So, I wasn't supposed to be working on either of my first draft WIPs, as I need to focus on the other books nearly ready. That was easy for a bit as I was a tad stuck on both WIP, but then, inevitably, a break from them got the cogs spinning again and now I'm unstuck. On both. It's okay though, I'm allowing it. No point trying to drown it out when it gets loud. Also, I've done what I needed to for the nearly ready books, ie sending to betas, or proofreader etc. So I'm allowed! #writersofinstagram #authorsofinstagram #writerlife #writing #addictedtowriting #ilovewriting #amwriting #workinprogress #longhand #notebook #wip #firstdraft #YA
I wrote a flash fiction piece about my favourite place 😊#flashfiction #story #shortstory #writersofinstagram In the old tradition of claiming land when it becomes available and no others remain in a position to contest such claim, we took the common as our own after the world fell. All 33 hectares of it were now ours and we strung up fences and wires and warnings for others to stay out. Because the establishment fell with everything else, it belonged up no one but itself yet it needed guardians, protectors and who better than us, who knew every inch of it, every secret path, every copse, every field, every hill, every fern, every route? We took it because there was no one to stop us. And all that was left of humanity were the remnants, the dregs, like us, tattered and scattered, scratching to survive. We walked the perimeter every day, twice a day, hunting, gathering, growing and guarding. The remains were no threat to us or our will to survive, but we would fight them to a bloody death if we had to. In the summer we built our camp in the shallows where the grass was always green, and strangers could not see our fires. In the winter we sheltered on the hill among the trees while the shallows flooded, and we could see the world from there but the world could not see us. Surrounded, protected, shielded by heather, gorse, ferns and bramble, we let the firs grow, we let the forest return, we would never run out of firewood or prey. Our land, we scrambled and scurried and dug ourselves in to survive. Our land now, the young ones, feral, fiercely they roamed the edges keeping watch. And our hair grew long and our skin grew thick and our roots drove deep into the land to tangle with the earth. Our land now. The signs are painted in blood. Stay out.
The Glorious Outsiders 