Why do you write?

A fair amount of books I’ve read lately are editions that have a timeline of the author’s life in the front and I’ve noticed that many involve the death of a parent or relative early on in life, and in some cases more later on too. I guess this just made me think more about how a writer decides to start writing and if it is really a choice.

The main purpose people associate with writing is that it gives you a chance to voice your own opinion – or maybe it’s just because you like books and want to write them yourselves. But I suppose if you’re a writer yourself you know it means a lot more than just that. Reflecting upon the fact that these writers had death in their early childhood, makes it hardly a coincidence that they all became writers. And that’s because writing, in a way, is a result of suffering.

I think that in some ways writing is a choice; at first you have to choose to start it – something that you’ve never done before – however I think that once you have written, it’s no longer something you decide to do. You write because you want to but you mostly write because you need to. How else do you escape your own mind?

Sometimes I go quite a while without writing, or I only write small pieces, and I wonder if I’m still the same writer I was at the start, when I used to write novels all the time. But I am, because I know that after a break I’ll always go back to it, because I have the urge to just get words down on a page. Blogging does this for me too, but creative writing does this in a different way. Ultimately I’m not the same writer I was when I was 13 because life changes you and it’s inevitable that that wouldn’t have an effect on my work, but it’s still coming from the same mind and the same source. If certain things hadn’t happened in my life maybe I wouldn’t be writing now and that’s kind of sad in a way, even if that life might have been happier.

That idea of sadness and happy is also something I’ve been thinking about lately. Can you be really happy with your life but also sad? Maybe this is something writers relate to more, who knows.

I guess to sum up this slightly jumbled post I should ask, why do you write? It would be nice to compare everyone’s reasons in the comments to see if any of this really is true.


night box. [poem]


sometimes I feel the night

crowding in;

stars boxed up for the

winter months

’cause they no longer feel like

lighting up the sky

and they no longer feel like

faking their shine.


sometimes I feel the night

crowding in

and the moon tilts

as if to smile,

a crescent of reflections

into shallow lake waters

but then it turns on its axis

and I’m left with a frown.


sometimes I feel the night

crowding in

but I dip my toes into the


no mirrored moon or

sinking stars

but I can stay here for a while.

I can stay here for a while

and sometimes it gives me another


sometimes it gives me another



[for those times when darkness is surrounding you and you can sense it coming. for those times when darkness is surrounding you and you let it. you dip your toes into the lake – darkness reflected into your mind by the night of the sky – and you allow it to consume you. you let it. but mostly in a good way. it lets your heart beat differently. it gives you a side to life that makes you look at the world insightfully and knowingly. it’s for the times when the only way to carry on is to give in in order to let go. it’s for the times when the night is needed to make you human.]

Interior Monologue [flash-fiction]

Last semester at uni we were asked to write an interior monologue as one of our formative assessments. It was based around a person modelling for a portrait and we were to write their inner thoughts in the process. Seeing as I didn’t use it for my final piece, I thought I’d share it here with you all.

Beads of sweat are sewing my fingers to my cheeks and I’m not sure if I can un-feel this burning, as if my skin is being stretched like fabric across a tightened slit of a smile. There’s so much black in this room I can’t even tell who is here if I am here if he is here if anyone is here to paint me. Watch me watch me I feel ignited by hidden glares, in a room of running waves like dancing heat that can’t settle. Chair’s shooting daggers up my spine and the darkness so comforting – oh so comforting – it’s hugging my chest like a new-born baby hung from heavy arms I’ll soon be hung up on display. Mismatched body parts amidst the dark the worn down light from the window just poking at colours and poking at his skin this artist blended into corners. So many colourful clothes drowned in the walls did he limit my vision so that I would enter his mind – oh yes a world full of colour that he just can’t see I can’t see it either. Instead my head feels so heavy it’s as if it’s dropping off my body it’s as if it’s falling to the floor and settling beside my toes. Suddenly all these angles are wrong and I’m looking at myself but it’s not me – it can’t be me – it’s me without a head. What am I without a functioning mind? Nose inhaling so much soil from the ground where my head lies, I’m coughing up the past. All these nettles are scratching at my throat and I’m grabbing, pulling, yanking them out but they’re endless it’s all so endless why can I smell flowers like this is my summer. And I’m back to being bones against a wall; twelve year old feet lying in a dried out puddle. So much soil so much dirt so much noise so much pain. Dirt was ingrained in my veins as if it pumped fear to my heart and I can taste it why can I taste it like I’m back there I can’t be back there. Breath that isn’t mine planted seeds in my lungs and it clogged up my system and he never stayed to see it grow – why plant something you don’t even want to see grow. And I remember rubbing and rubbing and rubbing the dirt like it was real like it never meant something like it would wash off in the rain. Hands clamped to my ears I tried to mute the wailing of the sky as it all came to say goodbye I never wanted this.

