More free time doesn’t mean you’ll use the time to write—you’ll do everything but write.

http://nybookeditors.com/2016/06/balance-day-job-writing-passion/?inf_contact_key=2622d7e642f193a3873be454e6be59b94821257d9a9d7bf272b507f4e5d7d949

Instead, you must make writing one of your top to-do’s, wedged right between your weekly grocery trip and your dry cleaning drop off.

You may think, that doesn’t sound very romantic. And it’s not. But most of writing isn’t romantic at all. It’s you staring at a screen and willing words to materialize. Or you staring at a notebook and doing the same thing. Or you just staring, full stop.

Here’s the good news: Writing requires just as much discipline as it does creativity. This means you can learn how to make writing a daily habit. It doesn’t have to compete with your day job. Below, let’s discuss the top tips for balancing what you have to do with what you want to do—and that’s write.

But First, Remember You’re in Good Company

Be encouraged. You don’t have to quit your day job to contribute a wonderful work of art to humanity. Many writers, from Bram Stoker to Lewis Carroll, managed to write unforgettable pieces of literature while working full time. Here’s a partial list to inspire you:

Anne Rice

Anton Chekhov

Frank McCourt

Franz Kafka

Harper Lee

Herman Melville

J.K. Rowling

Jorge Luis Borges

Philip Larkin

Toni Morrison

T. S. Eliot

Wallace Stevens

William Carlos Williams

Virginia Woolf

FINAL THOUGHTS

Remember that all the time you have is right now. Don’t wait for someday when the conditions are just right to write. They’ll never be just right. They’ll always be another distraction—if not work, it’ll be something else. Make writing a priority and tell the story that only you can tell. Good luck!

 Like children’s   gleaming tears in a  bright sun
That can be dried respectful of the source
The points of light on holly leaves  each shone

The  pink horse chesnuts’ flowering  has begun
May flows on to June  as rivers  course
As children’s   gleaming tears drop in  the sun

Nothing human should be broken,shunned
Yet evil screams till its sharp voice is hoarse
The points of light on holly leaves  still shine

When we learn of genocide , it stuns
I was  unborn, did not know of  such force
As children’s   greying tears dropped  under sun

Each  child is God,  yet such vile acts are done
Anne Frank ‘s  haunting memories now cursed
The points of light on holly leaves  will wane

Where did   our evil start,what makes it worse?
Unheld and hungry   baby needing breast?
Like children’s   golden tears in a   black sun
The points of shame, the prickling leaves may win

When the windows shattered
And the splinters flew in
You just made for the back door
And left me
not knowing where to begin.

When the shards of glass hit me
And pierced my vulnerable skin
You were already going
Leaving me
feeling you were an inhuman being.

When I fell down covered in glass and bleeding,
And the storm raged on,
I didn’t look round because
I knew,I knew,I knew,
I knew you would be gone.
Gone.

Suddenly peace came,storm had quite
disappeared..
It was all over so quickly
Not as terrible as I feared.

My wounds were bad,I have to confess.
I had no bandage
Nothing with which to dress.
With an old towel I cleaned my blood
Then I lay me down
Just to have a rest.

Since that day,no storms come this way.
My wounds are healing
I have just one thing to say.
When the storm was so bad
You left me all alone…
but strangely since then
all is peace and calm.
Your absence has become
almost a balm.

But I hear stories of fierce storms rising up
In towns and villages
Not too far from here,where a strange man appears.

Seems like he’s running to get away
From some storm
But the storm’s inside him…
He gives it form.

So when the windows crashed in
And glass flew at my face
He left me all alone
In what, he thought,
was a very dangerous place.

Did he not pick me up
and carry me outside?
No,my daughter, he left me alone;
I might have died.

But since then
I lost a great burden…
And I lost a great feeling of shame.

Rise up,you women,bleeding and torn.
For on days like that,a new resolve is born.
While you live don’t accept all the blame.
Don’t live so long as I did,in fear and in shame.
Rise up and find that calm
In the eye of the storm…
On days like this
a new woman is born.

