Santa’s Treasure Hunt Blog Hop

Welcome to Santa’s Treasure Hunt blog Hop.

All you have to do, is follow Santa’s sleigh as he travels around the world.

Write down the Christmas word, given on each blog. Then click the link to get to the next stop. Please comment on the Christmas stories and poems the writers have featured especially for you.

When you’ve finished the hop, email your list of the Christmas words you have collected to kazzmoss@gmail.com.

Everyone with the correct list will go into a draw to win all the eBooks in Santa’s sack; not only are there many books, but there’s also a huge range of fiction genres for you to enjoy.

This blog is hosted by karenjmossman.com. If you get lost on your way. Just pop over to my blog where I have all Santa’s stops linked up in order.



A short story, by Paul White

Purely for your enjoyment this Christmastime 2022

©PaulWhite2022

YOU CAN’T TRUST ANYBODY

Gary was a very happy man as he waited on the Northern line underground platform for the next tube to take him home to Finchley. He could not help but grin inanely from ear to ear as he considered the rich pickings he secured over the last few hours.

Work today had gone extremely well, it was one of those rare days when everything fell neatly into place when everything went perfectly.

Maybe it was because there were a lot of new tourists in town, this being the start of the Christmas season, or maybe it was the newly laid snow, the decorations, baubles, presents, lights, and lanterns that were encouraging the masses to venture into the city? Either way, the jostling, bustling throngs of unsuspecting transient punters made it the perfect working environment for Gary.

Gary’s first dip was a gift. He was leaning on a corner of a wall, scanning the crowds for an easy mark, when a young woman stopped next to him. She was juggling with a suitcase on wheels, some carrier bags, a handbag, and a Starbucks coffee.

She was oblivious to his presence as she stood her case upright, propped the carrier bags against the case, placed her handbag on top, and rested it against the pull-along handle. Balancing her coffee on a waste bin, the woman prized the lid from the paper cup, added three tubes of sugar, and stirred her skinny latte with the small wooden stick.

By the time she sweetened her coffee and raised the cup to her lips, Gary picked up her purse, and a brown envelope from her handbag, and collected two carrier bags before disappearing into the massed throng of pedestrians.

His second theft of the day was also simple. An old couple were arguing over some irrelevant minor point, while a young boy, Gary assumed a grandchild, was running in circles around them, screaming at the top of his voice.

As he approached the arguing pair, he used the child’s misbehaviour to fain a trip, falling against the old man. After telling the old folks they should keep their child under control in the future, Gary vanished into the crowd with a thick leather wallet, full of cash, lifted from the elderly man’s jacket pocket.

Gary loved the older people, the ones who still favoured carrying large bundles of cash rather than credit cards. He could spot a ‘cash cow’ at a hundred paces.

This was the way his day went. Easy mark after mark, purse after purse, wallet after wallet. It was a bumper day. Gary’s duffel bag was now so heavy with his ill-gotten gains, he decided it was enough work for one day.

Which was why he was grinning widely as he waited on the platform at London Bridge underground station. Two minutes later his train arrived, accompanied by the usual drafts of sooty-scented air, electronic wheezing, and metallic clattering. What was not so usual was the number of passengers, or indeed the lack of them. Possibly, he thought to himself, it was because he was travelling back home far earlier than usual, missing the rush hour madness.

Gary looked around the carriage, there was a blue pin-stripe suited man, reading the Telegraph newspaper, a woman, with a tiny dog, wedged into a plaid handbag, and a girl listening to her iPad.

It was the girl who he focused on.

He wanted an iPad, and this one had a pair of Dr. Dre headphones attached. He considered how he would acquire these items. Quickly deciding he would sit opposite the girl, and then, as the train was ready to leave a station, he would grab them, jumping through the sliding doors right at the last moment. He smiled, envisaging himself standing on the platform, waving to the distraught girl as the train pulled away.

Luck was with him once more as the other passengers, the blue-suited man, and the handbag dog woman, alighted at the next station leaving Gary and the girl alone in the carriage.

As planned, he sat opposite the girl, who momentarily glanced at him, before continuing to stare blankly through the window into the darkness beyond.

The train lurched to a sudden stop.

