed to evoke such sentiments but memory association is a personal thing.
The thing about teddies, though, is that they are true friends. They don't judge or criticise, go off with other boys or tell you they don't love you anymore. These are sentiments that I passed to my sons in a more innocent way.
"Teddy will be here with you all night, my son, and I am only next door."
A teddy is a real friend. This is the opening stanza of a poem I wrote as a kid:
"He's as old as me, my teddy,
A truly devoted friend.
Never moaning or complaining,
And always an ear to lend."
I should have stuck with the bears.
January 2, 2014
Christmas Past
Christmas is over for another year. It passed me by and was not really missed. I found myself alone on Christmas Eve, my wife finally having moved out and taken my three sons with her. They seemed a little confused that I was not with them but the excitement of Santa's arrival mercifully carried them through until I was able to collect them again.
I was alone in an empty house but not overly lonely: I could at least ignore the forced frivolity. Instead, I mused in the quiet, swam in dark coffee, and stared at a blank page, waiting for it to fill with words. I stared so long that my mind emptied of bitter thoughts and cast aside the crippling resentment towards the woman I once loved that now takes my sons away at Christmas.
Ex-wives can be vile creatures, but they can also be colourful characters in books about love lost and gained and, as I sat in the emptiness of a once busy house, the words began to form. An empty mind is fertile ground for writing and dark thoughts and black coffee are willing companions on the journey of telling the story.
Words began to drop like the first kiss of summer rain, then they began to flow more freely, tumbling, then pouring as they tried to escape the constraints of mind. I let them fall, splashing randomly with no obvious meaning, collecting in pools on the page to be arranged into prose later. Emotions don't seem to have order, they are too raw, too earnest to be sensible. It's my job as the writer to arrange them into structured meaning, to give them sense.
So I must begin:
'Twas the night before Christmas...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trouble-Girls...
I was alone in an empty house but not overly lonely: I could at least ignore the forced frivolity. Instead, I mused in the quiet, swam in dark coffee, and stared at a blank page, waiting for it to fill with words. I stared so long that my mind emptied of bitter thoughts and cast aside the crippling resentment towards the woman I once loved that now takes my sons away at Christmas.
Ex-wives can be vile creatures, but they can also be colourful characters in books about love lost and gained and, as I sat in the emptiness of a once busy house, the words began to form. An empty mind is fertile ground for writing and dark thoughts and black coffee are willing companions on the journey of telling the story.
Words began to drop like the first kiss of summer rain, then they began to flow more freely, tumbling, then pouring as they tried to escape the constraints of mind. I let them fall, splashing randomly with no obvious meaning, collecting in pools on the page to be arranged into prose later. Emotions don't seem to have order, they are too raw, too earnest to be sensible. It's my job as the writer to arrange them into structured meaning, to give them sense.
So I must begin:
'Twas the night before Christmas...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trouble-Girls...
