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

Rejection

Is just not nice. There are many ways of wrapping it, hiding it, dressing it up. But it is what it is. They don't want you. Whether it's as a girlfriend, a friend, a piece of writing, a short story, an employee, a synopsis and first three chapters. It might be good, but it's not the one.

I have had many rejections in my life, and I'm sure I've rejected, too. But I had my first literary rejection just the other day, and it's only hitting home now, haha.

It was in the shape of an email, whatever shape that has, and the rejection bit said,

We carefully considered your story and we are releasing it to you in hopes that you find a good home for it elsewhere. 

Well, now. That's actually not bad for a rejection, and did make me feel like going on. I know, it all sounds so dramatic, doesn't it? Well, to me, it is!

Giggle, giggle. 

Londoners running the Underground

I've had a couple of funny moments on the tube, lately, so thought, why not share?

I was running for the tube the other day. Before you ask, I wasn't late, and I wasn't going to work. It was really here nor there if I got this tube or the next one, in, say, 2 minutes. Now that I'm back in London I realise that the need to run is inherently ingrained in me. When I see the tube on the platform and I hear the beeps I have to run for it and throw myself in the gap that's closing between the doors. Phew! I always make it. I know the sounds and the timings to heart so I earn some smiles when on the right side of the closed doors.
     This time as I lunged myself at the doors and jumped gracefully onto the tube, something different happened. As I jumped on, something shot up behind me and there was a loud bang that made me scream and everyone in the carriage turn and look. It was like a serve moment in a tennis match: all heads turned to me. I swung around to see what the noise was and what did I find only a man on the ground holding his forehead. Directly in front of him was the yellow pole of the Underground. I think everyone was waiting to see how this panned out. I could almost see the birds flying out from this guy's ears as his head spun around inside itself. Are you okay? I asked him. Yeah, he said. His accent told me he wasn't a Londoner, and his face said he didn't feel very well.

Another night on my way home from watching the Barca-Real Madrid game and a guy had his rather large man-bag on the seat next to him, which became my seat and meant I had only half of it. I sat down and when he didn't look up from his magazine I thought, what a wanker! I thought I'd shimmy and give him the hint; it would shake his bag and the magazine lying on it, which he was reading. I began to shimmy and he looked up. You must think I'm a right ignorant pillock! he said. I'm so sorry! I was away with the fairies. Then we both laughed hard as we knew he'd hit the nail on the head. My annoyance floated away as we chatted.

I find the tube in London quite a funny place (funny weird). No-one talks, no-one smiles, no-one says hello, how are you doing? But I still manage to break though it all when I can and have a giggle with a stranger. It's good fun. Try it, you might like it.