Y

What was so wrong about asking
About your absence from this world
And trying to grab you back
holding onto your coat tail
Eternity’s long enough already
We don’t need your vapour trails.
Was it a wicked thing to do
As you floated so far away
To reach out to touch you once more
I admit I never knew you kept score.
When I beat you at chess so long ago
Were you already packing bags
to throw out the door?
I knew it was the real thing
But some men never do.
You have your expectations
And your tests and rules
But we never learned those
In our higher math schools.
We learned rigour and icy vision
We learned definition and precision.
But what use are they in loving
I didn’t know how to steer with no maps
You were off anyhow.
The orchestra stoped playing
When they saw the gap.
You can’t fly forever
But I do be leaving you.
In the circumstances
What else does a woman like me do.
You can smile and squeeze your eyes tight
Suck in those cheeks and hide your love.
What’s coming after you’s an eagle or a crow
Not a dove…it’s black I know
When you toss it all away then
Seems like it’s long past time
and emotion to call it a day.
Come again…..you must be crazy
Love is clear to me now like the face of a new born daisy

Something wrong with the network

https://www.wikihow.com/Write-a-Sestina#:~:text=A%20good%20sestina%20will%20use,three%20lines%20of%20the%20poem.

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2023/apr/03/early-years-support-parents?utm_term=642af80ce8b2df75473a2300e8b757fb&utm_campaign=BestOfGuardianOpinionUK&utm_source=esp&utm_medium=Email&CMP=opinionuk_email

https://www.the-tls.co.uk/articles/twenty-questions-ursula-le-guin/

The sea of Life stilll murmurs in my ears

As I waken up I sense it near.

The rolling waves break on a pale seashore.

The deep sea dark enchants the heart’s deep core

The still small voice will whisper,who can hear?

The prophet on the mountain hid from fear.

The tempest and the storm and the great fire

Were not the voice of God,but Nature’s choir

Listen to the silent music playing

Open up and learn what it is saying

While Mary sat in the kitchen on a large pine chair looking at Hotter’s latest shoe catalogue,Annie was creeping up the garden path in a pair of turquoise suede elegantly heeled shoes matching her teal tencel culottes and matching blouse.Round her neck was a large lump of amber on a gold chain handy for beating off muggers or lustful men and women
Despite the heat she was in full splendour with golden beige tinted moisturiser from Langone of Lyons on her lovely complexion,pink eyeshadow from Yves St Current and dark brown boot polish as her mascara had run out and she’d not been out for a while to buy more
Annie ran the last few yards and darted like an eel into Mary’s 1970’s kitchen.
What on earth are you doing,dear? Mary asked her.Those shoes look unsuitable for leading anyone up the garden path.Mind you,I do like them
Oh,I’ll explain,Annie said huskily.
I told that therapist across the road I was living with you.
What exactly do you mean by living,Mary asked anxiously.
Well,he said yesterday that anyone who lives alone must be lacking in some way.Except for him of course as he had full analysis with Alfred Zion.
You mean Wilfred Bion,Mary told her.
Zion,Bion,what’s the difference?
It shows your lack of education,Mary told her.Not that education nowadays makes much difference
That’s not quite what I would have done, said Annie.A degree in flirtation and pleasing men would be more up my street.And cooking of course although I once did have an interest in Hebrew and Aramaic.
It’s not a way to progress in a neo-liberal economy,although reading the Hebrew Bible is always interesting.Personally I prefer that to the New Vex-a man.The stories,the love songs,the action.Mary’s round eyes gleamed with intellectual life and a bit of languorous lust
How about God? Annie asked her.
He seems to have changed as he related to his people.But he was a friend despite being an abstract concept.Though one could hardly call him a concept as he is inconceivable.
Mary’s voice faltered as she was stunned by her own articulacy and wondered what she might say next that could offend millions around the globe all at once
You should write a book,Annie said kindly.
I think I am ill-equipped to write about God.And ,also ,I am saddened to see how his own people have been treated.I can’t dwell on it over much as I already feel weak and weepy.
Why what have you been doing,asked Annie.
I have been sorting out clothes to give to the hospice shop. I’ve got a big bag full already and 2 bags of newspapers and rubbish of various kinds which somehow creeps into my bedroom… tissues,cotton wool, old hairbrushes.I am hoping to get it nice and neat before my sister comes to see me
And now I realise I have far too many pans despite burning several.But it’s a big decision for a woman who was famed for entertaining friends with scorching Beef Vindaloo and lemon mousse that tasted like rubber.Giving that up is a big wrench.
Why can’t you carry on, asked Annie.
Carrying on is precisely why I can’t do it.Now I am a widow the wives of my former colleagues and my own women friends are afraid I will steal their husbands.
Emile miaowed in ecstasy as any talk about the love lives of his family were always intriguing.He was hiding as usual behind the stone flour bin.
Don’t you see,said Annie.If we pretend we are living together then you can mingle with men without suspicion.
This is beginning to sound like a spy story,Mary told her.And do not drag me into a character part in the play based on your romantic love for that psychoanalyst.
He looks ugly and boring to me.
Oh,that’s just a projection,Annie told her.You are defending yourself against acknowledging how much you long to lie in his arms and let him smother you in kisses.
Well,said Mary,I see you have been reading Freud for beginners again.
Or is it Freud for Dummies?
Mary recalled how nice her dummy used to taste when it was dipped into a jar of malt and codliver oil.Maybe that is the answer,she thought.
I’m going to Mothercare,she called as she ran out of the house in her green trainers and denim trouser suit.See you later.
Annie sat in the kitchen wondering how soon she could see the psychoanalyst again without being accused of sexual harassment.Even old age has not deterred her from seeking a replacement for dear old Stan.A few tears ran down her cheek and Emile jumped out and sat on her knee

