After years of living in a cramped London flat, I’m now in a house and have more space than I know what to do with. Then I realised that this awkward spot beneath the stairs works perfectly as a reading nook.

The basket is full of books and magazines on nature and hiking, the stack beside them is full of books on walking, and there’s a couple of pieces of landscape- and walking-inspired word art on the wall from a couple of people I’ve interviewed for The Writer’s Walk: poet Tim Rich and artist Mike Abrahams.

I talk a lot about walking and writing but less so about the reading that it goes hand in hand with. Beneath these pages are stories of adventure, resilience and connection with nature and ourselves. Books have always been my safe place, offering comfort when life has been chaotic, answers when I’ve felt lost, and inspiration when I’ve felt doubt. There are books here by people I know, and there are people I now know through reading their books and then reaching out to them.

In the few weeks since I created the nook, it’s become my favourite place in the house. I sit here every morning with my first cup of tea of the day. I dip in and out of the pages, I stick post-it notes to the ones I want to return to, and I scribble quotes I want to think about in a notebook. It’s the loveliest gift I could have given myself.

What about you? Do you have a special place where you like to curl up with a good book?

This is the opening sentence from Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s 1830 novel, Paul Clifford. It’s become the poster-child of bad story starters – although, according to Literary Hub, the phrase ‘It was a dark and stormy night’ was around long before Bulwer-Lytton turned it into his novel opener.

It also inspired a fiction contest with a difference. Since 1982, the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest has challenged people to write an atrocious opening sentence to the worst novel never written.

I’ve entered the contest a couple of times but have yet to win (or even be a runner up). So there’s a conundrum: were my entries so bad they wouldn’t even pass muster in this tongue-in-cheek comp? Or were they actually too good to win? Here’s a sentence I submitted a few years back – I’ll let you decide!

The moon was rising like a round ball of sourdough that had been left on a windowsill to swell — not a south-facing windowsill because you don’t want it to rise too quickly only to flop the moment you retrieve the dough from the bowl, but an east-facing windowsill, the direction from which the moon nearly always rises.

We walk around the galleries. I point out the cuneiform tablets and you tell me about the shrunken heads. We make inappropriate and difficult jokes. Our conversation is strictly confined to the contents of the locked display cabinets. Our private thoughts are likewise captive.

You tell me this is one of your favourite places. I ask you when you last came here and you say that it’s been more than five years. I think: if this is one of your favourite places, how come you’ve not been here in so long? I think that maybe you like the idea of something being your favourite, but you’re dissatisfied with the reality.

You’re thinking the same thing.

This is an extract from a short story I wrote in around 2013, inspired by a visit to the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford. (Although I took this photo somewhere else.)

I’ve submitted this story to various writing competitions, which you generally have to pay to enter, and to a few writing magazines and journals, which are generally free to submit to, but you usually don’t get paid for your work if they publish it.

This story was rejected multiple times until 2018 when it was shortlisted in a competition run by a flash fiction journal called Ink Tears – which no longer seems to exist as their website has gone. They sent me a very nice email to say that the piece has merit and to keep submitting as it may very well get selected by another contest.

So far it hasn’t. And that’s okay. Writing is subjective. Every reader is unique and takes something different from a piece. Every competition, magazine, journal, editor, agent and publisher is looking for something specific. Even when you think you’ve matched your piece to their tastes and criteria, they might tell you that it’s the wrong fit for them.

I stopped submitting for a while. Partly because of the cost of entering writing contests. Partly because it’s deflating to get the rejections. Partly because I was also working hard on my professional writing job as a copywriter, which is where my talents are stronger.

But in October last year, around the time of my birthday which is a good time to wipe the slate clean and begin again, I decided to start submitting my pieces again. And to my great joy, one of my tiny pieces of writing was accepted.

I’ve had loads of writing rejections over the years but the biggest rejections can come from not even trying.

Don’t let fear hold you back from sharing your words.

Once upon a morning dreary, rose from my bed, weak and teary,
Dizzy headed and faint, a reviving teabag of plentiful pour
To the cupboard, I went flapping, searching for the dark blue wrapping,
How very strange was the wrapping, wrapping found behind the door,
"Tis bitter coffee" I uttered, "stuck behind the cupboard door–
Only this, and nothing more."

Between 2009 and 2010 I was at Falmouth University, studying for a Master’s degree in Professional Writing. One of the core units was Business and Features Writing – which included things like marketing and brands, research, structure, media releases, direct mail, web writing, report writing, and more. It was a brilliant foundation for my life as a freelance copywriter. Among the many writing assignments I did that year, was this:

“Write a poem (no more than 200 words) imagining what life would be like for a user of a particular brand if that brand didn’t exist. You can write this from your own point of view, or from someone else’s entirely.”

Now, I don’t consider myself a poet. But in 2009 I knew even less about poetry than I do now, so I felt truly stumped by the task. So I decided to use an existing poem – in this case, The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe – and change the words to make it about Tetley tea bags, the brand I’d decided to write about.

The result was… not great. Looking at it again almost 15 years later, I find myself cringing. In particular, the first half of the second line is clunky and really doesn’t work and it trips up the entire piece.

