Tag Archives: writer

More Than Words – Flash Fiction


“I…” he stumbled over the next word he wanted to say. He couldn’t make the sound; felt like he wanted to choke on it.

Jenny looked at him expectantly, waiting for what he was going to say but she glanced back down at her menu when she realised he definitely wasn’t going to say it.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He had said it before – probably a million times over in the 4 years they’d been together. What was so different now?

Jenny lead the conversation throughout the course of their meal, where he could respond normally, but when a natural silence came, as usually happens, he would try again to say it, always stumbling over that one word. It was a time when he felt the need to say it, would usually say it at such moments. But now it was like the word physically repulsed him; made him gag almost.


After a few days of this and wanting to say the word at least what felt like a thousand times, and not just because he couldn’t, he decided to confide in someone.

“Mom, I’m having trouble expressing a word and I don’t know why.”

“What word?” she asked, looking puzzled at such a notion,

He shuffled awkwardly and made an attempt to say it, but, as before, the word just could not be formed and spoken a loud. He growled in frustration.

“How do you feel about me, mom? and Dad?”

“Well I love you both very much, of course”

“That’s it!” he exclaimed, “That’s the word. I physically cannot say it”

“What, love?”

“Yup. Can’t say that. It’s like my mouth can’t form it. I, I want to say it, but I just can’t” His voice softened, “I haven’t been able to for days. Jenny probably thinks I’m going off her.”

“Are you sure you feel it? This could be some sort of psychological thing y’know”

“Definitely. And y’know what, I’m not overly bothered about why I can’t say it; I just need to be able to say it to Jenny. I don’t want her thinking that I’ve stopped.”

“Well, some say that actions speak louder than words. You’ll just have to show her.”


He felt a bit dumbfounded. What did he usually do to show how he felt? He thought but nothing came to mind. He couldn’t think of anything he did for jenny as a show of affection – they kissed and hugged, sure, but he did nothing else. Whenever he felt love, he’d say so. He could not think of a single thing he did as a show of affection and appreciation for Jenny.

He asked himself, “What is romantic?” and when he couldn’t come up with a decent answer himself, he turned to books, and movies, and began observing other couples when he was out and about.

One day, when they were out walking the dog, he saw a couple walking hand in hand so instantly grabbed Jenny’s.

“What are you doing?” she asked, sounding unimpressed.

“Just wanted to hold your hand,” he responded, before getting a little bit defensive, “Is that a problem?”

“No,” She chuckled, “Just not something you usually do, that’s all”

She smiled and started swinging their arms as they walked along.

he noticed as they walked that she seemed brighter – an inner voice screamed at him to tell her;

“You look beautiful today Sweet,” he stated

She looked at him bemused, but didn’t say anything, just smiled.


He tried a couple of different romantic gestures and they seemed to satiate Jenny when she was full of expectance, waiting for him to declare his love, but he felt like a fraud; it wasn’t natural for him. Jenny wasn’t even the kind of girl for grand gifts and public displays.

When he brought her a large bouquet of deep red roses, her face lit up, glowed even, but then took a serious look quite quickly, asking what he had done wrong, questioning his fidelity to her.

“You idiot!” he thought to himself afterwards, “Roses aren’t even her favourite”

He tried a couple of other things but each time felt like he wasn’t being genuine with her – like it was all show and no meaning.


A few weeks later he was at the supermarket, wracking his brains for new ideas. He was absolutely frustrated with himself. “ Who knew that words and actions were so inseparable” he thought.

He picked up the few things that they needed and when walking past the medicine aisle decided to get some tissues and throat lozenges for Jenny who was coming down with a cold.

“Thanks honey,” she murmured when he got home, “You’re so romantic”

“You think?”

“Yeah. That was a really thoughtful thing to do for me”

He smiled widely, proudly realising that romance wasn’t all big, fancy dates and grand gestures.

“I love you” he said.


And whilst he was glad to be able to say it to the woman that mattered most, he never actually used it as often as he used to, enjoying the discovery of little things that filled his and Jenny’s heart with love.

After all, sometimes, actions do speak louder than words.


[866 words]

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Filed under creative writing, flash fiction

Write What You Know

With tears streaking down burning cheeks, and adrenaline pumping through her from their heated argument, she slammed the door to her apartment, grabbed her notebook and pen from the shelf and without even taking her coat off, immediately started writing.

She didn’t want to miss out a thing, not a single fleck of emotion from their break-up; wanted it down word for word before she forgot, before she lost the raw emotion she was feeling.

The hours slowly ticked by as she wrote pages upon pages; some frantic – full of passion and fiery tempers – others more thoughtful, reflective of their relationship. The hours turned into days. Words constantly flowing from her being until she found herself with the first draft of her next book.

she called her editor,

“I’ve got a story. it needs polishing, but it’s definitely something the fans would love”

“About time you got passed this writer’s block” retorted her editor.

