Backward Tram Journey : My life?


, , , , , , , , , ,

 #MothersQuote Always face the direction you intend to go, try not to look back 

I have always ‘tried’ to abide by my mother’s quote but this morning I did something different. I just did not feel like waiting the whole 8 minutes for the next tram.  Also I had a fear of being squashed up against the tram doors all the way to East Croydon, again!  So I  got on the tram that was heading in the opposite direction.  My initial logic was when all the passengers alighted at the end of the line I will be guaranteed a seat. Yet, I ended up where my journey had started. I journeyed backwards.


I was impatient and I feared I would not get a seat.

The tram terminates at New Addington and I was at Addington Village. I had backtracked two stops in order to indulge my fear of not getting a seat. I got a seat but I wasted time.
So how does this relate to my life?
Like my tram journey, my life has been steadily going backwards when it should be edging forward. I feel as though I am wasting precious time and when I get impatient I effortlessly resort to old useless habits.
For example, I am not as enthusiastic about my degree and definitely not focused as much on my writing, this has been my first blog in 2 months. I have been redrafting Part 3 to my Short Story : The After for quite a while now.
Simply due to fear.
I am so comfortable with being uncomfortable that I am not actually moving forward. Comparing a simple tram journey with one’s life may seem overly dramatic but when one is feeling temperamental all rationale gets thrown on the tracks [Excuse the pun!]
All because of fear.
My limiting thoughts read as follows: If I write, it will be rubbish! Should I get my degree, what will I do with it anyway?
When I am in this mindset [of non progress] at least I know what to expect etc.
Like my tram journey backwards I am familiar with the number of stops, duration etc. Yes, how boring! Not a challenge in sight hence no fear.
Is this really how we are supposed to live? In absolute predictability?
I like to imagine how invigorating and fulfilling life can be to have new experiences, meet new people and relish in a new environments.
All this can be achieved by pushing away fear and just move forward.
I wonder if other people can relate to this crazy phenomena of wanting to move forward but allowing fear to take hold/control.
Please feel free to leave any comments, thoughts or experiences as they will be greatly appreciated.

Tenderly Tolerating Tooting


, , , , , , , ,


I would just like to share my thoughts on the place where I was born and raised.

Tooting is located in South London and is snugged neatly between Balham, Earlsfield, Colliers Wood and Streatham.

One of its landmarks is Tooting Broadway underground station which was featured in the opening credits for the 1970s comedy sitcom ‘Citizens Smith’.

Whenever I return to my hometown, my heart warms. It’s as though my inner child reawakens and reminds me of my childhood memories and aspirations. Tooting capitivated me in its diverse world. As I grew older it suffocated me until I couldn’t take anymore and wanted out. I guess most teenagers feel this way about where they grew up. Same people, same shops and same everything!

Now when I return it’s like taking a breath of fresh air. As everywhere I look there remains an imprint of my childhood on the existing buildings and still cracked pavements. My memories are able to present themselves like a slideshow as my former thoughts, feelings and experiences are in a special place of their own around this town.

I am sentimental about the place where I was educated, where I socialised and where I just tried to figure complicated life stuff out. Back then there was this sense of community, as teenagers we called it ‘blatant nosey-ness’, which was very convenient for parents. Even though there were no mobiles phones my mother could tell me [whilst she was at work] that I had been hanging out. Oh yes, at exactly 3.55pm I had been in front of Marks & Spencer with my friends. And, she could name every single one of them: Janet, Louise and Jessie, and she knew I hadn’t been home. Why? Because I was still wearing my bottle green school uniform.

Tooting Market was constantly bustling with different products sold by enthusiastic vendors and I have to mention the ‘MEAT’ shop. This was where you would watch the young good-looking butchers flirt with your mum. Seeing your mum blush in those days was priceless.

There were many fruit and vegetable stalls that were robust with bright-coloured and healthy produce of West Indian origin. The fishmongers sold seafood of all types from prawns to snappers which were on display like artwork in crispy crushed ice. Always eye-catching and intriguing.