He was flung forward landing on his knees, his nose cracking painfully against the girl’s right kneecap. Blood erupted from his nostrils. With both hands cupping his nose, he sat back on his seat, moaning with the pain. The girl pulled a wad of tissues from her handbag, as she stood over him, concernedly, telling him to put his head between his legs; she said it was the best way to stem the flow.

“I’ll be ok,” Gary mumbled through the bundle of tissues.

The girl found some wet wipes, cleaning the blood splatter from her leg. She placed a hand on the back of his neck, guided his head down. “Keep your head down for five minutes,” she told him, “It will help stop your nose bleeding” adding, “I know, I’m a nurse”.

Gary did as she instructed, keeping his head between his knees, and the tissues pressed to his nostrils.

The train stopped at a station, he could hear passengers boarding, wondering if this was the station he would have taken the chance of stealing the iPad from the girl. It probably would have been, he was never one to miss an opportunity, unless, like this dammed nosebleed, it was something out of his control.

Soon the train was underway again.  He was certain by now his bleeding would have subsided. Gingerly he raised his head, lifting the tissues away, ready to ram them back if his blood was still flowing.

It was not. The bleed had stopped, even if the aching pain remained. Gary looked about, wanting to thank the girl for her help. But she had gone, clearly, she got off the train at the last stop.

It was a pity; he would have liked that iPad, but hey-ho not to worry, excluding his nose it had been a profitable day as the contents of his duffle bag confirmed… his duffle bag… where was his bag?

Gary abruptly stood, staring open-mouthed at where he was sitting. He looked on the floor, under the seat. His bag was gone.

With some disbelief he realised someone had stolen his bag, his day’s takings… the girl… the bitch. She had made him put his head between his legs and then stolen his bag.

It was incredulous.

You just can’t trust anybody these days.


I hope you found the hidden word in this story. Remember, everyone with the correct list will go into a draw to win all the eBooks in Santa’s sack. What fantastic PRESENTS they would make!

Now pop over to Chantal Bellehumeur’s blog and search for the next hidden word. Simply follow this blog hop link, https://author-chantal-bellehumeur.webnode.page/promotions/

Have a very merry Christmas, and may 2023 prove to be a most enjoyable year.

I hope you will find a few moments to browse my website, and even select a book or two, after all, you should treat yourself too at this time of year, you know you deserve it.

http://bit.ly/paulswebsite

Finding the Holy Grail of writing

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Many, if not all authors know writing is never straight forward; I am not talking about the technical aspects or grammar, but about finding the time to write when your mind is focused, when it is in the ‘zone’ for ‘that part’ of your story.

The Holy Grail of writing is when your thought processes are at a peak and you have the time, the undisturbed, uninterrupted time, to transcribe your contemplations cohesively into your manuscript.

Finding this Holy Grail has been an elusive search for me over the last year or so, regarding the novel I am currently working on.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not speaking of writer’s block, that is something I do not suffer. It is also nothing to do with finding the time; I have written and published three books in the past year and I am working on three more as I write this.

I am speaking purely of the mental alignment of skills, mindset and time when in search of perfection. (Although we shall never attain such it is always good to have it as a goal.)

I should have published my story, FLOYD several months ago but I am still working on it in short dribs and drabs. I never seem to have the right mental disposition and the amount of time I need together; hence the book is half drafted and half a jumble of odd notes, part paragraphs/chapters and such.

By the way, I am not downhearted and this is not me moaning, although it may sound that way! It is just me clearing my head by sharing my frustration with you.

It is, however, a frustration I bought upon myself by having several projects on the go at once… and then tasking myself with more. Which makes it even more frustrating.

I doubt if I shall find much time to continue writing FLOYD before December… oh wait, then there is Christmas and family, followed by New Year and Friends… so, maybe I can continue in earnest come mid-January, or maybe February or…

In the meantime, I would love to know your views on this (first draft) excerpt from FLOYD. It is (at the moment) the start of the opening chapter, or at least somewhere very early in the story, as it sets the scene, a sort of preamble to introduce Floyd himself and the background of his, let’s say, delusions and future actions.

Oh, FLOYD is a revenge story, in the blood-bath slasher genre. It is not for the queasy… although this section does not contain any of the gore… that comes a little later, but it comes in big bucketfuls. 😊

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FLOYDan excerpt.