But this piece of writing also shows how far I’ve come as a writer. You see, although the finished result wasn’t as polished as the famous poem I’d used as a template, my approach to the assignment was incredibly helpful. By rewriting Poe’s poem, I learned to notice, and think about, rhyme, rhythm, structure, pace, punctuation, sentence length and language – the essential ingredients that make up anything we write, be it prose or poetry, fiction or fact.

Sometimes, starting with a blank page can feel intimidating. So when that happens, try rewriting something you’ve written, or take a poem or piece of prose written by someone else and try and change it. See what happens when you change the viewpoint or the topic. What does it teach you about your own writing and how you can develop it?

I leave you with the first stanza of Poe’s poem – with apologies to both him and Tetley!

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door–
Only this, and nothing more."

From The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

From Sometimes by Mary Oliver

January is typically the time when we hatch our plans for the year and make new year resolutions. I’ve never been particularly good with resolutions, but these words from Mary Oliver remind me to look at life with fresh eyes, to search for the joy and to write about it. What will you pay attention to this year?

The tree stands proudly

Lights are lit; the star atop

Christmas is a wrap.

In 2014 I wrote one haiku a day. Reading it now, it feels like a tiny journal that documents my year – the highs, the lows and all the mundane beauties in between.

This is the one I wrote on Christmas Eve that year.

This is also my final post of the year. I wish you seasonal joy and look forward to walking and writing with you again next year. Happy Holidays!

the man in the park

smells of freshly cut flowers

and dirt-crusted hands

I was inspired to write this fragment after seeing a man walking through my local park, carrying a bunch of flowers that I’m fairly certain he’d pilfered from a flower bed. I wrote it on 14 July 2014 as part of my year of writing 1 haiku a day. I'd forgotten about it until October 2023 when The Daily Haiku called for submissions to the LEAF journal issue 2 and I revisited my 365 haiku in search of something I could submit. I sent them 5 haiku and was delighted when they chose this one. It’s nestled alongside some very fine haiku indeed and I hope you’ll take a moment to explore them all.

Image is from the cover of LEAF Issue Two, published December 2023.

We papered over the sun and replaced it with a red light bulb. Sixty pence of bulb for sixty watts of love.

This fragment was inspired by this caged light inside a toilet cubicle, at an east London bar that’s now closed. The toilets were originally covered in wallpaper, but were painted red a few years later – floor, walls and ceiling. You can see traces of the original wallpaper beneath the paint.

Lights! Tinsel! Action!
When mild-mannered Penny lands her dream job as a screenwriter she thinks all her dreams have come true. Until she discovers she has to co-write the script with renowned womaniser, Brad. As the deadline looms and the tension builds between the two writers will Penny be able to write her own happy ending?

In December 2020 I entertained my friends myself by creating an alternative advent calendar. Instead of opening a cardboard calendar window each day and finding a chocolate, I wrote fictional film blurbs with a seasonal twist. It was a daily dose of joy during a properly miserable time. This is the one that kicked it off on 1 December 2020.

Perhaps it’ll inspire you to try a little festive writing this season?

Jean-Michel watches me as I sleep.

Observes my sighs and twitches. Sees me sink deep into the pillow during the night.

Can he hear my dreams? I hope not.

But when I wake, he’s smiling.

This delightful piece of art hangs in my bedroom and it inspired me to write this fragment. I enjoy ekphrasis – which is the fancy word for writing in response to a work of art, photo, painting or image. They’re wonderful sources of inspiration.

This piece was made by artist Alison Aye who hand-stitches things discarded by Londoners. It’s hard to see the detail on this image, but the photo of Jean-Michel Basquiat, and the crown, come from two different magazines, which she carefully cut out before stitching them to a page of folio paper. Exceptionally delicate stitching which must be incredibly hard to do on paper.

I saw this street art on Brick Lane, in east London, a couple of months ago, took a photo and then found it again today. It reminded me of something I’d written in my Thoughts and Observations notebook earlier this year:

You can’t bring something new into your life without letting go of something old.

You can’t bring in the positivity without letting go of the negatives.

You can’t step into the future without saying goodbye to the past.

I often find pairs of abandoned shoes on my walks. It’s sort of become a ‘thing’. Am I the only person who experiences this? Maybe it’s because I live in central London and a lot of unwanted items are discarded on the street.

I was looking through the photos on my phone and found one of a pair of plimsoles abandoned on a beach. It reminded me of this poem by Spike Milligan, which was inspired by John Masefield’s Sea Fever.

I must go down to the sea again,
    to the lonely sea and the sky;
I left my shoes and socks there -
    I wonder if they're dry?

Licked. Stuck. Mailed.

After a nasty landing in a valley of thistles, Wilhelmina’s broomstick had flown its last. She looked into traditional flights, but they were too expensive and no one would give her a ticket in exchange for a love potion. Passing the Post Office gave her an idea: she would fly by airmail. Turning herself into a first class stamp was easy; the unpleasant part was being licked and stuck to the envelope.

It was Halloween last week, which reminded me of this little piece I wrote for Paragraph Planet which was published in July 2013.