The market was always awash with a subtle reggae beat as the little record shop played the latest tunes from Jamaica to entice people to either dance or buy. It was always one or the other.

There was always this vibrant energy that was contained in and around Tooting. When I speak to my old classmates from school they tend to disagree and remark how much of a dump Tooting was and still is. That’s why I entitled this post ‘Tenderly Tolerating Tooting’ because even though I have tender feelings towards Tooting I probably just ‘tolerated’ it better.


Place To Be #1 – Tooting Library

The library was one of the few places I could go without my mother’s half an hour time limit. It was there that I sort of befriended an elderly man who talked at me. He would start each sentence with: ‘The trials of me, the homeless man, with my worldly possessions outside in a Tesco trolley!’ He claimed to be homeless. I say claim because there was never a trolley to be seen anywhere. He would read the daily newspapers but only the ones with ‘real news’ never the tabloids as they were for the ‘dumbsters’. He would snigger at any news article relating to politics especially anything to do with ‘THICK THATCHERISM’.

I learnt as much as I could comprehend at 14 about ‘The Wanky Borough of Wandsworth’ who he said ‘kept sticking parking meters all over the place but up their a**!’

Often he would refer to my ‘SWEET VALLEY HIGH’ book obsession and enquired after the ‘Twitty Twins’. After my account, he would chuckle, ‘Soon enough you will find that life ain’t SWEET, no VALLEYS around here and you might need to get HIGH! Anyway, keep reading! Good for you!’

Place To Be  #2 – Tooting Bec Common

Tooting Bec Common is still so timeless. The green grass, surgically naked trees all encompassed by the sounds of traffic on its outskirts infusing life into it, with a vibrant buzzing.

The squirrels brimming with curiosity, stealing glances  and popping their heads from behind trees before scurrying away with careful balance onto fragile branches. All these minute bustles of activity is of great interest whilst sitting on a cold bench and just observing the natural system in which the common functions in.

The place to be remains the same. As yesterday. Last week.  And quite possibly the last year. It is said that time waits for no man so in comparison the Common offers an immediate standstill within its enclosed space.

Photo by Charl Asuit

I recollect my many attempts to jog around this Common and even though I had youth on my side my level of endurance was nil.

I remember laying on the grass and staring upwards until my eyes saw white blurry rings. Every emotion I felt as a teenager has been perserved and released into the essence of the Common. So upon my return I can feel them as they rediscover me. Whether good or bad I can choose to embrace or cast them away.

I have built up such a mental and near physical relationship with Tooting Bec Common; sometimes I feel I AM the common.

I am grateful to have known such a place like Tooting…

The Versatile Blogger Award


I have been nominated by JaseR75 for The Versatile Blogger Award!I feel very happy & proud that readers take precious time out to read the little space that I can make use of my many voices!

JaseR75 is a ‘Resurrected Writer’ who is breathing life into his passion for writing. Check his blog out here: JaseR75

1. Nominate 15 fellow bloggers for The Versatile Blogger Award
2. Add an image of the Versatile Blogger Award
3. In the same post, thank the blogger who nominated you in a post with a link back to their blog
4. In the same post, share 7 completely random pieces of information about yourself
5. In the same post, include this set of rules
6. Inform each nominated blogger of their nomination by posting a comment on each of their blogs


1] Always route for the underdog
2] Support worldwide good causes
3] Always thought my sister ‘Natalie’ had a cuter name than mine
4] Annoyed that the ‘zero’ keypad on my MacBook no longer works
5] Never usually name drop [as above]
6] Love to be by the seaside/beach
7] A bit too talkative


