Writer's Paradise discussion

I'm coming back to writing after a decade of depression and doom.. I'm a leaner, cleaner writing machine with a beautiful daughter who has helped me find my inner child again..

Here's something I just wrote a week or two ago which has spurred me to write a book..



Simon cried like he had never cried before. She had finally left him, leaving an emptiness that he had no way of coping with. Of course he had seen it coming, but being a great procrastinator he had done nothing about it.

He sat at his vast kitchen table, head bowed to the scarred and pockmarked pine. This was his place, head of the table, the place where he could preside over the many parties he and Anna held. Now it was just another place, empty and without purpose. He ran a tear stained finger down an old faded scar in its’ surface, happy times, happy days.

Light flickered, casting ghostly shadows over the limestone walls where the remains of last nights lasagna remained. Luckily for Simon Anna was a terrible aim. It seemed that more and more of late she had resorted to throwing things, an indirect violence that she saw as acceptable. Last night it got serious when she threw the crockpot and its’ contents.

That's really interesting, Adrian. A few grammar errors but a cool idea.

I'm a 'get it on the page before I forget it' kinda guy

Simon cried like he had never cried before. She had finally left him, leaving an emptiness that he had no way of coping with. Of course he had seen it coming, but being a great procrastinator he had done nothing about it. They had had arguments before, they had been married long enough for the tiny niggles to escalate beyond reason. Sometimes it was more 'he said' 'she said' than productive reasoning. But, no matter how he tried, Simon could not see where this had all sprung from.

He sat at his vast kitchen table, head bowed to the scarred and pockmarked pine. This was his place, head of the table, the place where he could preside over the many parties he and Anna held. Now it was just another place, empty and without purpose. He ran a tear stained finger down an old faded scar in its’ surface, happy times, happy days.

Light flickered, casting ghostly shadows over the limestone walls where the remains of last nights lasagna remained. Luckily for Simon Anna was a terrible aim. It seemed that more and more of late she had resorted to throwing things, an indirect violence that she saw as acceptable. Last night it got serious when she threw the crockpot and its’ contents. He nursed a small swelling on his head where it caught a glancing blow, the heat from the ceramic pot leaving a burn that seemed to underline it like a bloated emoticon.