Coffee – The Magic Bean

Photo: LePatisserie Coffee by Runge Creative (Used with permission)
Photo: LePatisserie Coffee by Runge Creative (Used with permission)

 

My superpower is that I turn coffee into stories.

It has to be my superpower. I don’t know how I do it otherwise. I have no secret ‘how-to’ list. I have no checklist I use. I don’t even have a handy genie in a bottle stashed away somewhere. (Though that would be cool.) Yet, soon I will have 4 books published.

I’m absolutely stunned. I sat down to take stock the other day. 4 books in 16 months. That’s an average of a book every 4 months. That’s impressive, even if it’s not quite true. When I published ‘Shattered’, I already had ‘Nova’ written, so I guess that’s a little bit like cheating. Although, writing 2 books in 16 months is still an amazing effort. It took me 9 years to get the first book published. So to have 4 books – I’m nearly overwhelmed.

The only thing in my background is high-school English and a love of reading.

Shattered was born from listening to a song. Jon English’s ‘Camilla’.  There’s a lyric that says ‘The man in the mirror says you’re my friend’, and I wondered what would happen if a woman looked into a mirror and saw a man’s reflection.

Nova came about because I wondered if the Greek ‘gods’ of legend were actually Nephilim, the offspring between Angels and Humans. That one thought gave rise to a series of 3 books and, as I have since found out, it’s not an original thought.

But then, there’s nothing new under the sun. Is there? There’s only the difference in the angle with which you choose to view it. Whatever it may be.

I love writing. Perhaps I have a hidden streak of megalomania. I love creating worlds and characters. Although, sometimes those characters misbehave. I can spend hours lost inside my own head, and periodically it becomes a compulsion to get the story out of my head. To get it down on paper.

I don’t know how I know how to do it. Perhaps, I am simply regurgitating what I’ve read in books. This is the sound of the sentence. This is the flow of the words. My grammar is atrocious and my comma use is all over the place. I can’t spell, but I can tell you when a word looks wrong. I have no letters behind my name. Or a degree in Literature or  Creative Writing.

I’m just a girl who loves to read.
Who loves her coffee.
Who has 42 unfinished stories on her computer…and 4 books with her name on the cover.

My superpower is that I turn coffee into stories.
What’s yours?

 

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Food, Glorious…Coffee?; Writing 101 Challenge – Day 10

Day 10 – Tell us about your favorite childhood meal — the one that was always a treat, that meant “celebration,” or that comforted you and has deep roots in your memory. Free free to focus on any aspect of the meal, from the food you ate to the people who were there to the event it marked.


Obviously I ate as a child. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. However food doesn’t inspire strong emotional memories. I don’t remember a particular treat and I don’t have a ‘favourite’ meal.

I have foods that I like and foods I wouldn’t touch again with a barge pole.
Then there’s chocolate, but that’s a whole other story.

Growing up in more tropic climates and living in ‘the land down under’ means that December is in summer.
No ‘White Christmas’ for this little black duck.
Christmas was seafood and stone fruits.
It didn’t start off that way. We always had the traditional English Christmas. Hot meats and stodgy puddings.
The year that my Grandma died, the family Christmas was held at our house and that was the first Christmas with the seafood, stone fruits, salads, cold cut meats, followed by ice cream, melons, custards and jellies for dessert.
The next year my Uncle and Aunt followed my mum’s lead and the next year the next round of Uncle and Aunts did the same, and the next year and the next year and the next….well, you get the drift.Read More »

Choosing Alone; Writing 101 Challenge – Day 8

Day 8 – Go to a local café, park, or public place and report on what you see. Get detailed: leave no nuance behind. (Part truth, part fiction – TP)


I see her sitting there. Her shoulders hunch, her head is down, a cave unto herself. Buried in the scarf and beany she still wears despite the heat in the coffee shop. Her fingers clutch the cardboard coffee cup as though it is her only lifeline. Perhaps she hopes no one notices the single solitary tear. It lands, a deluge on the glossy wooden table. She drops her head further. I can no longer see her face.

Another is sitting near the window. Her suit is white. Immaculate. Her shoulders are pulled back. She has such straight posture. I wonder if it hurts her to move. The rhythmic glint of her manicured fingernails draws my attention as she drums her fingers on the table. She looks at her phone then out the window. I think she could be waiting for someone.
A grimace crosses her face as she tastes her coffee. Turning her head in quick movements like a crow, she glares at the barista.  If looks could kill. The rhythmic flashing starts again. Apparently she’s waited long enough. Leaving her coffee on the table she collects her bag and heads for the door. I can feel the vibration of every slam of her heels on the floorboards with each harsh step. She looks at no one.Read More »