The Broken Writer

My mantra is not strong enough to fix this tumbling loop of broken down dreams. What was it I said, in the beginning? “The writer gives life to a story, the reader keeps it alive.”

Dear reader. Thank you for all that you have done, but I am a raging mess of emotion, numb and exhausted being smashed against life’s sharp edges. Its whirlpools and precipices flaying my creativity. I struggle to breathe, to find reason to claw my way back to the surface.

I need to take a break from writing. I am not well or skilled enough to juggle, stark reality with a dream as precious as Unbound Boxes Limping Gods. The writer is too exhausted to breathe life into these stories. I feel sorrow and remorse, but mostly want to sleep.

I will wake up one day, after the maelstrom has spat me out. I’ll look up and see a blurry angel, my muse, Alexand Merek. And just as she had done, when I was seventeen years old, she’ll whisper. “Come with me, sweetie.” I’ll take her hand and reply. “But you’re not real!” And she’ll say. “Of course I’m real. Do I look made up to you?”

Unbound Boxes Limping Gods will return after a break on Wednesday 1st September 2021 (Last issue Wednesday 23rd June) Please keep the stories alive by reading past issues. (Issue 1) or if you would like a challenge (Chronological stories) The broken writer can’t give life to a story, but the faithful reader can keep blowing on the ember, whilst she sleeps.

The Broken-down Imposter

This is not me

This is an imitation

Forged from a necessity to provide

In a world which fragments reality and personality

I grieve for precious time

Who I was is broken down

Unrecognisable, and consumed

Unless the imitation becomes a shield

And the world outside a monster

To be eaten by the broken-down imposter

Bringing me back to life



In A Dark Place

I am having trouble functioning at the moment, feeling joy, feeling connected to anything, or wanting to be a part of this world. This disconnect can be traced back to early childhood, although I didn’t recognise it back then, it keeps re surfacing in my weakest moments. The problem is, when you feel weak, then your perception of the people around you, and of yourself, becomes distorted; or leaves you open to imagined or actual attack. I have a confession. I have been diagnosed with Generalised Anxiety Disorder, and over the years it has grown into a monster, which has severed my trust in friends, myself, colleagues, humanity and most of my family. I was taught to see the good in everyone, no matter how hard you had to look for it, but this has created a debilitating and confusing cognitive dissonance. Some people, some times, mean you harm. Most people, even family, don’t care about you, and that is not okay, and it goes against everything I was lead to believe as a child. I see disdain in people’s eyes, like I’m a repulsive creature that they want to jettison from the room, and in any state, because I am an introvert, most people tend not to acknowledge me in a group. Their eyes will flicker past me as if I’m not even there, even when I’m speaking, like I’m made of light which is somehow beyond their field of vision, and my words aren’t sticking to reality as much as everyone else around me. This has happened throughout my life. I am a quiet person, and never really learnt how to impose myself fully. I was taught to put others first. I wish I was born male, and although I’m disguised as a woman, something tells them I’m not quite right, and that is why I believe I am excluded and sometimes ostracised. I don’t know how to cope with a deliberately turned back, strategically positioned to block me from a conversation, or the old classic conversation sniper, hungry for attention, devouring words before I have a chance to spit them out. That one drama whore, who everyone else in the room adores, but hates me, and wants me to suffer silently, the scapegoat, locked inside an abusive battle of unspoken contempt, coated with niceties to fool the other people into thinking everything is okay, because the battle is only visible to the ostracised and the perpetrator. For the most part, I have been able to ignore it, to use my invisibility as a power to conjure people inside my head, to write them into existence. The writer gives life, and the reader, is made of better stuff than the flimsy world that the writer is used to, and they listen, they hear my voice, they see my words. I exist, but I resent having to live outside of writing. I’m so alone, and so broken. So lost.


I have been slowly retreating from the world over the past few years. I wish that my life could somehow merge with the one I have created. Since my father’s death, I have a constant ticking in the back of my head, which Unbound Boxes seems to  make sense of.  The desolation caused by his absence, has been clothed by a disembodied presence, his immortal soul connecting along with the souls of each character. If I could leave a replica in my place, to function in this real world, and find some way of being a writer, a lawnmower woman, then I’d be able to meet my muse, the woman who has saved me, the woman who gives me hope. 

