Writing To Keep Busy

It’s been a while since I last updated my blog, and a lot of things have happened. The two jobs that I applied for in a local museum here in my very own city of Derry-Londonderry were rejected. Needless to say I was down for quite a while about that, pouring endlessly over the application forms I filled out, looking for any small detail that would have shed some light onto the fact that I didn’t even get an interview. Being unemployed is starting to get more difficult by the day. I relish in the opportunity to do little odd jobs. For example I was on BBC Radio Foyle again last Thursday and Friday, and this gave me a reason to get up in the morning.

If you would like to hear me on BBC Radio Foyle then just follow these links HERE and HERE.

Keeping myself busy is the one thing that helps to keep me moving forward. One minute I’ll be looking for jobs and then the next minute I will be cleaning the house, or writing, whether it be non-fiction or fiction.

642 things to write about

I made myself smile last night. I have a book, 642 Things To Write About by the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto, and it is packed to the rafters with writing prompts to keep your creative mind active. They even help to eliminate writers block. I don’t really know why I took to writing last night, usually I have to be in the mood to write before anything happens, but maybe it was the fact that I wasn’t in the mood last night that made some magic happen. I penned three things last night that I never thought I would, and I feel like sharing them.

writing


Prompt 1: You wake up by the side of the road lying next to a bicycle, with no memory and no wallet. What happens in the next hour?

(NB: I don’t know why but I made this story about a man)

The next hour was a total blur. He picked up the bike, which he could only assume was his, even though he was wearing no helmet or knee pads, and started walking down the eerie, deserted road. As he walked, he patted himself down and could find no wallet. There went the last hope of finding out exactly who he was, and where on earth he could be.

He kept up a steady pace walking beside the bike. He was wary of riding it, for fear it was what had gotten him into trouble in the first place. Deep, dark clouds started to spread across the sky, covering it like a heavy blanket. He picked up his pace, noticing that he was entering an industrial type area. Clearly the buildings were all closed and devoid of people, because each chain link gate he passed were locked up tighter than a bank vault. As fat droplets of rain started to collide with his forehead, he spotted a glowing sign up ahead. It was a petrol station by the look of it. He jogged towards it with the light weight bike in tow as the heavens started to open.

By the time he reached the petrol station, he was drenched right through, his teeth chattering with the chill. He deposited the bike at the entrance and walked through a solid wave of heat. The light of the store burned his retinas and the smell of petrol lingered in his nose as he made his way towards the counter. A portly, older woman was rummaging behind the till, and when she caught sight of him, she gasped, clamping her hand to her overly painted mouth. It was only then that he realised that his face and hands were burning with pain, and shards of jaggy pain were shooting up his back. He must have looked awful.

On the counter, a little out of sight, sat a wallet. He grabbed it and searched for the driver’s license. He pulled out the laminated card and stared at the photograph. He strained up to see his reflection in the mirrored sign behind the portly woman’s head and realised that the road burned face that stared back at him was identical to the image on the license. He glanced back down at the card in his hand as the woman made to call for medical help and read the name on the card.

“Carl Jameson,” he said out loud, not even recognising the name, or the sound of his voice.