1] Malavika

2] Jaser75 Resurrected Writer

3] Sofrolushes Lushes Brown Thoughts

4] Dionne Lister

5] Andrea K Castillo A Life in the day of Andrea

6] Sven Seebeck Sven Seebeck Photography

7] Thea Atkinson

8] Peter Hobbs Ramblings, Reviews & Interviews

9] Charity Parkerson

10] SJI Holliday

11] Dionne Solberg The Ramble Inn

12] Nathan Lawcynell A Man’s Thoughts, ancedotes and experiences

13] Maureen Hovermale Zencherry

14] Amberr Meadows  Like a Bump on a Blog

15] Justin Bogdanovitch A Writer’s Life

16] Amber Norrgard Life As Amber Knows It

Short Story : The After [Pt.2]


, , , , , , , ,

All at once the bustling London Street is plunged into an eerie silence. The muteness carries a resonance that fills the air with high-pitched tension. The nervous glances of pedestrians have formed a common bond with the person nearest to them. What one could not see, one could feel. Tragedies create a vacuum, a cavity of disbelief, numbness and fear, into which the participants are helplessly drawn.

The mixture of burnt rubber and leaking petrol is pungent and hangs as a souvenir to attest that an unchangeable event has just occurred.

The pause in time ends as the sound of sirens reassures all that help is on its way. The buses start to blow their horns and differing ring-tones can be heard in all directions as delayed reactions begin to trickle through.

The unwilling spectators start to move towards the vehicle but hesitatingly retreat to their former positions. The vehicle is a squashed Volkswagen which is cradling a young woman.

The crunching of glass underfoot seems to go on forever as the paramedics rally around Gabrielle to work with urgency. Their gloved hands are experienced as they move in unison to tend to the only visible casualty.

Helicopter propellers swirl just above the ground and two doctors jump out in a rush to reach the injured woman. Police at the scene are  forcing onlookers to step back and observe from a less intrusive position.

A drip is administered and the paramedics dutifully pump her chest, but hopelessness is etched on their faces. As one minute drags through to the next the reality of the patient’s condition is irrefutable.

She has no pulse. The oxygen mask covered most of her face but it did not conceal the last signs of life. Her brown eyes, which struck the male paramedic as beautiful, shed a tear as if to give reassurance to the first-aiders that all is ok and she is leaving.

Moments later Gabrielle appears at the roadside sitting cross-legged. She couldn’t help but feel broken inside like her former physical self. It felt like a mighty hangover and the smell of petrol made her head ache.

A sea of realisation swept over her and its unforgiving currents pulled her under as she is forced to comprehend the loss of her life

It is chilling watching the efforts made on her body, which lay amidst the failed life saving peripheral.

Approaching her physical shell, she stares teary-eyed. It is a strange encounter – there are no bright lights, no peace. She feels tortured and wretched.

Even though she is standing next to the paramedics, there was a blurry, transparent barrier separating her from everyone. There is no such barrier for the noise – she is hypersensitive to everyone’s feelings and is overwhelmed by their shock, fright and grief. The emotions are so intense she has trouble distinguishing which are her own.

Oblivious, people are passing through and around her.

Glass was scattered far and wide, embedded in the grass, hedges and car tops;  even adorning the entrance of the 429 bus.  The bus had driven into the path of the spinning car, stopping it abruptly. This produced more broken glass and twisted metal.

As Gabrielle moved to walk away, she heard a muted sound – ignoring it, she failed to notice the broken body of a young man in expensive shoes.

Two Weeks Later

Drew stood at a distance from the small gathering. The sky grey and stirring up for rain, the few people present were cold and mostly looking more preoccupied with the impending downpour then the proceedings. The local cemetery seemed less sinister than he had imagined. Part of him couldn’t bear to acknowledge the absentees and he was surprised to find he actually gave a damn about that. He realises he is invisible to the people he had once known and a part of him feels alive with guilt. When the rare occasion of funerals came about he had always managed to make alternative arrangements. It would always seem like a pleasant day for a round of golf. Or he would find some other self-indulgent activity such as taking pleasure in female company, usually for monetary exchange.

Now he realises the significance of paying one’s last respects – just in case they, like he, happen to be watching. Noticeably absent are his father and wife, there is a tinge inside, which he could only identify as his conscience.

