Tiny Writing No. 1

Today I am feeling pretty uninspired and kind of exhausted, so I thought the best way to try and get out of that funk would be to try some writing prompts. I then thought this could be a fun little series that I dip in and out of going forward when I have the urge to post something but can’t figure out what I want to write about. This is taken from the 642 tiny things to write about book.

The prompt…

The first or last paragraph of the book you lack the courage to publish 

(This is kind of cheating as I’m going to put up a few paragraphs – it’s also an updated version of something I wrote for Almost Amazing Grace)


The change was never something I anticipated. It just happened one night.

It was kind of like an out of body experience. One moment I was sitting on my bed flipping through a bio-analytics textbook, the next my skin began to bubble, my bones shifted and my muscles burned spasmodically. There’s nothing quite like the sound of your own bone cracking. I’ve come to decipher between a clean break, an egregious snap, and the crunch of the irreversible. And yet, my body always bounced right back.

There are very few things that can make you feel both mesmerically euphoric and utterly trivialised. That was how I felt right now, in this moment, with my body grinding against at least half a dozen strangers. Sweat and ragged breath filling the air as we move through it. And yet, the rhythm of the music that surrounded everyone overrides any politically correct daylight standards. The fact that I was on my fourth Bacardi and coke added to the confidence of my shapeshifting. Not a person, a fluid soul that rasped at the body without sound. Music fed the soul that alcohol famished – a perfectly executed cycle. My skin crawled with the vibrations of the bass and the melody echoed through my own vocal chords. The words burned my throat and I could anticipate the hoarse conversations I would fail to have the following day. But in that moment, the unfaltering fact was: I. Did. Not. Care.

The nights were the worst. Not knowing if I was going to get my regular hours or if I’d spend the time writhing in pure agony and wake up with gaps in my memory. But then those breaks disappeared; I wished they hadn’t.

Vivid flashes of pounding against the ground; waking up to find leaves in my hair. None of it made sense, until it did. Then the shedding began. At that point, I really couldn’t deny it anymore. I still didn’t want to believe it.

People that say they can’t dance are liars. They just haven’t found the right music to suit their body. For me, there’s nothing better than the pacing build of a song just before the hook, where the room spins with drunken delight. Swinging your hips like nobody’s watching, because the odds are… nobody is watching. Everyone else is too absorbed in their own euphoria to pay attention to the way your heels click against the springboard or how many inches your arse is from the floor. Unless, of course, their sole aim is to do just that. Those are the ones you have to keep your guard up for.

It was getting more frequent and I didn’t know how to control it. I watched as my skin flecked with fur, a periwinkle grey.


And that’s all I have for you tonight!

Hope you enjoyed it!


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Gritty Love: A Poem

I’ve been reading a lot more poetry recently. I used to digest it endlessly in my teens and I went through a phase of also writing it whenever I had a spare moment. I wrote so much that for a long time I thought I’d exhausted my poetic thoughts. It wasn’t until a couple of months ago that poetry came back into my life and it couldn’t have come at a better time.

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I’m afraid to write.

Please indulge me – regular service will resume shortly.

I have a fear of the blank document. Starting fresh. Turning a page. I so desperately don’t want to fuck it up. It’s so crisp, so clean and my words just vomit across the page, without notion.

I am terrified of my own possibility. Terrified that I will work tirelessly on a piece of writing, only to read it back, and feel nauseated by the lack of talent and inability to embrace the form.

I write these words and I know I won’t publish them. I’ll challenge myself to, but I can’t guarantee that I’ll even follow through.

That’s my real problem,

The inability to follow through,

Finish what was started,

That manifested in an inability to even start.

I want so desperately to be inspired and to write something that the pressure is insurmountable. The weight of all my ideas pressing against my head, trying to balance them all, until they topple around me. I desperately reach out for each of them, hoping, praying, pleading for one of them to take hold and cement in my mind.

An idea.

A thought.

A fleeting memory.


I want to write more, so much so that I feel this ache, this need to sit and pour my thoughts out. But where to begin? What plot do I choose? What will my character look like? Do I know them well enough? Can I empathise with them? Is the world I’ve built convincing enough??

Time ticks on and my word count is stagnant.

The words are there, I’ve just forgotten how to write them.

Fear is an ugly thing.

All consuming.



I want to be a writer.


I’m afraid to write.

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Author August: Edward Cox – WHAT PAD?

To view all guest author posts so far and for a chance to win a £40 Foyles Giftcard visit the Author August Page.

A couple of years ago I was advised to open a Wattpad account. What is Wattpad? I asked. A new super cool social media thing, was the answer. So I got myself some, because who would want to miss out on that! And then I spent the next year staring at it, occasionally poking it with a stick, wondering when it was going to do something. Like so much else to do with the internet and computers, Wattpad bemused the life out of me.

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An Evolution of Reading

An Evolution of Reading

I have always been a reader. Even before I was able to form the words on the page myself, I loved to read. Recently, my mum confirmed for me that my first ever book was a bath-time book. One that was made out of plastic and therefore unlikely to flinch at the thought of being drowned by a toddler. Ironic, considering now I wouldn’t dare take a book near a vat of water for fear of dropping it!

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