I’m jotting this as I travel in a car, it's okay, I’m a passenger, not the driver. I realise many people like to know about the authors whose books they read, so this post is a reveal, a confession... I am a bit of a petrolhead. I'm on the right, wearing sunglasses. Although I do mention cars in several of my books, I do not often go into any intricate descriptions. I like to leave much of the detail in my stories to the reader's imagination. I think this respects the reader, allowing them the freedom to create such subjective images, and for their imaginings to become an integral part of the story. My belief is allowing the reader personal visualisation is what makes books far superior to a film, or a movie, where every detail is spoon-fed to those watching, it leaves nothing, or very little to the imagination. Whereas with a book the author simply suggests many things, it is the reader whose mind interprets and creates the fictitious, fanciful world they find the...

9 Mar 2017 by Liela Casusi on Niume https://niume.com/post/278003 . Hype Favourite Shares     I was writing in my mama's womb. She said, can I please tone it down in there? You see, I had this clunky Olympia typewriter when God put me in there. "Here," He said, "keep busy!" "Write something of note." But since I had not been outside of my mama's womb yet, I didn't know what to write. Furthermore, it was gooey in there. And the darkness! My God, the darkness! I can't very well light a candle in there. My momma's gonna get singed. Not only that. I'm gonna choke in there. So, I wrote in the darkness, familiarizing myself with the QWERTY of the cool typewriter. I went where no man has gone before. How can I not? There was no material to write about. Oh, I correct myself on that one. I had my own "listening post" where I could hear my Dad's loud, blaring music for all...

A Fifties Child first published on 4 Aug 2016   by Carol Taylor  https://niume.com/post/79822 Hype Favourite Shares     Pin it Born in the early 50's, one of 3 and the oldest we had no Tv or phone we played out until dark and sometimes we were out all day playing in the woods, making camps...I was definitely not one of those girls who played with dolls and pushed someone else's baby up and down the street..for fun! Really...I was  a tom boy...one of my earliest memories was this pink spotted dress my mum made me...she made all our clothes and I remember that when the elbows of our cardigans or jumpers wore thin my mum unpicked the sleeves and changed them over so the darned patch was in the crook of our elbow. I also remember climbing the big old Oak tree in the middle of the green and catching the said pink dress and tore it! Girls then did not wear trousers only skirts and dresses. We made tents in the garden by slinging ...

13 Oct 2016 at 10:55 am Lizzi Hollis  first posted this on Charity connect.  I was not aware of this syndrome, I do not think many people are, but I am certain that many of us, including you, have experienced this at some point in our lives.  Which is why this post has found its way to Brilliant Blogshare. Please DO share this and the other posts on this blog, they are all here through merit. Paul. Facebook   Twitter   Google+   Link I was out to dinner with friends some months ago when one of them started talking about an amazing promotion she had got with a really good pay rise. This particularl friend is a total grafter; she will always goes the extra mile and is dedicated and intelligent. Yet she felt she didn’t deserve the opportunity she’d worked for. This was the first time I had heard of Imposter Syndrome and my friend had identified herself as having it. She talked about the feelings of incomp...

This is Squid McFinnigan's post not mine. But I have shared it here because it deserves its place as a 'Brilliant Blog' To see/read the origanal post you will need to go to http://squidmcfinnigan.blogspot.co.uk/2016/12/let-it-snow.html. Sometimes memories are connected to the strangest of things. It might be a smell, or a particular sound or something else entirely that whisks you back to a moment in time which will live with you forever. One such thing for me is snow, and seeing those first fluffy white crystals falling from the dark clouds above. I know most people love snow and it reminds them of snowball fights and building snowmen and frozen fingers. It reminds me of those things as well but also another more precious memory.   When I was growing up, things in Ireland were particularly tough. Interest rates on mortgages had reached as high as twenty percent and a huge amount of people were out of work. My Dad had a good job in a factory, but when th...

A Legacy from the Great War.  (WW1) ( I first posted this on the 11 th of the 11 th , Remembrance day. But as today is Armed forces day and the 100 th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme I thought it justifiable to give it a further outing )         I was watching a television trailer, regarding a forthcoming documentary, examining life of those who lived and fought from the trenches. I was struck by the number of film clips that were taken at the front line. That so many have survived for the past one hundred years is quite amazing considering the ease of degradation of the materials used. I had not previously considered such an archive of moving images existed, considering movie making was in its infancy at that time.    Seeing these short monochrome ( mostly although a few colour films were produced ) films of men going about their daily lives on the front line, brought the characters of those captured on cellulose to l...

Posted on   November 26, 2015  on https://countingducks.wordpress.com   reflections on a passing life. by   Peter Wells aka Countingducks             I cannot hold your hand this year, I cannot share that memory. I cannot pour a drink for you or walk the beach where we both walked. I cannot laugh as we both laughed or dance a night time’s life away, sure we have eternity I cannot hold your arm this year, and steady you across the road, two old people braving time and laughing at futility. I cannot travel back with you, glass in hand to memories when, young at heart, we hid our  insecurities. I cannot see you in the room, smiling as you always did, at some transgression in our midst, or drive too fast down country lanes or swim where reckless people swim: ignoring safety was our pride. We always got away with it: made it to the other side; but are you are gone and I am here, stripped of context by my age...