I gently touch my face, shaking fingers on coal. I’m scared I might break. I’m scared I might break. What if the dirt seeps through the cracks and darkens my soul?

Hands of clay reach for me, aged by art.

They look as fearful as I feel.

The Solipsistic Space of My Mind [Flash Fiction]


It’s soft against my palm – this cardboard. It’s soft, but sturdy. Breakable, yet strong. Kind of like a brain.

Kind of like your brain.

I’m feeling trapped – ha, I guess you could say that. Arms are barely stretched out either side of me. Palms are out like I’m giving out some sort of signal.

Let me out signal let me out.

A box of the mind – that’s what they call it. My fingers were running across the keyboard searching for it.

Soli –

Solipi –

Solipsism. The philosophical idea that only one’s own mind is sure to exist. Wikipedia says so. Wikipedia doesn’t lie.

But does my own mind?

My nails can scratch at the card and it feels real, honestly. I can taste that newly cardboard smell like freshly delivered parcels to a home that, perhaps, doesn’t even exist. My toes are squished against my shoes that are probably my mind’s idea of keeping my toes to myself. Because who else would want to see my toes? Because everyone else is real, honestly.

Honestly honestly aren’t they.

Maybe the voices that are drumming inside my head are only practice games. Practice conversations before I allow them to bounce into the world. They pound on the cardboard bruising my brain and I hear these echoes echoes echoes and I call them people.

But what are people.

Do I live in a box and call it a world because I have nothing without it? It seems there is no proof that I really sit on this chair and type my way into a blog. It seems there really isn’t any proof that any of you exist. Oh not really.

Not really at all ever really.

I’m stuck scraping this cardboard – that sickly ghastly scratching of cardboard – ripping your ears until they shred your sound into dust. It’s all goddamn dust. I’m making a world of my mind in the hope that maybe this one will disappear.

I can’t be the only one to exist

I can’t be the only one to

I can’t be the only one

I can’t be the only

I can’t be the

I can’t be

I can’t be.

the home inside my head. [flash-fiction]

So it’s the night of Christmas Day and it’s raining outside and I felt like writing so I did. Shout out to Real Friend’s album I guess for the title of this piece!

the distant hush of pouring rain is like this drone inside my mind, pushed behind the curtains of my eyes so it cannot be seen. It’s like a kind of behind-the-scenes drama, a deleted scene – unknown to an audience but real, very real. often the curtains are black out and no one can see in. sometimes you can peek through if you look hard enough. in the daylight perhaps it seems there are no curtains at all.

this house may be drowning or there may be a drought. don’t let me close these curtains around your world. I don’t know if I can open them myself.

fallen picture. [poem]

the frame is tilting on my arrival

and it feels like I’m slowly sliding

out of the frame

an image tucked into

a familiar setting

for all to see –

I am known.


and yet my return is so

unfamiliar in all this

knowable air,

it’s like I can’t be the

same anymore when really

nothing has changed at all.

it’s all one giant picture

and I’m slowly sliding

out of the frame…


but the floor welcomes me

in a world of possibilities

of trampling feet

and ignorant calls

but free motion to





I’m looking up at the sky

as everything goes by

and in a way

it’s kind of nice to be free.

in a way it’s kind of nice

to call this my


caged. [poem]

A random thing I wrote because I feel like I haven’t written a poem in ages. It’s a bit depressing though, why does this always happen😂

sometimes I feel so locked

inside a cage of darkness

that I wonder how I can get past

these bars

it’s as if the world shakes me

metal upon skin

bruising and bruising and

bruising my skin

and yet I don’t get any closer

to falling out.

it’s like if I made some giant step

into freedom

I would suddenly be okay,

but what is a giant step

how do I make a giant step

when every tiny thing seems

like one.

I can reach out

and see people

and talk to them

and yet I’m still

weighed down by these

suffocating bars.

I wonder how the world looks without me.

I wonder who else is fighting metal thoughts.