Blog 89 - Writer's Storm

Blog 89 - Writer's Storm

November 2025

Alright, settle in, grab your beverage of choice – Unfortunately, because I’m working, mine’s a dangerously strong coffee that could probably power a small village, but feel free if you want something stronger (even at this hour!). If you’re reading this tonight, chances are you’re tucked away somewhere warm, perhaps with the reassuring flicker of a screen or the gentle hum of a refrigerator as your only companion. Because outside? Oh boy. Outside, it’s a proper tempest.
It’s the kind of night where the wind doesn’t just blow, it howls. It’s not just rain, it’s a furious, drumming symphony against the windowpanes, a relentless torrent that seems determined to wash the very world clean. The theme park is closed but on nights like this it creaks and groans like a tired ship weathering a gale. Tonight, it’s a particularly guttural storm, every now and then, a flash of lightning illuminates the rides, and is followed by a deep, chest-rattling rumble of thunder that accompanies the howling wind, and it’s got me thinking…
For most people, a storm like this is a signal to pull the duvet up higher, binge-watch that new series, or maybe even just gasp go to sleep. But for me? For me, my fellow word-weavers and story-spinners, this isn't just a storm. This, my friends, is a veritable smorgasbord of inspiration. It’s a sensory feast, a plot device waiting to happen, a character’s internal struggle made manifest in the meteorological. (See the word play is just rolling tonight!)
On a night like this my mind, bless its perpetually overactive little cotton socks, immediately goes into overdrive. Do I compare the tempest blowing outside to my personal struggles to get my work published? Oh, absolutely! The wind isn’t just wind; it’s the relentless gale of rejection letters, each gust rattling the foundations of my confidence. The thunder isn’t just thunder; it’s the crushing weight of a deadline I’m definitely going to miss. And the lightning? That’s the fleeting, brilliant flash of an idea that feels utterly revolutionary, only to fizzle out into mediocre prose by morning. It’s a beautiful, exhilarating dance, this creation business. Trying to tame a wild story into submission often feels like trying to sail a paper boat through this very storm.
Or perhaps, and this is a far more pleasant thought, I should take the driving, ceaseless rain as a metaphor for my words flowing down the page? Ah, yes, that’s much better. Each drop, a perfectly formed word, cascading into sentences, gathering into paragraphs, pooling into chapters. The relentless rhythm of it is a hypnotic drumbeat urging me on, reminding me that even the most daunting task is achieved one drop, one word, at a time. The sound becomes a soundtrack, the patter a gentle encouragement, filling the silences between my thoughts with the promise of narrative. It’s a deluge of ideas, a downpour of dialogue, a veritable flood of narrative possibilities. And sometimes, just sometimes, it feels like the words are writing themselves, pouring forth with the same unstoppable force as the storm outside.

But let’s be honest. This isn’t just about storms. This is about everything. About how we, as writers, perceive the entire world we live in. We don't just see things; we translate them. We don't just experience life; we narrate it, and more often than not, we add a generous portion of fantastical elements just to spice it up a bit.
I tell you, being a writer can be hard, not just because of deadlines and blank pages, but because we live in a world that others don't even see, let alone participate in. Imagine what your commute to work would be like if, instead of seeing a flock of pigeons swoop in front of your car, you saw an attacking hoard of feathered mutants, their beady eyes glowing with malevolent intent, trying to run you off the road, perhaps to steal your half-eaten doughnut or deliver a cryptic message from an ancient, forgotten bird deity! Freaky, hey? Well, welcome to my world!
It may just be me, but I see things everywhere, that innocuous spill on the coffee shop floor? To me that’s not just a clumsy barista, my friend. Oh no, I can do much more with it than that. It’s a forgotten potion, a vital clue in a murder mystery, or perhaps the ghostly residue of a dimension-hopping adventurer. That old man on the park bench, quietly feeding the aforementioned feathered mutants (who I am sure are definitely plotting something, by the way). He’s not just an old man. He’s a retired spy, a wizard in disguise, the keeper of ancient secrets, or maybe the sole survivor of an alien invasion, desperately trying to warn passersby through cryptic breadcrumb messages.
I know it sounds strange, crazy even, but you wouldn’t believe the stuff I filter out just to get through the day. The mundane isn't mundane to me, boring doesn’t exist. A traffic jam isn't just traffic; it's a siege, a desperate flight, a parade of eccentric characters all with their own untold stories. Even a simple, everyday conversation can spark an entire dialogue scene, full of subtext and hidden motives that the original speakers never even dreamed of. It’s exhausting, frankly. My brain is a perpetual motion machine, constantly cataloguing, analysing, re-imagining. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves, every overheard snippet of conversation – it’s all data, raw material for the next great saga. It’s like having a hidden superpower, but one that comes with a constant buzzing in your ears and the nagging feeling that you’re probably missing the actual plot unfolding right in front of you because you’re too busy inventing new ones.
However, there is an upside. A glorious, messy, utterly frustrating hard part to this life. The part that comes when I get to sit in front of my computer and start filtering all these fantastic observations, all this chaotic inspiration, and try to funnel it into something coherent, something readable, something that makes sense to people who don't see murderous pigeons. It's the thrill I get as a writer, waging war against the blank page, wrestling with plot holes, and ignoring the nagging doubt that the feathered mutant hoard is actually just a flock of pigeons, and I’m just a sorry excuse for a wanna-be writer.
That’s why, despite all the struggle, despite the internal hurricane that often rivals the literal one outside, I keep doing it. Because there's an undeniable joy in it. The thrill of a story finally gelling, the satisfaction of finding the perfect metaphor for a stormy night (or a puddle of spilled coffee), the sheer exhilaration of creating something out of nothing. This unique worldview isn't a burden; it's my superpower. It's not just a choice to see the world this way; it's who I am. I can't turn it off, and frankly, in my heart of hearts, I wouldn't want to.
So, as the wind begins to whisper rather than howl outside, and the rain begins to taper off into a gentle pitter patter, I’ll sit here a little longer. My coffee may be cold, but my thoughts are still buzzing, and my fingers are itching to pull all this glorious chaos into some semblance of order. The storm outside might be passing, but the beautiful, creative storm inside is just getting started…