Hanging up the phone, she went to the bathroom to wash her face. With hands on the side of the sink, she looked into the mirror, studying her dry and puffy eyes. Days of writing through anger and tears had certainly taken their toll. “Only temporary” she smiled to herself, “another one bites the dust”

A few days later, with re-writing well under way, she met up with the girls for wine and a catch up; to toast her new book and celebrate getting rid of another deadbeat boyfriend.

Her friends were eyeing up potential new dates for her when they spotted a handsome, slightly nerdy looking guy making his way to the bar.

“What about him?” one friend nodded in his direction

“He looks like a bit of a mommy’s boy” the other friend giggled.

She looked him up and down, thinking about how none of her stories had a character like him. A new type of love interest would definitely interest her readers. Taking a large swig from her glass she made her way over to him.


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Filed under chick lit, creative writing, flash fiction

I am Writer!

I have often heard the phrase, “write what you know” and currently, I know blank white pages, so here is an exaggerated version of someone’s attempt to write something. Happy Reading …

I am staring into the abyss that is every writer’s worst nightmare… The blank white page.

Whether it’s actual paper or the representation of one on a computer screen, the blank white page will mock you, taunt you as the words fail to materialize in your mind and through your fingertips.

I know of many writers who have died this way, refusing to move until that page has some little black markings on it; but the words never came for them. They simply wasted away, not eating, not drinking, not showering, just rotting away until they were skeletons, festering amongst dust and rodent droppings. Scratch marks on their desks where they dug out their frustration. The stench of decay and failure occupying the stale air.

I know I should move away, avoid that fate, but I can’t. I am immovable; stuck here until I overcome that blank white page. I can’t let it win. It’s not writer’s block… I don’t believe in it. The words are in me, they are just intimidated, refusing to come out, to put the blank white page in its place; refusing to master the white demon before me. I manage to look away sometimes but I can feel it watching me, drawing me back into its game. The desperation for words overtakes me; I can feel it rising up, making me more aggravated. I start shaking my legs, trying to release this bad energy from my body without lashing out at the blank white page; because the minute I show it my frustrations, I will lose.

I think of George Orwell, when he described the act of writing “like a long bout of some painful illness”. I wonder how he overcame it; how he tamed the blank white page before him? He was obviously a better writer than me. Maybe I’m not talented enough to overcome it? That only the real writers can push through and cover that blank white page with their dribble. That’s it! The blank white page is a test. If you don’t fill it then you are not a writer. Hard luck, find another hobby, don’t give up the day job, thank you and goodnight.

That thought of never writing again scares me to the soul though, tears my heart apart. I must force a positive attitude upon myself. I will ruin this blank white page. It will not defeat me!

I continue the struggle to find the story within me when I finally get my eureka moment. I finally start writing. Ferociously putting my mark on that page; it is no longer blank; no longer pure virginal white. My words start to cover that page, telling it exactly what I think about it. How dare that page mock me! Who does that page think he is? I am writer, hear me roar!

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Filed under based on real life, comedy, creative writing

23/365 – The Mean Guy and The Notebook

Day 23 – Another story inspired by a dream I had, which most definately came about from watching the film version of Roald Dahl’s Matilda, that scene where her dad tears up the library book; except in my dream, the action took place at a pub and instead of the main character being an avid reader, she is a writer. Happy Reading…

It had been such a great night until He showed up.  We were drinking, eating, chatting, laughing; and as usual, I had my notebook out, jotting down any observations of the people around us, not letting on if I had made a note of something my friends had done that could inspire a story. They were used to me and my idea book, the sudden stops in my conversation as I conspired with it, bringing characters to life, giving them a story. It was all part and parcel of having a writer for a friend and they never once showed a problem with it; even occasionally giving me crazy, weird, and random ideas to try and help me. I appreciated them so much for just letting me do my thing. And I appreciated them a whole lot more when the ex-boyfriend of one of our friends showed up. Thankfully she wasn’t with us or there would have been a slanging match between the two, but because he wanted someone to yell at (he was a moron like that) he decided to pick on me and my beloved notebook.

“What you writing Rachel?” he hissed, taking the notebook from under me, flicking through the pages

“Notes for a novel; y’know, it’s my job” I replied, very aware of the silence that enveloped our group

“Well I think you’re novels are dumb” he hissed angrily, and he started to tear pages from the notebook, ripping them apart, casting them to the ground, stamping on them, spitting on them.

I watched in shock as he did this, doubting that he had ever read a book, my friends trying to stop him, but when his little fit was over, I leaped from my seat and started hitting him. My tiny frame wouldn’t even leave a mark on his long tall body but I was just so angry. My friend Jonny pulled me off him and all He did then was cackle, probably thinking he was so great, winding people up like that, and He walked away.

I sank to the ground to see the damage done. My notebook wasn’t going to make it; it was in bits, covered in dirty footprints and the vile venom of that guy. I could see bits of ideas scrawled down, but I couldn’t find any other bits that belonged to them.

My friends all said that they would buy me a new one, but I said there was no point, notebooks can be brought really cheap, it’s the ideas that I can’t replace.

“Maybe he can be the bad guy in your next book” suggested Laura

“Maybe” I replied, and the cogs of my writer’s mind began to turn…

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