Then Drew notices the lady. The same lady that had been in two places at once.  She had lain lifeless beside a wrecked vehicle as well as sitting as though in meditation across the road. This same lady had walked past as Drew took his last breath by the bus stop. She was no stranger to him as he had seen her on several occasions.

On this day she hovered on the outskirts of a lively congregation of funeral goers. Funeral was not the right word, more ‘a celebration of life’. People abandoned the traditional mournful black and wore reds, pinks, baby blues, and even alluring white. They all smiled, posed for pictures and joyfully sang songs.

Drew’s curiosity is stirred as he observes the lady who has focused her attention on a mature fellow.  Tall, well-dressed, attractive and who did not know a word of the hymns.

Without good reason Drew was drawn to this brown eyed beauty. He felt a connection. She was present, yet she too seemed absent. Like him she was ethereal, and no longer of the physical world.

With the need to approach her, Drew impulsively stepped in Gabrielle’s direction.

My Incompatability with Writing


, , , , , , , ,

Over the last few months, maybe even longer, I have convinced myself that I have issues with writing. The reason being I have been wrangling with the following question: Why Am I Not Writing Consistently?

I have been creating many issues about writing, which are simply excuses to not sit down and just write. My main scapegoat is PROCRASTINATION.

So in classic ‘Veronica Style’ I would read every and any blog that mentioned this ‘troublesome’ word.

I even heartily reveled in my ‘apparent’ procrastination, after all this is what I do. Then after reading loads of blogs, I mean lots! I learnt that I am not treating my work with any form of respect and wasting time. For example, when I mention my blog to anyone I add,’ It’s not that good!’ So if it was not that good why would anyone waste his or her precious time to even look at it!

I had to get hard on myself and ask ‘Is this what you really want to do?’ ANSWER: ‘Yes!’ Especially as I am easily motivated and almost everything inspires me.

There is no doubt in my mind that I love to be creative with words, yet there was still this problem of not writing. Everything else came first.

When I have an idea that I should be developing and jotting down, all of a sudden my ironing is priority, my grandmother gets several visits from me in a week and I am more obsessive about my Spanish listening exercises.

I decided to look within and weed out my incompatibility with writing, as something was amiss. Here are my findings of why I was not applying the basic ‘gutso’ skills required to take my own writing seriously.

1] Fear – Fear of not producing good quality writing

2] Believe – My limited self-belief interferes with the completion of any work

3] Patience – Lack patience therefore rushing through editing/proof-reading

4] Discipline – Not setting myself a set routine to write/blog

5] ‘Show/Tell’- Still working on this concept

In my 1st year at University, I began learning writing techniques and this really stifled my writing voice. I felt bogged down by all the technical stuff I had to consider whilst writing. However now when I do actually write I take pleasure in doing long exhaustive writing. My writing voice may not be exceptional to some but it has to be right for me.

In conclusion, when I get over my FEAR and start to BELIEVE in my work I will not feel as anxious as I do to publish posts. With PATIENCE I can take the valuable time needed to edit/redraft where appropriate, lastly I need to DISCIPLINE myself by committing to a regular writing routine.

Unlike the rest on my Incompatibility List, which are ‘easy-peasy’, with ‘SHOW & TELL’ I face a challenge but who said writing was a stroll in the park?

Short Story – The After [Pt.1]


, , ,


Time: 8.30am

The crisp, cold wind was yet another wondrous attribute to Drew’s day. The London morning shows appreciation by chilling his cheeks and rendering them pink. The wind whistling through the taxi window is sweet in his ears. He looked and felt good. His usual shrewd, business-like manner is consumed in admiration of himself. His day will blossom into a sparkling success, yet wrapped up amongst this confidence was an unfamiliar feeling. A feeling he cannot name overshadows his anticipation of triumph.

Drew predicts by 11.00am, he will receive another great financial achievement, which in turn will enrich both his bank account and ever-growing ego.