I’m sorry the prime minister is not here ear today. He is looking at the Channel and says he will have to have an eye test because he can’t see any migrants in dinghies.

The prime minister has promised that e,,, that everybody will have to , study mathematics,,until they are 18 years old. I am wondering what exactly they are going to teach. The paper say that there are, not enough mathematics graduates. But do you need a degree in mathematics to teach people how to read and how to do arithmetic? Because those are the things that children fail in primary school and in the secondary school just go through without help.

My question is this. Are we going to get maths graduates to help the high flying children even more teaching so that they’ll be ready to do a master’s degree before they go to university or are we going to get intelligence sensible sensitive teachers who can teach all the children who are failing at GCSE level how to read better and how to do the kind of arithmetic we need in everyday life and in looking after our money or paying taxes. Will we teach them how to understand inflation? Will we make it easier for them to find a place in society? Learning how to budget and and what to do if you get into debt? How to understand credit cards and how to avoid being take it in by offers of money all the time?

We’re talking about the poor and they’re not so poor but people who are not so skilled at reading long forms and have no one in their family able to help.

We need to to empower the poor but will any government do that?

Let them solve quadratic equations,

I have to get a new phone recently but when I was starting to set it up I put the wrong language on because my finger trembled and it went into Danish and then I had a page of Danish which would not move forward or backwards. At last today I was able to do a factory reset.

This phone is one of the cheapest ones from the motorola range. Seems very good to me except you can’t do contactless payments with it which I don’t want to contactless payments I want to pay people with money cash coins o away with instant satisfaction.

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2023/apr/02/could-you-have-hsp-and-be-a-highly-sensitive-person-?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/jan/26/bibliomania-the-strange-history-of-compulsive-book-buying

,OBy the turn of the century, as evidenced by a 1906 Metropolitan Museum of Art article, book collecting was no longer disparaged. Skill was required to separate the gold from the dross; book collecting was now a “whole science” and readers were told that they, too, could score a find, as long as they possessed “keen judgment, faultless taste, inexhaustible patience – and contempt for ridicule”. As the author points out, it takes special knowledge to know that Franklin Evans’s The Story of an Inebriate – a book many would throw away – was actually Walt Whitman’s “first published work, and that it is rare and valuable”. Bibliomania was now a bragging righy

http://www.librarything.com/work/72211/reviews/

https://gizmodo.com/r-i-p-suzette-haden-elgin-author-poet-verbal-self-d-1684006640

https://inverarity.livejournal.com/346881.html

My eye has fallen on your funny face
You look so dear I cannot shift my gaze
Both love and humour cherish and embrace
Your skin and smile and on them gladly graze.

My tears have fallen on your fine made hands
As you held me to comfort and caress
And on our fingers are our wedding bands
Which symbolise that union God did bless

My nose has sniffed the honey of your smell
My ears have heard the your much desired gruff voice.
My fingers know your crevices so well
My toes all tingle as in need of vice.

For serious words are death to married joy
And so my humour I shall now employ.

My heart is like a rowing boat adrift
Whose occupant has fallen overboard
The empty vessel floats through deep sea mist.
And in his pearl filled ears the deep sea roars.

Just as the boat drifts mapless,so do I.
My maps were drawn for quite another sea
My captain’s taken leave and now I cry
As if that drowned soul might just be me.

Yet on the sea bed mysteries abound;
Such wonders and such magic there displayed.
I wonder if it is my lot drown
And to a memory then quickly fade.

Maps are no more certainties than hints.
Between the lines hides gold from other mints.

Photo by Mike Flemming

Let your lips meet gently,

the top one resting against the lower,

touching with tenderness

your own skin to skin.

Forefinger propped on chin,

I let the others dangle,

like leaves on a branch;

how softly gravity tugs them downwards.

Let heart beat quietly,slowly

as the blood circulates

carrying its music,

a river,

following the path of least resistance.

How the blood vessels receive willingly this flow,

touching it kindly as with tiny open fingers,

helping and being helped.

