Top Tips for Starting a Story

I am often asked, how do I get ideas for writing? There are many ways to approach the task, over the next couple of weeks I’ll be sharing some of my top tips.

Top tip number one: Eavesdrop, do not be afraid. Go into bars and sit alone with a notebook. Hide in supermarket aisles writing any fragments you can stumble upon. Sit in a busy park, catching the words as they fly through the air.I’ll share with you my favourite way to collect words, the advice I give myself when gathering words to create a new story.

First get invited to lots of parties. When you have arrived at your destination, head straight for, under the kitchen table – get comfortable, you’ll be there a while. Crumbs of conversations will get dropped, if you’re lucky you’ll get a full meal.

A demonstration: I arrive at the party, greeting my host graciously, whilst keeping my pace towards the kitchen table. After settling into my spot, in the darkness, protected by a table cloth made from twilight sky; I lick my finger and carefully collect word fragments. Balancing all the little letters on the edge of my hand, my eyes drink them in before I devour them. The way the words fall to the floor affects the taste. My experience changes when the speaker has been mulling them over, masticating each consonant, something like ‘if I could have anyone, it would be you’ contains an earthy sweetness of roasted vegetables or strawberries, soaked in balsamic, a kiss of sugar erupts into my mouth.

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Click Here To Try Drugs.

As I search for my identity through the debris of my past, looking for a topic to write about, an old friend taps me on the shoulder, Mr. Social Media – I’ve named him Mr.Facecrack. One that I’d placed firmly in the ‘Not to be socialised with again until my children are twenty’ box. I can’t ignore him though, if he’s not tapping me on the shoulder, he’s trying to poke me, which quite honestly, is not what I want. Reading through the virtual rubbish piles, piled high with teetering claims of over-achievement,  I’m here fingering ripped Rizlas and discarded addictions.  I have to acknowledge my heart picks up speed when I hear that familiar beep of new approval. Face-crack is at my door, he follows me around asking me to come out and play, ‘Who do you want to be today?’ circling my thoughts when I’d rather be writing a script or swimming in a healthy, full bodied way. He’s always there offering me a line that could temptingly change the reality I live in right now:-

‘Planning on shaving my hair off and running away to Nepal. If I get 1000 likes, I’m off.’

As a woman who is true to her word, once the die is cast and the words are written, I certainly can’t turn back. I’m only allowed one sneaky edit and even that is traceable, trackable, lines in the skin for all to see.

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My Inner Muse is a Harridan.


Stephen King says his muse ‘…lives in a cellar, chomps his cigar and makes magic.’ I wanted to know who mine is, so I decided to get in bed with my writer-self. I felt I have been neglectful lately, I expected her to perform, without knowing which buttons to press, or how to get her going.  So I asked her to talk to me about babies, mine are growing up fast and I certainly won’t be having any more. She didn’t want to talk to me about no babies. She said she has had to be a grown up for so long now, it’s her turn to be a child. She doesn’t care about babies, she said if she’s going to do any baby talk, first she would have to make a doll and it would go like this:-

Doll Maker

If I were to make a doll

I would first gather

sea-weed and bone

tie her together

with twine.

Her eyes would be

sea-glass. They would show

all the lives she has lived

reflected on the sea

ground surface.

I would dress her in

leather and decorate

her with blood of my own.


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Dirty Knickers


As a writer I reckon I should be setting up this mystique and persona around what I present to you, my audience. However I’ve never really been one to conform, I’m the kind of person who’ll tell you anything. I’ll happily tell you what colour my knickers are, or if I’m contemplating running away from my family responsibilities. I don’t keep secrets well, they sit inside of me until my insides boil and the words seep out through clenched teeth. This is all well and good and yet, as a writer I feel a certain obligation to work on my slight of hand, enhance the magical touches that are created behind the scenes before an article is published. In other words agonise over the editing process, cry over spelling mistakes, be shamed by grammatical errors. I have an impatient streak, that’s as ingrained as my veins. Born a month early, I don’t do late. Or waiting. Once I’ve written something, my fingers itch to press publish, as natural as completing a sentence with a full stop.

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