As Drew’s handcrafted Crockett & Jones shoe touches the pavement, the euphoric feeling within descends to the end of his feet. He looks down at his shoes. Very dapper, indeed – a sign of his taste for the good life, his unrealistic ambitions and his elevated self opinion. Climbing out of the black cab, he turns his head upward to appreciate the place of his employment.

The intimidating building shunts out against its more humble peers. Its glass structure does not hold any distinctive characteristics – it cannot lay claim to any cultural or artful representation.

This over enlarged goblet is an idle piece of modern Lego plonked in the middle of London’s older, more charismatic signature landmarks. It is emotionless but perfect for the souls who breathe life into the business of money making – souls like Drew.

‘Fare!’ The cabbie roars. He awkwardly wrenches his head around to gain eye contact with this would be runaway passenger.

Drew startled by the severance of his thoughts and surprised that the black man in the driver seat did not have a distinguished accent. Drew smiled slyly and handed over the £20 note. Holding his gaze with unnecessary aloofness, Drew bid the cab driver a good day, ‘But not as good as mine,’ Chuckled Drew.

Bemused, Drew makes his way towards the building. The pin-striped suit complimented his tall frame, which represented beauty to the fairer sex and a beast to his fellow men. He was a true ambassador to professionalism.

Now his simplest task lay ahead and there was not an ounce of doubt that the Board of Directors would sign his Custodian Portfolio; to complete the most lucrative deal his company would ever endorse. Life is great. Win, win.

Still there is the little matter of home. His wife Becky is still sore about his slight misdemeanour with a stripper named Kandii. Drew knew Becky would never leave him, and a week away to the Maldives should win her over. A week discussing ‘her’ problems in the marriage will be manageable, if barely. Suffering from her constant bleating on about matters that were of little significance. Her threats of leaving were numerous and hollow. Drew would have discarded her already if it had not been for her parents who had secured her financially.

Drew’s long strides were fitting for a self-assured gentleman who subconsciously parts the crowds of pedestrians conferring with each other.

The entrance, a huge metal and glass revolving system, was in place. With the skills of an experienced Double Dutch jumper, a visitor has to precisely time their ascent and then similarly pay equal attention to their dismount.

Drew graces this contraption with ease and anticipates the sight of his symmetrically perfect features reflecting in the glass. On any other day the glass magnifies his image and cascades it across all the doors. On this occasion there was no such profile; Drew feels a dark uneasiness as he searches in vain for his reflection. It is not there.

He orders any bad thoughts to the back of his mind whilst noticing that the reception area is significantly colder than outside. Reaching his desk he answers the boss’s summons to his office. Grabbing his multi-million pound portfolio, Drew winks at the red-headed temp as he swishes by. He straightens his tie and clears his throat. He knocks and enters. The following conversation behind the heavy wooden doors was never to be reiterated to anyone by Drew. Well not in this lifetime.

Time 9.36am

Drew leaves the room – Minus that portfolio. The only thing Drew can think of at this moment is the need for fresh air. Drew wants the sensation of the morning chill on his face again. He takes the lift to the top floor and makes his way towards to the roof. He climbs the metal stairs to the fire exit.

He opens the door and leans against it. He feels the need to be sick and hopes fresh air will alleviate the nausea. He closes his eyes and starts to walk backwards. The boss’s voice keeps droning in his head. Drew keeps on walking, walking, walking,


Time 9.45am

Gabrielle’s eyes are wide, frozen by the chaotic episode that has just played out before her. Too instantaneous to invoke a reaction, yet the rate at which it unravelled was so slow; it was dilatory enough for her to absorb the sheer horror of what had just taken place.

She lay motionless, her face upward at the sky. Its blueness offers some sympathy whilst subsiding over the dense atmosphere, which contained disarray and tragedy – a calming gesture amidst the panic?

The shattered glass had landed around Gabrielle, catching in her hair, small shards stabbing into her neck…

Random: My ‘Man Eye-Liner’ List


, , , , , , , ,

So here I go! This week I purchased a copy of Russell Brand’s latest book called Booky Wooky 2. (Made an exception regarding the book title!)

