I think I just finished...

the first draft of my novel!

Now, the first thing I would usually do at a time like this (not that I've ever had a time like this), is begin to start worrying about the slog that lies ahead, all the work before me. But I will fight that as best I can. And I will be happy with myself, for the day at least.

Cheers. To doing what you can to follow your dreams.

Little Poet stats... Ye who come here

So I come here to scribble, right? It's an outlet, a place to write down what I'm thinking, and maybe if I'm lucky have a few pairs of eyes read it. But then you think, or I think, who is actually looking at Little Poet Know It All...
Well, I'll tell you.
Countries (in no particular order) of viewers of my little blog by the Little Poet are:

United Kingdom

Spain

Germany
Denmark

United States

Italy

Russia

Canada

China

Hong Kong

Brazil

Poland

Colombia

Argentina
Mexico
Romania
India
South Korea

My thoughts are, in order:

1. Wow, there's a few countries right there
2. I hope Canada is Margaret Atwood
3. I want more!!! But hey, doesn't everyone?
   

Our ends are in our beginnings,
our first breath is the beginning of death.
– English proverb.

Cat got your tongue?

Confidence is a funny thing. My favourite words are funny and interesting, I really do over use them and should start thinking of some good alternatives. But until then, it's a funny thing. Sometimes I can chat away and other times a cat's got my tongue and is playing with it as if it's a mouse and it won't give it back. So, while the cat paws at my tongue, I can sit for an hour in silence while everyone around me airs their views, says things I agree with, things I think are ridiculous, things I'd like to pick up on and argue about, but I can't because that cat has still got my tongue.
     Then there are other times, when the cat throws it in the air and it comes back to me and I say something, and the blood rushes to my cheeks, my arms, my chest, my goddamn forehead, and I'm burning hot. I want to apologise, tell everyone to ignore the colour of my skin, but if I dare do that it turns to a shade of purple, so I struggle through as quick as I can.
     Lots of people who know me would be stumped to hear this coming from my mouth, from which come loud cackles, arguments, jokes, stories. But if the ground I'm on is a tiny bit shaky, the room I'm in, a tiny bit intimidating, the people I'm talking to, a tiny bit posh, the cat runs in, takes my tongue and leaves only the tail and the heart when it's finished. 

London through snaphots; no words