2016 – Part 2

iss1Feeling a bit better today, but still quite apathetic. I need to take some time out to re assess what I’m going to do next year. I am going to continue the series, but may give myself more breaks. I need to rest, especially from drawing, and concentrate on what matters most. Writing. It’s coming up to the 20th Anniversary of my dad’s death, and to be honest I’m not feeling great, but will try to continue writing Unbound Boxes. I realise I’ve been writing this for 5 years without a break, which is actually a bit worrying. Anyway, I’m trying to force myself to feel better. Running away from reality is actually quite tiring and it’s very easy to give up. I’m trying not to give up.


filiusFeeling tired and apathetic today, in regards to writing, which is a change from yesterday. Yesterday I was enthusiastic about finishing another drawing, to illustrate the series. Today, I couldn’t give a F£4@ if the ceiling fell on my head and knocked my stupid artwork into shreds. I hate it. I hate everything. I don’t hate writing, but I really don’t enjoy illustrating. It’s time consuming and makes the short stories so frustrating for me to produce. Tomorrow I’ll feel different, maybe, but I need a break, not from writing, but from drawing. It’s making my hand hurt. It’s stopping me publishing my book. I hate it. My plan for 2016 is… to have a break from writing these short stories and that means (maybe) break them into seasons so I don’t have to produce them every bleeping week. I’ll be dead one day anyway and won’t be able to write them then. It’s an odd thing to think about that the reason I write so many is that I know I’ll be dead one day and that I have to produce loads while I can. Say I have 20 -50 years left, that’s 52 stories, averaging 100 bleeping drawings each year, times that by 20 it’s 1040 stories and ridiculous amounts of illustrations, which looking at it logically will give me RSI by the time I’m 60. I’m a fu£4i@% human. I enjoy writing novels. I miss writing novels. Think I’ve just remembered that. There needs to be a change for me in 2016. I’m feeling trapped…

Life and Other Distractions

Alexand Merek

Alexand Merek

I used to be able to write effortlessly, but recently I’m having trouble. This is the first thing I’ve written for about two weeks. I managed to finish a micro story recently, but work is really messing about with my head. It’s really stressful, and instead of dreaming about my characters, I’m stumbling about attempting not to think about my day job, and all its mundanity and aggression. This is going to be a brief entry. Hopefully, Alexand Merek will save me eventually from becoming another casualty, an office grunt. I’m feeling depressed about it, and no amount of self publication will allow me to escape from the fact this job is slowly eroding my creativity, and making me feel nothing. I have to make money, I just wish I could make it writing. I don’t feel alive anymore. It’s as if the world is broken and I want it to end.


Unbound Boxes Limping Gods: Stumbling Through Reality

Alexand Merek and Katherine De Somme

Alexand Merek and Katherine De Somme

It shouldn’t be difficult to guess that as a writer, I much prefer living in fiction. The real world has a rather caustic aftertaste, people die, they desert you, there’s disappointment and loads of other words beginning with ‘d’ which build up, until there really is no other option than to retreat into fantasy. Of course this is just one reality. It didn’t start this way. I’ve just been going through a bad patch. It’ll get better etc.. The truth is, I use my writing to escape from having to deal with complex things in my own life, which I can’t really talk about here. It’s good for the stories, but for the past five years, I’ve been reclusive. Instead of trying to fix my situation, I’ve been skilfully avoiding having to deal with it. *Clicks fingers,* this is your cue, Katherine.

Katherine De Somme and Alexand Merek

Katherine De Somme and Alexand Merek

If only I had my very own Katherine De Somme! In my head, at least, she is the earthy and practical solution to Alexand’s airy turbulence. I’ve only ever experienced this sort of love through watching other people. According to a lot of exes I’m remote, and distant (oh another ‘d’) and couldn’t therefore function in a ‘proper’ relationship, be it with a man or a woman. Cats seem to like me though. In fact I’m surrounded by them as I type this, as well as many fictional characters. Maybe I need an Alexand in my life instead? I don’t think Katherine could put up with my nonsense. I need someone who can drag me back into reality, wake me from this perpetual flickering in and out of fiction. Or is this just a dream within a dream? I feel depressed. Too many ‘d’s.