Floyd jumped out of bed with a start, uncontrollably staggering two steps backwards. In that half-awaking instant, Floyd saw his wife, Molly, lying with her hands above her head, wrists bound and fastened. Pools of blood soaking into pristine white bedsheets. The fear in her eyes sent shivers running down his spine and a cold sweat to form over his skin.

This dream happened every night for the past four weeks. But tonight, was the first time he saw anything in full colour. The other times it was blurry monochrome, or just a voice, a sweet, lilting voice whispering to him. Tonight, was different, it did not simply wake him but startled him into jumping from the bed. He could feel his heart pounding.

At first, Floyd thought the voice echoing in his head was nothing more than a remanence of a dream as he woke. He let it go. Tried to forget it. But the whispering came back night after night. First a giggle, then a sigh, which faintly smelt of spearmint, before turning into those softly spoken words. A voice so close he could feel lips brushing his ears as she spoke.

“Kill the bitch.”

“That’s the way.”

“Did you see the surprise on her face?”

Tonight, Floyd did not hear her voice; but he knew she was there, watching him. Smiling.

He blinked twice, shaking his head to clear the image from his mind.

Molly pushed the quilt away from her face exposing a tousled mess of blond hair. She half-opened one eye and, disgruntled, wearily mumbled, “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”

Floyd slid back under the cover and snuggled close to Molly. It was a dream. It was just a dream he told himself as he shut his eyes. Her body was warm and comforting, but it could not dispel the dark foreboding lingering within his mind.

She groaned, slurred something unintelligible, turned, moving away from him. Floyd lay quietly on his back, willing sleep. Each time he began to drift off he was jerked awake by the vision of blood and the scent of spearmint. Sleep was fugitive.

At three-fifteen he carefully slid from under the covers, trying not to disturb Molly and crept downstairs. By six-thirty Floyd had drunk two pots of tea and re-read yesterday’s newspaper, twice.

When Molly eventually arose, he was grilling bacon for breakfast.

“I couldn’t sleep, so…” Floyd gesticulated towards the grill with the tongs in his hand.

Molly tore off some kitchen roll. “Put mine in here. I must dash, busy, busy day ahead. I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”

Floyd gave her a quick peck on the cheek as she headed for the door. With a half-hearted wave, she left, hooking the door closed with her foot. He watched from the window as she drove her Range Rover off the drive and along the street until she was out of sight. He felt a certain disappointment wash over him. He was hoping to talk to Molly at breakfast this morning about his recent feelings, his nagging doubts which were growing daily.

Floyd looked at the clock, six fifty-five. The house seemed exceedingly quiet; which, on consideration, was rather strange, because from three-fifteen this morning he sat alone, the only sound the rustling pages of the newspaper. The house was no quieter now than then but somehow the silence was louder.

Being alone in the house was something Floyd was becoming accustomed to. Since Molly moved companies she had become…become…now, what was the word…fixated? obsessed? with her job. When he commented on the amount of time she was spending working, Molly said it was a thing called ‘commitment’.

Whatever it was Floyd felt it was pushing them apart, an inexorable drifting kind of parting. One which was almost imperceptible day by day. But when he looked back over the months, the changes were there, noticeable, obvious, definite.

Molly generally ignored him now; she was always on the phone or laptop when she was not working late, or early, or both, or at the gym or the hair salon, or having her nails painted or legs waxed.

The main thing which irked Floyd most was none of this, not one little iota was for his benefit. It was all for her work. All those new suits, the blouses, the stockings and shoes.

Once, not so long ago, when Molly slid into a pair of stockings it was to tease him, to excite him. It was a signal sex was unquestionably on the agenda. Not any longer. It seems stockings were de rigueur in Molly’s new corporate world.

Several weeks back Floyd began wondering if she was having an affair. Maybe a seedy sexual liaison with someone from her company. He followed her one morning; sat the whole day outside her office building.

Nothing.

When she left the office in the evening, he followed her. She did not do anything other than visit the hair salon.

Which was a problem for Floyd.

Not that he wished for his wife to be having an affair, but because it left him with a dilemma. What changed between them? Why was Molly so distant? What, if anything had he done…or not done? These were unanswered questions; questions he wanted to broach this morning over those freshly grilled bacon sandwiches.

Floyd glanced at the clock again. Five minutes past seven. His first appointment was at nine-thirty, so he needed to leave the house around eight o’clock. As he threw his bathrobe onto the bed Floyd flashbacked to his dream: Molly spread-eagled, bound on the bed. Eyes staring in terror. He looked down at her.

