Categories
Writing

Culling

I’ve just sent some picture book manuscripts off to a literary agent. I feel a lot more confident in the process since having completed the picture book course last year, so that’s my next aim. To have one of my word babies published to a wider market.

I have such fond memories of childhood reading…publishing books for children would be an absolute honour. I love writing picture book texts. I find the challenge of condensing what could potentially be a long story into a short and lovely thing to be very rewarding.

Since uni, I’ve become a little addicted to the art of culling. Culling words, that is. For some reason, I find it extremely satisfying. Taking a clunky sentence and seeing how many words I can remove from it, in order to make it shine. You’d be surprised how many words can be culled without having a negative effect on the sentence. In fact, culling words often brings a sentence more power. Hence, the satisfaction.

Less is more, isn’t that what they say?

Less is mo… ;p

Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

Categories
Life

Thank Goodness

I knew it would take me there. To the place beyond everything, the place that shows me, really quite beautifully, who I truly am.

I can’t remember the last time I watched Legends of the Fall. A very long time ago. A lifetime ago, you might say, and if you did say that I wouldn’t argue with you. I last saw the movie before I had truly lived. Before I had truly ached. Before I had truly felt loss, and the echoing stillness of life’s fragility.

Last night I watched the movie through new eyes, and it tore me apart. Very beautifully, it tore me apart, but it tore me apart all the same.

It reminded me of the depth and softness of who I am.

It reminded me of the beauty of the human connection.

And it reminded me why I write: to feel and to help others feel, too.

Thank goodness I watched that movie, last night.

Thank goodness.

Photo by Hamid Tajik on Pexels.com
Categories
Life

Awake

Sweet bloggy friends. ☺️

How are you all? Well, I hope, and if not: that’s okay, too, because even rain is beautiful when you look at it a certain way.

I’m so sleepy but I wanted to say hello. I’ve been a little disconnected from here of late, and though most of you may not have noticed, it’s been weighing on my mind. There are some busy, happy reasons for my disconnection, which I’ll share over the coming months, but for now I’ll just say this:

I’m here when I am, and I’m not when I’m not. (Those of you who’ve been with me a while will know I’m a bit like the wind. Full on one day, not so much the next. This is a bit of a quiet season, I think. I hope that’s okay with you all. xx)

Anyway, I’m about to fall aslee…

Sorry, where was I? Oh, that’s right, awake. Good. Okay, good, I’m awake. But not for long so I’ll say goodnight.

Until we meet again. (Which may be soon, or not for a while, says the wind.)

xx Brooke

Categories
Poetry

For Now

In a world of fire, I am the stream.

Peace.

My heart wants nothing more, my soul wants nothing less.

I am tired.

So tired of the saddest story: well meaning fighters, fighting for good, creating the worst kind of bad.

I am tired.

Of the battle.

I do not need you to fight for me,

and they do not need you to fight for them

because those of us who have been broken are the wisest of souls.

We do not need to be saved.

We need peace.

We all need

peace.

War is what we have.

For now.

Photo by Aleksey Kuprikov on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Somewhere

Somewhere between the quiet

and the haze, I go

to sit for a while.

Somewhere

between the quiet

and the haze.

And you might ask me

what I hope to find there.

You might ask me if it’s true.

That the haze shimmers like a thousand suns,

and the quiet melts like vanilla cream

on apple pie, oh, sweet love.

I would tell you

you must seek for yourself

the whispers, true.

Somewhere between the quiet and the haze

you must go.

Categories
Life

Sitting Up Here

Maybe I’m sitting in a tree, somewhere, looking down at it all. I’m sure my feet are dangling, and I’m probably whistling in harmony with the wind through the branches.

What do I see when I look down at my life? I see myself sitting quietly at a little white desk, typing away, visualising a peaceful version of myself up there.

Peaceful me would look down at the small children running circles around the house, see me wincing at the too many seconds of loud for comfort and she’d send a little caring my way. An invisible hug, maybe. Whatever I might need to soothe me.

She’d also look down and see me laughing to the point of holding my belly. The six-year-old. The most HILARIOUS trick anyone has ever played on me. He’s managed to pull it off, and I highly doubt he’ll be able to top such brilliance in both wit and execution again, but I’ll remain on guard, just in case. Peaceful me would know that’s the first time I’ve laughed like that in a long, long time.Then she’d send a great big smile my way.

Peaceful me would see the good and bad of it and whisper to me: it’s all good.

It’s all good.

Photo by Artem Beliaikin on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Magical Questions

Where do thoughts go

once we have thought them?

Where does the wind go

once the storm has passed?

And why do so few wonder about life,

why do they not ask more

magical questions?

Like where do thoughts go?

(And the wind: are they together, somewhere?)

And how is it that these words

came to be called

words

when there is surely

a deeper dimension to language

and life

that will never be captured

by labels

and concepts.

Categories
Healing

Escaping

I never did stop escaping. A sensitive little girl, a face and a voice unkind: I escaped. I never did stop escaping.

*

I am safe and loved in this place in the sky. I am safe. And I am loved, so loved, without a thought, without a care. I am me, and this is the sky. We are here. We are here.

*

I never did stop escaping. All around the children played. They showed me their world, and I made it what I needed it to be. I made it magic and I made it kind. They didn’t know their world was magic and kind. I did. I knew.

*

This is where my real friends live, where my heart lives. I can make the world what I wish it to be, here. The unkind of the outside feels like ice on my skin. I wish only for sun. I ask only for sun.

*

I never did stop escaping. They called me names, they spat on me, and for those moments I was there. But I never did stop escaping. I never did stop escaping.

*

This is where I am. This is me, so beautifully. The deepest ocean, the saddest stream. This is where I am.

*

I never did stop escaping.

Photo by Julia Volk on Pexels.com
Categories
Fable

Until They Remembered

Sun fell upon the rocky shore, gazing at the children that played by the rock pools.

Some of the children splashed.

Some worked quietly together, laying stone upon stone until they’d made a grand and sparkling tower.

Other children jumped star shaped into the ocean, not a care in the world, not an opportunity missed.

Sun shone upon them all.

Never once wondering which was worthy of day shine.

Never once seeing their differences as faults.

The children looked at each other just the way sun did.

And then they grew up.

And forgot.

Until they remembered again.

Categories
Life

Some Days I Fall

Some days I fall. I’m not a good mum. I’m not a good human. I’m not a good me, on those days I fall.

It’s not a consolation to know that I do not fall alone. That humanity itself is in constant fluctuation, that some days we rise and some days we fall. I’ve fallen. Me. The writer of these words, the feeler of these aches. On those days I wish for more, I also wish for peace. The two do not go hand in hand.

But it’s not as easy as finding peace and being happy with that. Without this beautiful depth—without this wild and wistful wind that moves me—there would be no passion to whoosh me along the creative river of life, the river I know and love so well.

Is it about lowering the expectations I have of myself? Or is it about lowering my expectations of life? What, I wonder, would help me to feel at peace in a world that so often clips my wings.

I was given wings to fly.

I long to use them.

Is this me, using them? Right in this moment, is this the way I was meant to fly? To write about love and loss and sorrow and sacrifice? About life at its best and life at its worst and how, at some level, it’s all the same thing, anyway?

What is it all for?

And when will I stop asking: what is it all for?

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com