is there a book that was written about me?

pile of assorted title book lot selective focus photographt
Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on

There is a writer somewhere near

That heard my story on a silent wave

That wafted through a window gaping wide

And whispered neatly in his ear.

My story did inspire his hands

That tapped away at clicking keys

And came together bound in leather

Into books that sat on shelves

And made the people laugh and cry,

To feel my human soul just sigh.

I sometimes feel like books were written for me and then less frequently there are occasions when the book seems to be written about me. I’m reading one of those at the moment, and I feel like it’s the sign of a good book; when the words speak to you on such a level that you really believe your story entered the writer’s psyche.

I wonder if the writer does sit at their desk and there is some magical spirit like substance that permeates their room, giving them an idea that is so close to your own story that you have to pause while reading the words, just to catch your breath.

I read Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert a couple of years ago and she talked about writing a story that didn’t work out for her. And the day she decided to give up the story, she visited her friend, Ann Patchett. She hugged her friend and sat having a lovely coffee with her, never mentioning the story that she had decided was a failure.

A couple of months later she spoke to Ann again and Ann told her that since their last meeting she had been writing a story and she described the exact plot that Elizabeth had been working on. It was as though the idea had just bounced from one writer to the other.

So, if these creative ideas do just bounce around the atmosphere, surely our own life stories are out there to be grabbed and written down? To me, that’s quite an incredible thought.

Much Love

Rachel xx

A year 7 poetry class is just the best

Ideas bubbling in cooking pots

The weirdest shapes and smells

That issue forth from in their brains.

I’d never thought of such a thing

As birds with horns and witchy magic

There to make a better world.

I have just started a poetry unit with my Year 7 class and it is just the best. Something happens at about fourteen when kids become sullen and don’t want to share ideas in case they get laughed at. But before that time, they are just little bundles of energy that want to tell you anything no matter how outlandish or wacky.

I just marvel at some of those fearless ideas that the Year 7s come out with. It sometimes takes my breath away when they come out with something so utterly inspired. I wonder how an eleven year old has just come up with something that I wish I had come up with.

Normally, they are a bit annoying and I kind of want them to just shut up. But with poetry, it just feels like magic. I wish that I could have more of that magic every day. I wish that I could just bathe in it so that it rubs off on me. The last lesson I left positively glowing, and that’s a lovely thing to say about your job.

Much Love

Rachel xx

will i run dry?

illustration of bright similar cut oranges
Photo by Wendy Wei on

They call them creative juices like

It comes from a citrus fruit, peeled and zested,

Squeezed until there’s nothing left.

But really it is infinite, the thoughts and dreams

Of human beings, desperate to be heard.

We’ll go forever with our rambling

Nonsense made for Twitter posts and Facebook brags.

Six thousand thoughts a day to chew

And yet so much is curtailed drivel.

There will be some within 6k, that can be used

Or polished into something bright and edged with light,

So drivel on and on and on, until that light goes dull.

I must admit that sometimes I sit at my laptop and I have no idea what the hell I’m going to write. I literally stare at the screen and I can feel my heart rate go up as I realise that I have nothing, I am boring and uninteresting.

I will turn to Twitter or my WordPress subscriptions and nothing will come to me and I can feel that anxiety gripping me. What it I can never write another word?

But then I remember that the average human has six thousand thoughts a day. I think that my thoughts are worthy of a place on the internet, so even if I write down one of those thoughts a day, I have something.

There are times when I think about what is going on in the news and I have valid opinions, I have a family and I think about them. I have friends and a job and all my thoughts on them can be written down.

So, I end up with a list longer than anything I could write in a whole lifetime. And that is pretty cool; that we can write forever and ever and we’ll literally never run out of things.

I hope that you have a fabulous day creating some of the six thousand things that rattle around your head each day, whether it be in art or writing or music or however else you like to express yourself. Because, if you’re human, you will never run dry.

Much Love

Rachel xx

i miss my creativity

multicolored abstract painting
Photo by Steve Johnson on

Do you ever feel that you’re rushing too much? That you’re spreading your time too thinly?

I’m missing NanoWrimo this year because I’m so busy with my studies. I’m just about managing to run but my writing is gone.

