Friday Night Write #1

Friday Night Write -- The Riverside Library

Our first Friday Night, Write! session was a lot more difficult than I thought it would be. I'll just admit that straight away. I initially sat down to write either my current WIP (which hasn't even been started) or edit my last WIP (which is really what I needed to do). But, of course, I didn't feel like doing either, yet I had to write. If only because I was the one hosting this session, ergo, it would be a complete failure if I didn't manage to write a single world. To be quite honest I was prepared to pull a James Joyce and spend hours upon hours on two sentences, but to my delight, when I decided to free write the words began to flow. I mentioned in my post that I'd be sharing what I wrote, which is an unwise decision, but the point of Friday Night, Write! isn't to write well, it's simply to write. What I'm sharing below hasn't been edited, aside from the basic proofread, because I find I spend a short eternity editing, and I didn't want to jump into that.

I'm not one to share my writing, but one day I hope to be good enough that someone will want to publish what I have to say, and I figure now is the best time to experience what it's like to have readers. Below isn't anything grand, designed to take your breath away, it's simply a derailed train of thought on the first of hopefully many Friday nights.

P.S. Yes, the prompt was a storm, but in my head, that meant I could write about everything aside from storms.



I am ceaselessly amused by some of the strangest things. Such as words with dissimilar meanings that are phonetically related. I think of the words ‘squid’ and ‘languid’ almost daily. Right now, I am rather amused by labels. How vague labels can be! You can call someone a writer, but that tells you near-on nothing. Do they explain a moral the long way round by writing novels? Do they paint an abstract picture in photographic detail by penning poetry? Do they mix their opinions with the facts to disorientate the easily swayed like some journalists? Or do they prattle on about things that mean little to others but a great deal to them, like I do? And Artists! Artists is a much broader term. What kind of art? Visual? Dramatic? Auditory? Written? If you ever use these labels in a sentence be aware that the broader the term you use, the wider you open yourself to inaccuracies.

Alas, I’ve digressed again.

Right now, I’m thinking myself in circles when considering broad terms such as ‘Them’ or ‘They.’ On one hand, I’m inclined to use them, knowing I can say how I feel without running the risk of revealing something to the person or people I’m secretly intending it for, but on the other hand, I cannot resolve how wrong such a broad term would be to use. Say I were to pen a love letter, or hate, to a vague recipient by the name of ‘Them,’ I would, indeed, be addressing it to everyone and everything that ‘Them’ encompasses. Then again, to throw a third perspective into the mix (because we know there are not two sides to a coin, there are three – head, tails, and the one with Schrodinger’s cats face in the dirtied gold), penning a letter to ‘Them’ would be akin to penning a letter to nobody, for everybody is ‘Me,’ and on occasion ‘You,’ but hardly ever ‘Them.’ They are Them to everybody.

Now that I come to think of it, I’m unsure whether I find this amusing, frustrating, alarming, or a definite relief. Perhaps I can entitle my love letter, or hate, to Them, knowing that in most cases my Them will also be your Them, even if you are Them to me.

- See what I mean about a derailed train of thought?


I had a dream about you the other day, which is quite odd in itself. In fact, everything about the dream, from your presence, to the lack of everything else, was really very peculiar. Nothing happened in the dream. We just sat there, and you held my hand. It was so real, in that very strange way that some dreams are almost tangible. But perhaps the oddest thing about it all was the lingering effect - I couldn't forget it.

I thought about it all day.

What was it about this dream that made it so real?

It hit me about half an hour before midday.

I could actually feel your hand.

Then, I realised that I remember exactly what your hand felt like, even though I only held it once.

- My subconscious is very confusing. 


There are many things that I think she means to say. It’s odd, because these are things I hear in my head, and always accredit to her, despite her never uttering the words. I think I am assigning the correct meaning to a different statement. Or, perhaps I’m simply putting words in her mouth.

I’m sure she’s looked at me and silently said, ‘I see what you’re doing, what you’ll keep trying to do, and I don’t have the heart to tell you it’s futile, but I have too much heart to see you get hurt. I know you’re trying to heal the world with the light you have, and I know you know you can never heal it. I know that fire in your eyes, that ‘I’m going to do it anyway’ expression. And I know that you know it will hurt you. You’ll go home after healing every person that you meet, and you’ll be so broken. Because you never allow yourself what you allow others. You never give yourself the liberties that they take, you’re never half as kind to your caring heart as you are to their selfishness. You need to care for you too. I hope that someday when you come home there’ll be someone to say, ‘I know you tried to heal the world today, and I’m going to do the same for you.’’

And though it’s silent, I catch her eye, and without uttering a single word I know she hears my reply, ‘I hope that too. But more so, I hope, one day I’ll wake, and head into the bathroom, and I’ll find that healing person there, staring at that looking glass, with as much kindness as she gives out to everyone else, finally given, in full, to herself.’

- My best friend and I are convinced that ESP doesn’t exist, but we're also convinced we have it.


I’ve arrived at a time in my life, a very peculiar and singular time, one which I don’t believe I’ll ever have again. It is a time that I am incredibly aware of a path of possibility closing. The thorny overgrowth has reclaimed the opening to that path I once spent three years hacking down, only to decide it was a path I could not take. I had two years to begin down it, and I never took it. Sometimes from my spot on the path I did take, I could see that opening, I could see those thorns beginning to cover it once again. I know, should the fancy strike me, I could return to that path with an axe and reopen it. But then, I would likely have another moment similar to that I had today.

I would look at it, consider it, and then I would not take it. Two years later, that path would once again, close.

I’m somewhat conflicted, because that path I let close is just as enticing as some I imagine might be opening, and there is an unmissable bitterness, a coppery tasting tang that accompanies the thought of that closed path.

Evidently, I did not want it enough. But I still wanted it. I wonder what that threshold is, of wanting it enough to fight for it, and wanting it not quite enough to fight, but still enough to regret.

Then again, the regret only strikes me in the odd moments, so I must have wanted it even less than I thought.

Regardless of all my digression, that path has closed today. I feel as though I am now not walking any. I’ve merely found a patch of grass by a different path, and I am sitting to watch the world go by.

I think this is both a wonderful and terrible thing. Or, perhaps I am walking, and the scenery is too similar to notice a change.

What strikes me in all of this, is that I have an ability to see the paths closing, and a distinct inability to see others opening. I’m aware this is because the number of opening paths is infinitely larger than that of the closing, and no one can count to infinity, for it is one of those things in life that exists but, in a sense, it also doesn’t.

I like to think that one of those paths leads to something beautiful, and that’s the one I’ll take. Then again, I also like to think that it’s in our power to shape what is along those paths, so any could be beautiful, or perhaps only as beautiful as I choose to see it.

-  I just realised my GAMSAT score has expired.

Did you participate in Friday Night, Write! How much did you get done? If not, will you participate in the future?

I'll begin writing at around 4:30 to 5 pm AEST on a Friday evening, and I'll try my best to post the day's prompt on Twitter, Instagram stories, and my blog earlier in the day. Tweet me, or tag me in your Instagram stories & posts if you're joining in!

Mikaela | The Riverside Library

Penny for your thoughts? (I'm kidding, I don't have pennies but I'd love your thoughts)

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