The progress report or lack thereof:

“Prrroooogresss Rrrrreeepooorrrttt!” she shouted and the house echoed. My jaw dropped to the floor as she appeared in a tight leopard skin unitard.
‘Oh my word, I cannot look at that without feeling ill,” I said, averting my gaze.
“It’s the latest fashion dear and extremely slimming, not to mention comfortable. It hardly chafes at all when you are on the treadmill.”
“They are allowing you back after the incident then?” I asked, referring to the fact that she had caused pandemonium and had broken one of their new treadmills last time she had gone there. I was sure that they had banned her for life.
“Well, I pleaded, dear. You know how I can go on and on about something.”
She had worn them down; now I understood.
“Back to the subject at hand, though. How are your word counts for Camp Nano?” she asked and I balked.
“580 on Dead-Lee and the 1268 on blog posts,” I whispered, bowing my head in shame and sinking to the floor in a watery puddle.
“So the novel is dead in the water- pun intended?” she asked and I had to agree that it was going nowhere fast; like a runaway train heading for the precipice. The brakes were failing and the wheels were coming off.
“Never mind, I have something for you that will take your mind off things,” she said as she handed me an A4 paper on which the following was printed.

“Are you trying to kill me?”
“No, just render you unconscious. All good therapists know that if you tap into the unconscious you work will be superlative and effortless,” she argued the matter.
“I will also be dead. Is that unconscious enough for you?”
“It says to stop once you are unconscious. If you carry on thereafter that’s up to you, dear,” she said innocently and sauntered off. The leopard spots quivered in the diminishing light.
Wish me luck, dear reader, perhaps this will work. If not visit me in hospital and please bring chocolates!

 

Zombie or Vampire- you choose

Dear Reader:

I am turning into a nocturnal creature; either a zombie or a vampire as I haven’t been able to sleep for two days and counting. I refuse to believe that I am an insomniac as I already have various labels that define me like annoying yellow post-its admonishing you to do this or remember that. Bipolar, overweight, type two diabetic and don’t forget struggling, poor author.

However, the only evidence I can find of being bitten by a vampy creature, is a miniscule hole on my third toe. I have no idea how I hurt myself, thus the only explanation is a blind octogenarian vampire with a single sharp tooth. Therefore I am now slowly turning, at a snail’s pace, because face it an octogenarian vampire’s poison is not as virile as it once used to be, into a batty creature. Wait, haven’t I always been batty? The answer is a resounding yes- I can even hear the choir saying: “Amen!” They frequently have to scrape me off the walls with a spatula, and besides which, I am sure I have seen my son hanging upside down in a shadowy corner of his room. It must run in the family, unfortunately.

The only other option is that I must be an undercover, non-conformant zombie. I don’t do the rags thing; it just looks untidy and I, as a writer, refuse to make monosyllabic grunts and groans. The question remains- where is my zombie bite? I cannot believe that a true zombie would be satisfied with an eight of a millimetre of my flesh. The only other mark I could find was a vicious looking bee sting. No, I did not calmly remove the stinger with a credit card, I panicked and slapped at it frantically, which of course just released more poison into my bloodstream. Now the mark is an angry, bluish red. Are bees now the familiars of a new zombie race? If so, then I am slowly turning into a dreaded zombie or a bee.

There is neither rhyme nor reason to the sleeplessness. My mind is just way too busy to shut down even though I have sent a memo to Sir Laughalot, the hamster that is patiently running on his yellow wheel in my brain, to please either get down, slow down or else…

I am, however, not entirely sure what the else entails as I have never had to warn him about anything before. Perhaps I should switch off the lights in his room. He would fall asleep and perhaps then, so would I. Wish me luck as I desperately try to sleep…

Your-not-drowsy-writer!

 

Confessions of a farmchick- foreword

I will begin with this confession:

whatever I have done in the course

of my life, whether it be good or evil,

has been done freely; I am a free agent.

Giacomo Casanova

 

 

 

     

 

      This is not just another book with a beginning, a boring middle and an

               end….it is something quite different; a blog book, with pages and chapters

                being added as time ticks on. Sounds like it might be interesting?  Then

                immerse yourself in the wonderful world of farm life and cow dung…if you

                dare…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Foreword:

These are the scandalous confessions of a newlywed, newly acclimatised farm-chick named….well let’s call her Jane… a perfectly inane name which will hopefully never be followed by Doe. She hung up her concrete jungle red, polka dot Jimmy Choo’s for pink gumboots and Victorinox knives on key chains and lived happily ever after….SO NOT TRUE! Fairy tales are a misconception.

The drama that is her life unfolded on a farm somewhere in South Africa (GPS co-ordinates unknown). The town is but a dot on a map and if you blink you would invariably miss the exit ramp. However, if you do, by chance, find out where she lives, you may regret it and certain men dressed in black might be forced to erase your memories. Tread carefully you have received due warning.

She did not exactly detest being a newlywed; in fact she gladly gave up the “single” status on her favourite social network for “married”, changed her surname on her identity document with a smile, and even changed her Facebook name to include all 5 of her husband’s names.

It was the adaptation from a single city girl to being the wife of a farmer that threw her. She was unpopular with the in-laws (who looked like the animated figures of a history book regarding the Voortrekker era), even before she married their son, as well as the rest of the nosy community where news grew tails and legs and claws and ran with lightning speed to drown themselves in the grapevine after which they exploded into a myriad different ending stories. It would make anyone lose their edge and Jane was not immune to the process.

Before we lose ourselves in the convoluted confessions however, we need to go back, right to the very moment when the fairytale started……..

Sit tight, hold on to your hat and enjoy the ride!