He shivered. It was all too real, unlike any dream he experienced before.


While you wait for me to finish writing FLOYD I have many more books I am certain you will enjoy. Have a browse around my WEBSITE  or check out my Electric Eclectic novelettes HERE.

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When I am not writing…

“What do authors do when they are not writing?”

This is a question I asked myself while pottering about in the garden.

It may seem like a simple question, one which has a very simple answer; the likes and the things we do listed, almost ‘bullet-pointed’ as a reply.

Sure.

That’s fine, for most people.

But I am an author, a writer. To me, even those simple answers have hidden depths, more meaning and a thousand stories each to be told.

Here is where my writer’s mind went after I asked myself that question…

I know what I do, but I wondered if that was ‘just me’?

You see, I love travelling. I love to explore other countries, sampling their food, their culture, being amazed at wonderful vistas, cascading waterfalls, crazy cities, wild traffic and such.

I also like to travel around Britain, the place I live. So far, my favourite areas are the Highlands & Western Isles of Scotland.

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The road to Oban ©paulwhite2017

The Llyn peninsular in Wales gets better and better the further west you travel. The very best being Aberdaron and Bardsey Island.

Looking out, towards Bardsey

I reside in Yorkshire, the county known as ‘Gods Country’ for its stunning landscapes.

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Gods Country

I originate from the south and was lucky enough to have lived in Kent, called the ‘Garden of England’, which kind of speaks for itself.

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The Garden of England

All in all, I love nature; landscapes, coastal areas, animals, plants, and grand views. I like red wine, cold beer, fine whiskey, food and some good company.

To my mind this is what home is all about, making a comfortable place with hints, reminders and touches of all the things you love. Pictures and photographs of loved ones, trinkets and ‘tat’ from all those places you have visited; be it a foreign country or the local park, it’s those little inconsequential, yet sentimental items, like a shell collected from a beach, a pebble from a mountain path or a serviette from ‘that’ café.

In a way that is what our homes are for, storing and sharing all those little things which bring back the memories from a life well lived.

We can also make our homes reflect the things which make us… us. Especially, at least for me, in the garden, the garden in which I was pottering when I first asked myself the question I am writing about now.

In this instance, I have ninety per cent completed a project I started about three weeks ago.

In one corner of my garden was a derelict, rotted and neglected raised ‘deck’. I built the deck about ten years or so ago from reclaimed scaffolders boards and, I must admit, was proud of the outcome.

The said deck, (holding tables, chairs, potted plants and lighting), hosted many ‘al fresco’ lunches and dinners, served as a ‘buffet’ table during garden parties and barbecues it even became an improvised office for my writing on the days the sun shone and the rains held off.

But, as many structures constantly exposed to all weathers, it slowly degenerated, until it was little more than a rickety load of planks balancing precariously on a few rotten cross-members.

After laying unused and unloved for so long I decided to rip it up, replacing it with raised-bed vegetable plots and a small seating area.

Partly this decision was to do with the ‘stuff’ I wrote about earlier, the travelling to places, the sampling of food and wine and such like.

You will see in the following photographs I have placed my potted vines along the wall. These have never produced any edible grapes or enough to make even a single glass of wine, not here in England, not with our weather. But they do grow some large and tender leaves which are perfect for making dolmades, one of those foods I first ‘found’ on my travels many years ago.

I have made one deep growing bed and two shallow beds. The idea is to grow ‘root’ vegetables, such as carrots, parsnip, onion and sweeds in the deep one, leaving the shallow beds for the vegetables that grow ‘upwards’; beans, peas, sprouts, lettuce and so forth… once the soil has been delivered, which is about all I need now to complete my task, hence it is only ninety per cent complete.

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The path to the new vegetable garden passes the fish pond (left)

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Raised beds awaiting soil, the seating area (far left) will get chairs soon

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Note the vines and fig tree against the wall.

I already have an area for soft fruits and yesterday harvested a bumper crop of particularly sweet and sticky Gooseberries, the ‘Brambles’ (Blackberries) are beginning to set fruits and so still have many flowers.

This then, is my answer to my own question, “what do writers do when they are not writing?”

For me it is often gardening, but not simply for gardening’s sake.