How the hair on the head

floats

on the breeze,

like tentacles of an octopus

waving goodbye.

Top eyelid loves the lower one;

as we blink they touch

like lovers kissing swiftly

behind a tree.

and how the light comes in

we see a world.

[mine may not be yours,]

but the blink of my eyelid

sends waves through the air,

so we’re all touching and being touched,

lips kissing each other,

kiss all living creatures.

skin to skin.

air to air.

And inside us,the rich darkness

of creative night

transforms,in turn,

these touches

into dreams.

Stan was feeling somewhat glum,nay even despairing,on Monday morning.
Mary had gone to work on her new folding 6 gear bicycle with own basket and an extra basket from Wells-next -the- Sea 1995
[the wicker basket now somewhat grey in hue.]
He was left at home sorting out all his art work and materials as well as doing the baking,cooking and bathing Emile,the delightful yet trying male cat.
Sunk in dark misery,Stan sat in an old uncomfortable chair in the darkest part of the room, while Emile snored on the rug by the bright French windows
.Stan went through all the possible reasons for his state of mind.Was he guiltyabout his flings with his alluring next door neighbour Annie?
Could it be his failure to toilet train Emile? Or his omitting to carry out the penance given by Father Brown after Stan confessed to stealing sweets on the way to Confession in 1956?
The longer Stan brooded the more reasons he found for his depression.
He could hardly get up to make a cup of coffee ..even instant seemed too much trouble.Would he even clean his teeth which somehow he’d failed to do?
The doorbell rang… it was a new cord for his laptop as Emile had been chewing the current one ,and 29 books in a sack from Amazon which his wife must have ordered,as he had no recollection of any such foolish spending.
How would they pay the bill on the credit card? he ruminated.
Later in the day.Annie peered through the window.She tapped on the glass with her well manicured blue finger nails.
Let me in she cried.
I’m too tired for any hanky panky he murmured lovingly as he ran his fingers through her thick red tresses.What is this delightful perfume,beloved,he questioned her.
It’s Poison! she replied.Oh no,sorry it’s Iris and Jasmine Eau de toilette from the Bodyshop.
Despite his lowly sunken state Stan loved this perfume.He sniffed rabidly at her well rounded form
.Well,shall we have some tea,she enquired.
Stan sat there hand on chest.I’ve been feeling a little gloomy,he muttered.She peered at him.
You look terribly pale,Stan.Where’s your angina spray?
I can’t recall,he said.Oh,here it is in my vest.
What a strange place to keep it,she responded.
Mary made pockets for all my vests.at one time you could buy vests with pockets
She’s good at sewing despite being so clever.In fact she loves doing things with her hands.
Annie got the GNT spray out and handed it to him.
Have you got a pain?
Well,yes,now you mention it,I do,he replied verbosely.
Well,in the name of God, use the bloody thing,she whispered endearingly into his left ear.
He opened his mouth,raised his tongue and with his hand resting lightly on his chin he pressed the button with his forefinger.
His head began to throb.
Annie appeared with a cup of Earl Grey tea and a biscuit.
Why,you look a little better.Do you need another dose?
No,I feel much better now.I’ve had it before.
He drank the tea but didn’t eat the biscuit which he threw out later in crumbs for the field mice in the shed.
His spirits began to rise.Why did he always forget that physical ailments can worsen a mood?He still felt a trifle glum but nothing a meringue wouldn’t put right.
OK,what shall I make for Mary’s supper? he enquired.
You sit there in the window and I’ll just make my special spaghetti,Annie replied gaily,as long as I can stay too.
Yes,I’ll open some red wine he said youthfully,and we can have fried apples and bananas for pudding with non fat Greek yoghurt.
What a wise choice she murmured gently into his ear………that will use up some of the newly picked apples,the bananas were from Lidl’s as usual.
Well,Stan you look better.said Mary happily,You’ve been pale all weekend.Was it Annie who cheered you up,not to put too fine a point on it?
Actually it was nitroglycerine,he said roguishly,but Annie made me use it.
But for us women you’d be dead,she replied equably.
But for you delightful creatures I wouldn’t be here at all,he moaned ecstatically.
Now then Stan,control yourself she urged,After all we have a visitor,Annie!
What a hoot,he thought as he twisted spaghetti round his fork in a careless manner splashing tomato sauce all over his new green acrylicjumper.
Thank the Lord for washing machines,Mary said.
I didn’t know Jesus invented them,Annie said with a tone of mild sarcasm but no-one bothered to reply.

As told by Emile to the local paper.
And believed by all of us