Reality can be beaten with enough imagination

Don’t think so, Mark Twain. Sadly, I have to agree with Philip Dick, despite his name, that “Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.”

Distorted reality by Vladimir Kush

Distorted reality by Vladimir Kush

(A famous Caroline aside: “Why is it that I Google for images of reality and get this sort of thing?”)

So, the time has come for a reality check about the state of my creative writing.


Top and bottom, I haven’t been doing any. Not for a while now. I daren’t even speculate how long ago it was that I added a single word to the new novel, Falling Awake. 

I HAVE been a) unwell and b) very busy earning a living copywriting, so much so that my brain has been feeling like a wrung-out dishcloth at the end of the day…


and not at all inspired to produce additional words, as if by magic, from some deep dark recesses of somewhere.


A lot has been happening with work that I’ve written in recent times, so if I’m not inspired to continue now, I never will be.

Cleverest Thief - programme_print_hi res-page-001

On Saturday, May 16th, I was proud to go to London to see Libby Wattis perform the solo show about dementia that she asked me to write for her. Amazing! I’m lost for words, which is a great place to be for a writer.

AND, a monologue that I wrote as homework for my writing class was chosen by Debra Baker to go on her BBC Radio Drama showreel, so will now be heard by People Of Importance and suchlike. My work. BBC Radio 4. Dream come true. The piece, by the way, is called, My God and there’s a blackness and is about self-harm.

AND, I’ve been short-listed for a script-writing job for an immersive education company. Cross everything.

AND, a San Francisco film director called David Turner, whose work looks terrific, has requested some of my short screenplays. Cross everything again.


May I officially declare that, in reality, things are happening for me as a writer, and I’m allowing myself to be a teeny-weeny bit proud?

But you still haven’t written anything for ages, says Mr. Reality, which humankind cannot bear very much of, eh, T.S.Eliot? (And I bet he wouldn’t ever have ended a sentence with a stranded preposition. This is the sort of English up with which he would not put.)


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