Paragraph Planet is a creative writing website that publishes one 75-word paragraph every day. Anyone can submit something – the only restraint is that the piece must be 75 words exactly, including the title. If you want to try it yourself, you can submit your pieces on their website.

If I had blue wings

I'd fly up to the moon man

For tea and crumpets

It’s the full moon tomorrow. It’s the Hunter’s Moon – also called the travel moon and the dying grass moon. I think ‘dying grass moon’ sounds a bit forlorn, so I much prefer the idea of a travel moon.

Speaking of moons, in January 2009 Rob Self-Pierson, set off to walk the British Isles by the light of the full moon. Ten years later, he wrote about it in his book Moonwalking. Part travel writing and part memoir, it’s a witty and vulnerable account of losing the love of your life then trying to find yourself again by walking in weird and wonderful places, and meeting new people, under the full moon.

At the start of the book, Rob shares his Nan’s name for the moon: Phoebe. In Greek mythology, Phoebe was one of the first Titans and the original owner of the site of the Oracle of Delphi and the word itself means ‘shining’ or ‘bright’. Phoebe is also one of the moons of Saturn.

Rob and I are planning to take a moonwalk together in search of Phoebe, so more to follow on how that goes in a future edition of The Writer’s Walk.

In the meantime, you might want to revisit Walking beneath the moon – the edition where I shared an idea for walking beneath the full moon and paired it with a reflective writing exercise.

Wicked, lascivious, witch! They cried, as they chased me through Oxford’s cobbled streets.

I was barefoot and naked, save for moonlight's robes. Eventually, at midnight, I was trapped. Squeezed into this bottle.

Waiting within my silvered and voluptuous cage, I dream of being free. My anger is bright and fierce.

When I get out, there'll be more than a peck 'o trouble.

I wrote this sestude in 2013 when I was on a Dark Angels Master Class at Merton College, Oxford. The sestude is a form of writing created by the writers’ organisation, 26. It can be in any form or genre, but must be precisely 62 words: 26 reversed.

As part of the Master Class, we visited The Pitt Rivers Museum (one of my fave museums of all time) where we were invited to explore the exhibits. I discovered this tiny silvered bottle, small enough to fit perfectly within the palm of any brave hand that dares touch it. The label attached to it reads:

Silvered & stoppered bottle,
said to contain a witch.
Obtained about 1915 from
an old lady living in a
village near Hove, Sussex.
She remarked “And they do say
there be a witch in it, and if
you let un out there’ll be a
peck o’ trouble.”
Pres. by Miss M.A. Murray, 1926

After the people went inside, the flowers remained in the earth where they belong.

And silent beauty crept across the land.

This is a fragment I wrote on 28 March 2020 and found in my notebook this week. I’ve paired it with this photo of wildflowers and olive trees, which I found on my phone. I can’t remember where it was and there’s no location marker on the photo, so I’m guessing it was in Spain or Greece because of the olive trees.

I was reminded of the fragment I’d written because I bought a bunch of flowers this week to brighten my flat. Which reminded me of my Nanna.

My Nanna didn’t like bunches of cut flowers. She always said that she thought flowers should be left in the ground where they belong. So, I’m sorry, Nanna. And I hope you forgive me for this bunch of cheerfulness.

A Fine Wish
By Sarah Farley

She waits for her son to collect her. Late as always, but what is lateness but just another moment in life.

Earlier, at the house, she’d overheard him whispering with his wife. Cloistered and clipped, it was a conversation she was not meant to catch.

But she’d caught it anyway, despite the safety of the kitchen door. And now their infectious words were spreading. Spreading from her ears. Taking seed in her mind. Trickling through her body. And she knew that not a single corner of her would be spared.

The day will soon be as dark as her reflection, and she wishes that her son would hurry. Would return to pick her up before the rain dips down to refill the cracks in the pavement.

And yet. Maybe this time he won’t come back for her. And that could be a fine wish, too.

This is a piece I wrote for Visual Verse: An Anthology of Art and Words, in response to an image by Omid Armin. It appeared in Volume 07, Chapter 4 – please follow this link to see the published piece alongside the image.1

Starting in 2013, Visual Verse fostered collaboration by publishing one image on the first of every month and inviting writers to respond by writing 50–500 words in just one hour. Other than some simple guidelines, there were no restrictions on the form or subject of the writing.

Over 10 years, this has resulted in thousands of incredible pieces of writing, covering poetry, prose, short fiction and non-fiction, and spanning topics that range from the personal to the political.

I’m incredibly honoured to have had 5 pieces published since I started submitting to Visual Verse in 2017. So I write this post with sadness, as I’ve just written a response to the image prompt for their final edition of the journal and submitted it in the hope I might be honoured one last time. Although I have no expectations!

Please do take a look at the Visual Verse site, read about the people who began it and explore the archive. Then if you have one hour spare, write a response to the final image and submit it. The deadline to submit is 15 October 2023. Not only is it a wonderful challenge to have the constraints of both time and word count, you might have a chance to be part of a collaborative anthology that’s truly wonderful and will continue to live on in their archive.

Legs move as fast as pencil

Although not as sharp