A writer that doesn’t write?

I started this blog with naive visions of a community of followers, all desperate to read the next post I put up. I’m not confident in many things, infact not much at all, but I know I can tell a good story. Like Stephen King I write from experience or nightmares, sometimes both, and really throw myself into the emotions of the character at any one time which leads to some fascinating car journeys home from work (I’ve bought on a panic attack once, just to write about it accurately). Within weeks I realised that blogging is not an instant ‘fame maker’ per say but I kept trying. Over the last few years, I’ve stopped completely – the occasional post going up followed by months of silence when viewers didn’t flock to my blog. I would look at people like Zoe Sugg, known as Zoella, Tanya Burr, Louise and other blogger/vloggers who have made a solid career out of blogging, each post getting thousands of comments and quickly spiralled into a deep depression where I questioned my ability to write.

One day I was sat watching Suits with my other half and a character, Jessica, said she had worked hard to build her Company from scratch (actually she’d stolen it from Daniel Hardman but lets not get into that). It was just a statement to move the episode along but it really hit home to me. I hadn’t tried, rather expected it to happen to me. How selfish is that? I want to be a novelist yet haven’t written a manuscript. I want followers but don’t follow people. I expect it to be handed to me on a plate and, at 26, I should certainly know better. It was nothing short of an epihany.

If I want people to reply to my stories, to start discussions surrounding what I’ve written or questions I’ve asked then I need to put the work in. The following are my targets:

* Start writing regularly – at least once a week, on a Sunday, building up to more.

* Reading/subscribing to other blogs I enjoy – simple really, share the love!

* Submit to competitions and really work at creating a ‘brand’ of myself – how can      people read my writing if I am not writing anything

* Be more personal – I am natural quite a recluse but I want you to get to know   me as well as my stories, often they overlap anyway

So I may not be Stephen King or Jodie Picoult…not just yet…but I am Sarah-Jayne, sometimes known as chronicles, and I will get my name out there! Now to find a pen…

Return of the Queen!

The water lapping against my body was a welcome feeling. I was so warm and it offered a little bit of relief, just a little. Opening my eyes, I tried to take in my surroundings and figure out where I was. Think back Charlotte I thought, the fog that encompassed my mind trying to thin itself and let memories seep through but they were patchy. A phone, a gold dress, pre going out cocktails, a text, a man and then… then… then nothing. Frustrated I sit up and look at my wrists for any stamps or signs of where I have been but they are plain except for a small scrape on my inner palm. Did I fall over? Running my hands over the rest of my body, I look for any more injuries, I have a bruise forming on my knee and a deep cut on my right hip, its tidy and clean, more like an incision then a cut. I place my hands on the floor and start to push myself up before a sharp stabbing pain rushes through my wrists and I fall back down, its jarred. Definitely fell down.

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Excerpt from a novel I am working on..

We, as Guardians of the Insculpo, have been fighting for peace since the beginning of time. We have seen destruction, jubilation, evolution and so much more incredible and scary things that are beyond explanation-all at the hands of the human race. We chose your planet because whilst you have the ability to create amazing things, to cure diseases that should be fatal and survive worldwide diseases such as the black plague, small pox and come out stronger on the other end but your inability to control your emotions prevents you from truly excelling.

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Play with me?

He’s gone. There one moment, vanished the next. My friend that I had cherished, loved and confided in for the last year. There was no warning, I hadn’t seen any boxes, nor had he told me about the move, not that he’s really speaking to me right now but you’d think he would let me know something this big.  Sitting on the window seat we used to share, I stare out at the climbing frame that looked so lonely amongst the green, the memories of our time playing on it. The hours we’ve spent on the swings or going down the slide, the garden was always full of laughter but now it just looked desolate.

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A living nightmare

‘Paralysed in fear’, a phrase I’ve heard my mother say a lot when describing the fight or flight response. Basically, when you’re presented with a situation that induces fear, you will naturally want to fight or run. I was the latter in a sense and often found myself unable to move. At first I thought this would only happen in ‘real’ situations such as a fight in the school yard, witnessing something violent or anything that would require me to run. I never thought that they fear would spread to my sleep aswell.
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Flash Fiction: 400 word short story

The sound of shuffled footsteps made Sergeant Charles Atwell jump, the remnants of a war not quite over plagued him, he knew he had to move or risk a repeat of last night. Pulling himself up from the hard floor, he winced as his amputation scar reacted to the cold air.  He pulled his jacket tighter, pushing the hollow sleeve into the torn pocket to try and stop any more air blowing up it and started walking. It was going to be a long time before he could find a warm shelter, he thought back to his life in the army.

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