a writeblr.

the town crier finds me sleeping on my doorstep bc drunk me last night couldn’t open the lock on my door and announces my buffoonery to the whole square

Ye olde lockpicking lawyer

Chicken spiral…

A storm is coming

Writing is difficult but I wouldn’t stop for anything

When faced with two choices, simply toss a coin. It works not because it settles the question for you, but because in that brief moment when the coin is in the air, you suddenly know what you are hoping for

What was it you were hoping I’d bring to the table - quiet obedience? No. I bring the storm, I bring chaos and your imminent destruction. You made a mistake.

Greg can’t we just have a normal dinner for once

@practising-writer Mbaela 😂

Hey, do you know that feeling of hitching up a long skirt so you don’t fall on your face when walking upstairs, and then you immediately become a wretched yet resolute Jane Austen character? It’s a universal thing, right?

It’s like resting a laundry basket against your hip and suddenly you’re a long-suffering peasant woman, wondering if you’ll survive the winter.

a shawl wrapped around the shoulders and you’re wandering the moors in a Brönte novel, feeling melancholic

Looking out the window at the rain and you’re a love-stricken newlywed wondering when your husband will return from the war.

Long skirt billowing behind you while to go down the stairs, you’re a proper Lady in a flowing ball gown being introduced at a fancy social function.

Hair blowing in the wind and suddenly you’re hovering on a cliff by the sea, staring out into the waves and praying your merchant husband will return from his voyage across the ocean

Hood up against the rain and wind and you’re a medieval abbess defying the weather and travelling on foot with your people to find a place to establish a new community.

Wiping your hands on your apron and you’re an 18th century kitchen girl rushing to let in the delivery boy you secretly love.

The cool fall wind catches your skirt, sends leaves swirling around your feet, and catches your hair and sends it flying behind you, and suddenly you’re a enchantress roaming the woods, daring any man to challenge your power.

Stirring a big pot of anything, suddenly you’re the wicked witch brewing the dreaded potion that will curse the whole village that banned you because of your warts and crooked nose