Grounded

Sometimes I feel

The world is not enough

To keep me.

So when I feel

like the world

is not

for me

I see it new.

 

The birds that hop around my garden

The smiles of those who leave a print

upon

my 

heart

day by

day

A cup of tea every morning or

Pancakes that are specially made in a café filled with unmatched chairs.

 

I hold on to a collection of notebooks, pens and sketch books,

I smell the salt from the air on the beach

My dogs curled up like cushions as I listen to 

The sounds of rushing water against our skylight window

Raining again.

And here I am

indulging in

all the sights and sounds of what could be

When the world is just enough

to keep me grounded still.

– K.M.L Quinn

In my writing journal, I’m a big fan of scribbling down the things I’m grateful for every day. I tend to focus on the little things, and remind myself throughout the day that I’ll be making note of them later. As a result, I start to appreciate everything in the moment. This piece of writing was an exploration of that idea; I imagined a character who was thinking about what they truly appreciated in life, even if their daily anxieties, at times, overwhelmed them. I did steal some of the things that made me happy (the dogs and notebooks being my two absolute favorites), but that was very much intentional: I do think it’s important when writing to give your characters a little bit of your soul. Anyway, happy reading!

A surprise snippet…

‘Do you remember the Faery Tale, about the Fisherman’s son?’

Ekus put his hands in his pockets. ‘Of course.’

She smiled.

Ekus pitied her, even though she didn’t look remotely sad. She was talking about own her child. The one that, just one hundred years ago, passed away. There were rumours about him, a Faery Tale as she described it. Fluttering whispers that he was to be great and powerful. They were just rumours, of course, but rumours can be just as dangerous as monsters.

This is a snippet from my very first novel! It gives absolutely nothing away, just like I intended (ma-ha-ha-ha!). To be honest, I’m not even sure if this snippet made the final draft, but the tension and the mysterious give-away-nothing smiles have remained, so don’t fret too much. I have also decided to post up a bonus story from the book soon, only because it too didn’t make the final draft. Regardless, it’s filled with magic and mystery. That’s all you can ask for in life, really.

Piano Concerto

You were sitting by that complicated mass of strings and

Ivory polished chess of white and black

The dominating length of it.

Lost in a world of the words on the page,

There is no one but you.

 

And unbeknown 

to you, 

The surrounding mist,

The blinding fog, 

The deep haze of thought,

And this is it.  

 

We’re trapped.

 

You at one side, me at the other.

And I cannot see you anymore.

My feet are the roots that delve deep into the soil,

And if the world came crashing down,

I would remain embedded,

In that haze,

And listen.

– K.M.L. Quinn

An excerpt…

I was lying on a bed in the medical station. Naturally, I panicked – bear in mind that all I could remember was the night before – and so I screamed and kicked and punched the air, wanting, hoping to wake up. Then I heard the horse’s hooves. My eyes darted in the direction of the clipclop, towards the sound that took me to the utmost depths of fear. The faintest light was visible just outside the station. I stood up and walked towards it. I don’t know why I did. 

I went outside and there it was.

This is a section of a spooky short story I wrote called The Nighthorse. I decided to adapt it for screen a few years ago, because I love ghosts and other-worldly creatures, and and I was delighted that it was shortlisted for the Sir Peter Ustinov Television Scriptwriting Award. 

So Mighty Are We

We are all
feeling
just that little
bit lost

In a place that’s
much bigger, Much
bigger
than We

But that doesn’t matter
What matters is
this:

We are all teachers and
builders and dreamers
We are stars, we are atoms
We are mountains and
Rain

We are the thunder that
rolls though the sky,
We are the tears that flow
When we cry

So next time You
Feel
Lonely or
Lost in this place,
Remember these words
when the unknown
You do face:

In a place that’s
much bigger, Much
bigger
than We,
this place may be
mighty –
but so mighty
are We.

– K.M.L. Quinn

Blogiversary Post

Get those birthday candles out, because Three Bags of Sugar has been running for five whole years! I like to think of it as something that I will still use when I’m ninety-and-beyond, typing a up a new story just before I put on my trekking boots and head out with my big family of dogs (and yes, I will be doing that when I’m ninety, thank you very much). This blog is very much a part of me now, and I’m incredibly grateful to have it. 

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Harry Potter and the Cursed Child (and the eleven-year-old girl)

Harry Potter has been a part of my life ever since I was an eleven-year-old girl. One who, I will freely admit, wasn’t a huge reader. Books never really interested me before Harry. I had read books, but I was more of an explorer than a reader. One that went outside and always came back with cuts, scratches and a story. The type that played with dinosaur toys and Pokémon cards. I also really enjoyed the Nintendo 64. In fact, when I was seven I was told by my teacher that I would never be a writer, because I had never really taken to reading. For the record, she didn’t just randomly announce this in class; she was scolding me for purchasing a fairytale book, rather than a proper “three-hundred-pager” from the school magazine. I was confused; I didn’t see the problem with my five-hundred word story. After all, fairies were the creatures that existed in my back garden, in the big old oak tree and beyond that, in the fields past the road to Mary’s house. I just wanted to know more about them, and that’s why I bought (with my pocket money) the unexpectedly controversial book. I didn’t tell her that though, I just sat in silence and listened to what she had to say. My teacher had told me that I wasn’t a reader, and to a child, a teacher’s words define who you are. So for a long time after that, I was Karen, the girl who didn’t read. Karen, the girl who wouldn’t write.

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