The Man Who Couldn’t Write.

The man with gold lead in his pencil couldn’t write!

He tried a gold paperweight on his desk but still the words would not come.

A gold-tin he purchased containing gems and jewels and scattered them did all around his desk in the hope of inspiring him with beauty.

Nothing came.

A name, a game, insane.

He began scribbling with a jewel , a pointed diamond and into his desk scratched his name. He tried other jewels in the same way and gave them to the mice if they were no good for writing with wrapped in hunks of cheese from the kitchen.

The mice ran this way and that with the pieces and then he thought I am better at writing now. I will try my gold pencil again.

Unsurprisingly it did not work again this time either.

So the man went out and purchased an army of magnetically trained worker ants. A million to a colony. Then under his desk, he worked with magnets making the ants move as he did around the desk in the shape of letters. He spelled his name. The ants were up his nose in his hair and eyes and he felt like he was going insane. Until he thought there’s an easier way than this! I’ll try my gold pencil again.

But unsurprisingly it did not work.

He went full out trying all sorts of ways trying to make a mark with his golden pencil. Hitting it , bashing it with a hammer, using it as a chisel, a hole punch until crying he said. I can take no more!

He put down his pencil and cried himself to sleep…

TWO years later the man had written a novel with his golden pencil! Remember when before he couldn’t even write his own name. How did he do it?



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I cried everynight

For about three years (well it seemed a long time) I cried every night as a child. And no-one came. I used to like the ‘adult’ music and books. Why? Because by the time I was ten I was convinced that life was a load of old shit and you better shut up and get on with it because the alternative is pain, pain, PAIN. Still I was not an obedient child to my crazy mother.

Thus, I became an adult in a child’s world bound by my age and body and responsibilities to a life that was comfortable for a sensible older teenager or man in young twenties but hell for a pre-pubescent male teen without a father at home, only a controlling mother whom he hated.

This mixture of good and disobedient behavior went on well until my thirties when by chance I was freed of the debt of my life as my business went bust and I gave up the mortgage on my flat. A few other things that I had been putting off since childhood got started by pure luck or succeeded through newly directed effort. BUT I suffered a breakdown of earth shattering skyscraper tumbling proportions, spoke to God and met the sort of people I had only ever heard about on the news, criminals, heavy drug users, Music promoters, artists, musicians, real business people, flawed people, beautiful people, the gamut of Birmingham. It was a festival on a budget if you like. Although I did get to Paris before I was hospitalised. Eek!

Now I am writing like a man possessed by a good luck writing fairy that dishes out balms or curses depending on her whim. This is why if you could see me now you’d not surprise me by writing the following description:

He sits like  hunchback over his filthy keyboard on which he bangs out useless rubbish. He has nice hair or no hair depending on where you look except at the back where he has grown a ponytail. I am not too close to him. His clothes and room smelll of damp. He smells of damp! His room is decorated like a childs bedroom! ‘Hmm Is that one of yours?’ (pointing to a poster i brought back from a museum) ‘No It isn’t.’ He keeps aniseeds instead of pet gerbils.


See what the writing fairy brought me today HERE.

Well that my blurb over and done. Follow me if you like, or go away and forget you ever came here, see if I care!