I have recently come to find that Brand is a sound writer after reading two articles: Tribute to Amy Winehouse. And a piece on the London Riots.

Russell Brand is a surprising pensman, then I got to thinking: HE WEARS EYE-LINER!

It seems I notice, for lack of a better word, an effeminate man. Or am I being presumptuous by stating a man who wears eye-liner is effeminate? Whatever! A lick of eyeliner, so what? I would take a second glance.

My ‘Man Wearing Eye Liner’ list:

It started when I was younger with Adam Ant… Back then that Prince Charming cover was a work of art for me:

Little bursts of craziness over the pop singer named Marilyn:

I followed the media frenzy surrounding Michael Jackson:

I mourned with Turkey for Baris Akarsu [Probably my fave]:

Rocking secretly to Jared Leto from 30 Seconds To Mars:
So I have added Russell Brand to my ‘Man Eyeliner’ list. Mainly because of his writing, so maybe its not just about the eye liner. These men must have had another attribute that I was/am charmed to.
Disclaimer: This eye liner thing ain’t me – It was the 80s!!!
My main squeeze is Wentworth Miller and I have yet to see him take out his Maybelline…

Denied Reprieve: Edward Earl Johnson [1987] Denied Clemency: Troy Davis [2011]


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Today I read an article about Troy Davis who has been denied clemency by the parole board in Georgia, U.S. This revived in me the same sense of helplessness and sadness I had felt back in 1987 when Edward Earl Johnson too was denied a reprieve and subsequently put to death, courtesy of the U.S State of Mississippi.

As part of an English school assignment, my class was required to watch a BBC documentary named Fourteen Days in May. It showed the last 14 days of death row inmate Edward Earl Johnson. He was convicted for the rape of a woman and the murder of a police officer. It showed the emotional battle Johnson’s British lawyer Clive Stafford-Smith fought to prove his client’s innocence. What was also evident was the courage Johnson displayed whilst trying to cope with the approaching finality of his life. All he could hold onto was his faith that justice will prevail and his right for life will be granted. Sadly he was wrong for he was denied clemency, his last words were:’ Just get this over with’. It took him approximately 10 long minutes to die by cyanide gas.
Edward Earl Johnson
For me, being so young and untouched by life’s injustices Johnson’s case was a rude awakening. So from that day I had opposed the death penalty. I even had my own mantra when the subject was discussed: ‘legalised murder’.
Fortunately, I have never had to experience the loss of a loved one through violence and I suppose I, am not in a position to cast any judgement on ‘an eye for an eye’ but until such time I will still defend my stance against the death penalty. My ‘weak’ reason is that there could be a slight chance that an innocent person could be convicted by the state. I guess I am an advocate of “What if?” My thoughts extend to Troy Davis and his family at this time…
Not forgetting the family of the police officers who were killed and for many years sought closure even if meant to support an obvious miscarriage of justice.
And lastly, for countless of times over the years: RIP Edward Earl Johnson 
Conclusion: The court order for the execution of Troy Davis was carried out on 21 September 2011

Tupac Remembered…A Girl’s View


, , , , , , , , ,

As today is the 15th year since Tupac Shakur died, here are my thoughts…

I remember back in the 80s I had first encountered Hip Hop, it was in the whole Break-Dancing era with Shabba Doo and Boogaloo Shrimp. However, I was more interested in the dance moves rather than the rhymed voice over an electronic sounding beat.

I had recalled vaguely glimpsing a trailer of a film ‘Juice’ where Tupac played a character named Bishop. There was this familiar ‘something’ about Tupac Shakur which I couldn’t quite place.

Almost passing the Odeon Cinema in Streatham, my friends and I saw the ‘Juice’ placard and on a whim we got off the bus to see this ‘black’ film. Back then a coming of age film with an all black cast of ‘fit’ men was a rarity.

We were amazed and I was like…that Bishop is crazy but sexy!!!

His whole personality reminded me of my friend’s brother who was the best looking big brother in Tooting, South London.