Its for relaxation, creativity, frugality, satisfaction and for good food, healthy unadulterated food which I and or my wife will turn into some amazing dishes or preserves; some that will bring memories of a time, a trip or a place, flooding back, or maybe excite us, as we look forward to the next travel experience we have planned.

These are the sort of things I do when not sitting alone, isolated, eyes glued to the screen and scribbling away like a manic… I’ll let you finish that line!

However, I am curious to know what you do when you are not writing, please, let me know so I can be sure it is not ‘Just me’.

Keep Happy, Paul.


Don’t forget to visit my website, http://bit.ly/paulswebsite where you can find my latest books, including my Electric Eclectic Novelettes.

 

 

 

That was 2009… Now it’s 2018 it doesn’t work anymore.

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Once we have learnt about something, once we consider we understand it, think we have mastered it, we like to run with it, to keep it.

We are often loath to stop, to give it up… to alter anything.

Many of us are resistant to change, of losing the little comfort zone we made for ourselves. One can liken such to the reluctance of a child giving up a blanket, or a soother.

If we do make the move, we find it easier to be weaned, to slightly adjust, little by little, so we don’t notice the change, or at least that is how we convince ourselves.

The problem is, by the time our situation has evolved in a way which assuages our reluctance, we find we are far behind the madding crowd, so far behind we have little chance of catching up.

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In these days of high tech communications and internet connectivity, it is now more obvious than ever before.

Only the fearful and desperate cling to what once was,.

Only the backward and slow reminisce and wish for those ‘good old days‘ when a Facebook post actually reached ALL your ‘friends’ and not just the 3 to 10% they do with today’s algorithms.

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The same is true of your book promotions. This is why your sales do not exceed the minimal expectations you tell yourself are reasonable goals, let alone your wishes and dreams to become a consistent bestselling author.

To give away a book for free is an archaic, outdated and outmoded marketing model. One which no longer holds any credence, but one which so many still cling to with dying hope, like a gambler sliding deeper into depressive debt.

Paying another organisation to give your books away is a sign of utter desperation. A despondent cry for help, for someone, anyone to read your story.

In reality, it is authorship suicide; one you may never recover from financially and one which could leave your reputation in raggedy tatters, before you even start.

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Book launches and parties no longer pull the crowds. They are a nice way to spend a few extra hours chatting with those you regularly talk to every day; to hear them say nice things about you, your book and “what a marvellous cover” you have.

But such events no longer attract readers. They have been overdone and done over, like an ancient, wrinkled whore, they no longer hold any attraction whatsoever.

Thunderclaps, Headtalkers, Daycause are little more than a (mostly) unseen flash-in-the-pan. A quick blast of tweets and public post which disappear down the scrolling stream faster than Usain Bolt running a hundred meters.

Authors, you NEED to find new ways to promote your works, ways which offer longevity rather than the promise of making a ‘quick buck’ or selling a few more copies of your latest tome overnight… for one night only.

You need to find a simple, ongoing promotional aid which is always working for you, even when you’re not working.

A low-cost way that won’t break the bank, or better still, a way which will pay you a return, a royalty, on your promotional material.

Now wouldn’t that be wonderful…

If only such a thing existed…

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Well, such a thing does exist, but only for those who are prepared to move forward, to see the changing lights (mostly red ones) as social media platforms are brought to task and the hyper highway of freedom and unlimited possibility become more crowded, slower and, well… limited.

Even more so now Google plus is/has shut its doors. MeWe and Pluspora just don’t have the numbers or, as yet, the financial backing to grow fast enough or fight hard enough to take on the big boys… at least for now.

A small, but growing group of indie authors, are moving forward into the new dawn of altered perception, of interweb reconstruction and publishing future.

It is a group which, (at present), still has its doors open to welcome a few more indie authors inside. Authors with great tales to share, who are well crafted in penning a wonderful story. Authors who are serious about writing, about selling their books, about being authors.

So, what is this group and who are these indie authors?

Simple, we are Electric Eclectic. The book brand which is sweeping the internet.

This is your opportunity to be part of it.

Visit the Electric Eclectic website now.

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Orphans of the pen

 

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Like many writers, I have a store of part written works. Literary orphans, many of whom deserve better parenting than I have given.

Some, are first drafts of short stories, ones which need attention before I could possibly allow others to set eyes upon them.

