Archive for conscience

Writing conscience.

Posted in Writing with tags , , , , on March 30, 2017 by Kate Jack

When an author stops writing, for whatever reason, the lack of creativity is replaced by feelings of frustration. This is, of course, bad enough; but then guilt comes along to gang up on you too.

Guilt for not writing. 

Guilt for procrastinating.

Guilt for making oneself false promises; eg: “Oh I’ll start my new book tomorrow – definitely” – yeah, right. You know damn well that you’ll keep on avoiding your computer/pen paper, until the guilt grows to the size of Mount Vesuvius and you finally blow your top!

So why do writers put themselves through this torture? Your guess is as good as mine; maybe we’re all sadists. But what’s even more baffling is that when we do get our noses to the grindstone, the sense of accomplishment and satisfaction we gain far outweighs all the shenanigans we get up to, trying to avoid what we know must be done. The feeling of smugness, the self-satisfaction, and above all, the stroking of our egos when we write, what we consider to be a masterpiece, is sublime. 

What’s really annoying is it all starts out fine. We get a brilliant idea for a story. We plot it all out and then everything grinds to a halt. The idea’s there, the characters are formed, there’s nothing to stop the creation of a new piece of writing art; but then, and this is the maddening bit, we feel we can sit back on our laurels and let the ideas percolate, until we’re good and ready to start. Days turn into weeks, weeks to months and sometimes months can turn into years.


So come on people – listen to your writing conscience and stop sitting on your hands. Get up out of your chair, switch off the TV, lock the kids in the garden shed, send the old man/woman down the pub, and get WRITING! 😀

Oh, and whatever you do, don’t get involved with Spider Solitaire – it’s fatal!

The Silver Flute Trilogy


Memories of ghosts – part III

Posted in Short stories with tags , , , , , , , , on July 21, 2012 by Kate Jack

…I left the study and staggered upstairs. As I slumped onto the bed, I tried to block out the memory of that hand reaching for my throat. My effort was in vain. As though a dam had burst, my mind was flooded with other memories.

In my profession, one cannot afford such emotions as sympathy or pity. One has to block them, fight them off or suffer the consequences. My conscience, never my greatest asset, had lain dormant for years. Now it resurfaced with a vengeance.

The faces of every man, woman and child I had gathered over the years, suddenly surrounded me. They peered down at my prone body with expressions of malice. I tried to sit up, but found myself pinioned by the force of their will.

The blood in my veins congealed, the beat of my heart slowed to a crawl, as the ghosts of my victims drew on my life force, leeching it from my body, drawing it into their own spirits.

It was a kinder death than I deserved, I suppose, given my many bloody, inventive ways of gathering the lives of those who had erred. There was no physical pain, only mental, which was infinitely worse.  Guilt for the taking of lives poured over me in an avalanche, burying me beneath its weight. With leaden inevitability, my spirit was forced from my mortal frame, over the threshold between life and death.

I looked around the ring of faces surrounding me and realised that now I was on the same plane as my former victims, the torment had only just begun.



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