Pitwick Of Nowhere

My harlot of a cat is rolling round at the top of the stairs biting peoples feet with a two feet long twig in his tail.

You don’t have to write a novel.

Kay?

I’m not saying don’t write, but not every story needs to be a novel.

Plays, musicals, films, poems.

All of these things need writers! And just because you’re still writing.pen to paper, keys to keyboard, chat gpt turned off -salted- and in the bin.

Like if you hate writing description and love dialogue then write a play. Then your description can look like ‘there is a chair’

You wish your characters could sing ‘in the navy’ by Village people. Then write a jukebox musical.

Oh but Pitwick, copy-write laws.

Oh fuck that, write it for fun! (Also FYI, copyright with jukebox musicals exits with the licence on the theatre. So provided that you suggest songs rather than demand you put them in there, before you submit then you should be good to go (lazy bee scripts is a great publisher that outlines this on their website and although there submisison portal is closed as of June 2026, they will be open in. A few months))

Your story doesn’t have to be a 10,000 word manuscript. It just needs to be a story.

What about the memes!

Keats was five foot and his OP was Lord Byron.

Byron was an icon in Victorian diet culture!

Blake was into sexual liberation!

17 years and 3 months since rebirth.

To whom it may concern, or perhaps no one at all.

A certain Jack White once told me the story of a medical student he knew. Her names not important, but what you need to know is that it happened a very, very long time ago and that she had one goal in life. To defeat death.

In the process of creating life, she also murdered four people. But what you need to know that it is her research that brought me back to life all those years ago.

It was one of her stories that Jack asked asked me too archive for him.

And you know what I said. For I am an archivist so archive I must.

When I wrote up what she said to me. I wrote it in a cursive script with a fountain pen, rather than my usual psychologists scrawl. I’ve become quite attracted to it, so have taken it up permenantly.

It is a script that see’s most English essay’s, history notes, evaluative points about how Sigmund Freud wasn’t shit and snide comments written on pictures of the romantic poets/US presidents making out with tongue.

It is however the script of poets. I should be writing love letters by candle light. Rather than history notes about Edward VI. It should write poetry and prose and all manner of beautiful things.

I suppose that I am in love with the idea of being in love.

And here I am, confined to the mundane-ness of my life. It is good that it is normal. Normal means that it is fine. When it comes to life exciting is often bad.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that Florence and Alice I miss you both.

But I am in Nowhere. And in Nowhere I’ll stay.

Dearest Jack, are you out there on the moors? I’ve been in the mountains today. So cold and windy. But now I am safe.

I’m terrified of heights. They remind me of a time of a tree (or a bed). We were going down crag today and i imagined your voice. Talking me down, like you’ve done so many times.

Today I have been to the fae lands and back. Alice, I hoped you would be there. But alas - you were not.

No less, I will see you later my loves.

The hills are alive… with the sound of my screaming.

A terrible event has occurred. I have once again been saved by my knight, but also by the man, the fool and the guinea pig. In other words, I have twisted my ankle and am longing for Jack.

Save me. Save us.

It rained terribly, then rain became hail. You would think it were December. If it were not June. The hills are cold.

Perhaps the belle Dame is closer?

Tis’ believed by myself a scholar - and in turn many other scholars - that the belle dame is a metaphor for TB.