Tupac portrayed a near psychopath but because he was easy on the eye – it was perfectly acceptable for him to be this controlling maniac!

Then watching ‘MTV’ and ‘The Box’ on Sky, he re-appeared: Yep that’s when I realised this guy was a rapper.

The video was ‘Brendas Got A Baby’ which had tenderhearted lyrics towards an abused teenager. I thought to myself : Goodness he gets us! By us I meant young women especially those who are in difficult circumstances.

Even though he had pandered to the whole ‘bad boy’ type of image and over-stressed ‘keeping it real’. It was the balladic lines in his female dedicated renditions which won us over. Admittedly, I did not care too much for his harder so-called ‘gangsta’ stuff. Hence the reason why prior to the film I didn’t pay much attention to him. I felt Hip Hop stopped being fun after the whole Breakin’ era. Seeing NWA shouting down the camera did nothing for me, so Hip Hop took a bit of a hiatus yet I paid attention to Tupac Shakur. He was every girl’s future ‘husband’…lol!

When he began to make more news which was less about his music, this seemed to draw me in even more. I just loved his energy in interviews and his choice of words to justify his actions.  Whether he was right or wrong, he sounded right. When prominent political figures starting to express their dislike towards him. I, of course, stood with Team Tupac.

His music is known world wide. How can this ‘thug, gangsta’ relate to so many non-thug, non-gangsta people? Maybe within his ever changing persona, had his listeners found a bit of themselves or of who they would like to be : Outspoken yet articulate, energetic, honest, and impulsive.

Towards the end of his life I just could not understand him as he was so contradictory on many levels.

Tupac could be, and often was, held to ransom for his reactionary bad behaviour. This unfortuntately, defined him. Today I choose to focus on the good stuff like when he told disheartened young women to ‘Keep Ya Head Up’ when no one else did. Yeah he said ‘bitch’ and ‘hoe’ but he wasn’t the only one at the time. As a mother protects their young I guess I was just blindly defending his actions whether good or bad.

I had, in my own mind, a ‘rocky relationship’ with Tupac (the rapper and actor) as sometimes I liked him and sometimes I didn’t. Then Tupac (the man) with no effort at all…would be my friend, protector and lover again!!!

Tupac was a talented ‘words’ man. He was a bit of a poet, a bit of a charmer and a bit of trouble. A bit of everything!

From his birth, poor childhood, success and finally to his death in Las Vegas his whole life seemed to be a formulated rags to riches tale with the classic tragic ending.


My Work Zone: To Tree or Not To Tree…


, , , , , , ,

Whilst reviewing my notebook, I had made a note of More details; referring to trees. Huh? How ambitious! I had hoped to add more characteristics to the tree in which my main character was hiding in.

One of my main challenges in writing [amongst others] is describing the surroundings of my characters or setting the scene: The house, the street, the school corridor, virtually anywhere my characters located. So I took it upon myself to give an account of the tree in which my character climbed. What a task! As much as I enjoy landscapes and green scenery I just cannot illustrate the image in words!

I googled the ‘anatomy’ or the parts of a tree as I could not conjure up any tree-related terms beyond branches and trunk. I found out so much about trees and finally making use of my MACMILLIAN VISUAL DICTIONARY, I am now able to name the different parts of this ‘woody plant’.

Almost obsessed I began to take a greater interest in some of the ‘climb-able’ trees in my area.

I even started to take pictures to give myself a sense of feeling that I am actually working on my novel. ‘Research’ is what I was calling it.

Anyway here are a few pictures of trees which I deemed ‘climb-able’ and tried to describe in words. Goodness, who said writing was easy? Nobody I guess!

In conclusion I resolved that less is probably more especially in this case and just settled with: ‘She climbed the tree and sat with her back against the trunk, looking down at her two former friends.’

Plain and simple, with no extras!

Which poses a question: Was I really researching or was this procrastination at its finest???

Either way, trees are pretty interesting!

BTW: I did proof read this post…lol!