But today I had some spare time and I used it to work on a story that I wrote last year. And it was blissful, getting lost in a world that I created, hanging out with a character that I have loved before.

Oh, how I miss being creative. I just hope that time comes back one day, the time to swim in a story that is mine.

Much Love

Rachel xx

the boy who loved his teacher

She taught him shards of Romeo

And Juliet in lover’s tongue

He watched her as she paced her stage

Before the class with pen in hand

Reaming out the lines as one.

Her summer dress just skimmed her thighs

And auburn hair was piled up high

With sunshine flitting through the blinds

And picking out those golden strands.

He sat and watched her pour out lines,

Wishing he could read with her

And thanking Shakespeare for his words,

For scrawling them across a page

That stood the test of wretched time

And made their way to days so filled

With iPad screens and mobile phones

And Miss Savoy, in Form 7B

The woman that he knew would stay

Forever lodged inside his mind

As perfect love, his untouched Juliet.

a little bit on writer’s block

Sitting in my solitary room,

A blank canvas of a cocoon,

Wishing that the walls were daubed with paint

To stimulate the mind, the soul, the heart.

Colours splashed in slapdash ways,

My psyche making stories from the nonsense found,

But that nonsense is my own

And in time others find their own.

So putting pen to paper surely is an answer,

Create a wall of art myself?

Doesn’t matter how it looks or where it flows,

Just start the thing

And others bring the magic to

A wall once plain and grey.

They make the story come to life,

Not you, in your tight cocoon.

portrait of a lady: get creative in lockdown

I can’t even begin to tell you how much I love to make art. I don’t think that I’m particularly good at anything but I like my own work and I’m proud of it because I know that there is a certain amount of passion that has been poured into it.

I created this portrait on my tablet and for twenty minutes I was lost in my own little world. And really, that’s all that matters: enjoyment.

So if you’re feeling a bit down just put pen to paper and write or draw or sing or dig out your old flute and make some music. Nobody here is going to judge, so just have a bit of fun.

Much Love

Rachel xx

The chemistry of love

How do I measure what I’m feeling inside?

Is it with scales or a measuring cup?

Or perhaps it’s a ruler that needs to be used?

It’s hard to say what it is that I’m measuring,

Let alone work out what I should use.

I am told it is love, but love is so……nice.

But this. This hurts like hell, a thump to the chest.

It feels like a drug and this trip is bad,

but drugs can be measured and analysed too.

This just lurks in the system waiting to pounce.

Perhaps if I mix it with acid

It will fizzle away to nothing?

Or what if I combine it with helium

and hope it will float far away?

There must be a tonic or potion

That will start to dissolve my devotion

To the one who is causing me all of this pain.

It’s one hundred percent chemical,

of that I am sure.

But how do I measure the amount I have in me

and does anyone know of a cure?

do you ever read a book…?

do you ever read a book

and wonder how the writer

got you so incredibly

and accurately right?

did she crawl inside your head

and have a rummage round?

or is there someone out there

who might just get the way you tick?

just sit still.

i know it hurts and words cannot

express the million different ways

that every muscle, every bone,

is creaking underneath the strain

of what you have been through.

but now it really is the time

to stop, to breathe, to just sit still.

I know it feels a little like a crash.

the impact plays on loop.

the splintering and fracturing

of all we loved and knew.

it all went up in flames that day,

but still we need to sit with it.

we need to let the body heal,

the heart, the soul, the mind.

no more medicating

with the pills or booze.

just sit there with that pain you feel,

it is the only way to heal.

i know how hard it is to fill

the silence when you’re sitting still.

but just sit still, i tell you that you must.

i know it hurts but this will help

and in my words i hope you trust.

Just sitting with pain has been one of the hardest things to do n recovery. I would always have vodka on hand to anaesthetise the feelings that gripped me and frightened me. Now, I have to sit here, feeling the pain and the darkness and it’s really hard. It seems counter intuitive to sit still when you’re scared; why not run?

However, I do it because I know I have to and each day I see that I’ve made it through and it’s a cause for celebration. I won’t say it gets easier because that’s a lie. It never does. It’s always hard. But as yet I haven’t died and you won’t either.

Much Love

Rachel xx