Some, are beginnings of new books and novels. Many are several chapters – or more – in length. A few far longer, yet abandoned and gathering dust in the archives of ‘I’ll take another look at it, soon, one day, when I have time, sometime.

Some, are mere scribblings, outlines of thought, rough drafts of similar concept, or of unjointed notes, sort-of-bullet-points, fleeting notions.

Occasionally, I have pulled the odd page from the depths of neglect. In a few instances, I have reworked such a piece, even developed it into a viable story.

But those times are seldom.

Generally, when I unearth an old unfinished, partly written, abandoned tale, I quickly scan it, faintly recall its birth and return it, with a promise of coming back and spending some time with it ‘when I can give it the attention it deserves.’

Which is probably, almost certainly, a long way off from this current day, like… never.

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We make the excuse of having more pressing and urgent tasks as current commitments. We enjoy the conception of creation, of having new babies in the making and we look forward to the birth of our next.

That is if they reach as far as the publicatory birth. If our current focus is not waylaid or distracted by another fancy, another attractive proposition of literary lust which causes us to forsake the unborn penned pages, formed only weeks ago, during our crazed desire to conceive another narrative fable.

We, as writers, are not good role models for caring and nurturing our creativities.

This is, as you can tell, one of the ‘things‘ which I have been silently musing over during the past however-long it has been.

I wanted to understand why I could not simply open a file, drag out the unborn foetus of past indulgence and continue writing where I had left off. Even a re-read and re-write, rather like a genetic splicing of characteristics, to take each past, abandoned child of mine, from infantile scrawling to full-blown manuscripted beauty and let them loose in the world.

So, I tasked myself to do precisely that. To wrench open the doorway of dusty archives and let the light flood in.

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I was astounded by the mass of unloved writings huddled in the dank corners of my RAM. However, I was determined to make amends for the neglect suffered by these poor, unassuming, word documents. After all, they never asked to be created.

One by one I read the works.

By the time I reached mid-way point of the fifth part-work, I had my answer.

It is all to do with mood, muse and moment. At least it is for me.

Allow me to explain…

As I said earlier, literary lust and crazed desire set us on a special relationship in the attempt to conceive a beautiful outcome, a desired work of the bestselling nature.

While our mindset is concentrated, focused on a single relationship we flourish, some of us are capable of holding two, maybe three such affairs on a steady and productive track.

But each and all of these are balancing on a knife-edge of frustration, distraction and boredom. Unable to help ourselves, our minds are constantly on the look-out for other attractive propositions and exciting ventures.

Therefore, once our muse is diverted, the love for what is under our fingers wanes. Rarely is it lost, just lessened. It diminishes, at least for the present.

Then, one day we find these lost loves or that which we once begat from such a relationship; they reach out, arms feebly grabbing for our attention.

But are we ready to take them to our bosom once more?

Most time, the shame is, we are not. We are not ready or willing. So, we slam the door in their faces, committing them to the darkness of closed files one again.

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Why are we so cruel in our neglect?

The answer I have found is that mindset I mentioned earlier. To pick-up and move forward from our past indulgences, we must rekindle the fondness we felt before, relight the old flame of particular creation.

Without us being ‘in the zone’ with regards to each individual story, we shall never see them grow into the works they surely deserve to be.

Maybe, to assuage your guilt, the shame and self-reproach I have now raised in your heart and mind, because of your own wicked neglect over your part works, maybe you should unlock the archive doors and take some time with your unborn literary children.

Bring them out of the shadows, let them dance in the sunlight of new development and re-writing nirvana. You never know what wonderful orphans you may have forgotten.

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If you are looking for somewhere to home your orphans, then Electric Eclectic could be exactly the place you need?

Show your love; release your orphaned, lonely, short story(s) as an Electric Eclectic book(s) and let them help you gain readership and royalties.

Visit the Electric Eclectic website for more information. http://bit.ly/visitEEbooks


Thank you, for reading another of my Ramblings. I hope you took something away with you from these words?

Please share Ramblings from a Writer’s Mind with your friends and don’t forget to follow this blog too.

Perhaps you would like to read more of my writings? You can find my books and links to my other blogs on my website.

 http://paulznewpostbox.wixsite.com/paul-white

 Feel free to visit and have a mooch around. Contact me if you have any questions, I’m always happy to help.

Paul.