Writing and random remembering

I miss making up stories.
I was an exceptionally wierd child. And I lived in my own world. I loved every bit of it.
Until the Eight grade (when I realized that I needed friends) I was always by myself. I used to play with cardboard boxes and transform them into castles. Pillows and Blankets easily served as Turrets and Upholstery. I played with imaginary friends for days together. They were real to me. In a wonderfully weird way, they were very very real to me. I used to rush home from school so that my Olive Oyl Doll who was keeping them company ("Its rude to leave your guests alone"- My mum had taught me well) could go back to acting as the Sentinel.
I remember wrecking my parents room because I took every bedsheet available and strung them about the room so that they formed a "tent". The entire day I spent with a packet of chips and a Famous Five book. Even though the tent was demolished, the subsequent weeks were spent with my versions of George, Anne, Julian and Dick.
I tried very hard to fit into each different world that I created. To me, they had always been there and I was the newcomer.
When the world seemed to be going through a Pokemon phase, I was with the crowd. My new games involved my own Pokemon, imaginary battles, made up creatures and non existent trainers. It was around this time that I also started playing basketball and the my two favourite hobbies were bound together in the most fun situations where my Pokemon would help with my layups.
As I sowly grew up and became more involved in my school ( my "other life" as I used to think) these places and people slowly withdrew and became a lesser known part of me. Everything was confined to the mind's eye because a fifteen year old talking to her imaginary friends was hardly looked upon favourably.
That was when I started writing. I started writing down the conversations and everything else that mattered. It was just as fun. When I say that I write for myself, I think that I really did at one point of time. The spelling ,the syntax and the grammar didn't matter because it was only for my eyes.
Somewhere over the years, after reading so many books and caring about others' opinions I've realized that my opinion just reflected that of others. Somehow, now, my writing is not about characters whose souls I am very familiar with. The people who do occur in my writing were not of my own making somehow. They became like strangers to me. And I don't want to know them.
I think somewhere in between, the people I really cared about slipped from my mind and just wisps of them were left behind. And I unmindful of this, continued writing and I think that's why I didn't like what I wrote most of the time.
Recently, (a few months into starting this blog) I got bitten by a bug and I started writing like I had never done before. And I like what I write now even though it is quite different from the way I used to write when my real people (they were very real to me) starred in them.
I think I am very critical about my present style of writing because I miss the people who I used to write about. I think I miss the writing for myself. I miss the magically simple ending where everyone would live happily ever after. I think I miss all of it because I miss being 10 years old.
Well, they say every author has a story to be told. I don't know if this is the only one I have. This one is not very dramatic and someone out there might even call it dumb. But it is MY story. If every person in the world has such a story behind themselves, I wonder if it would ever be possible to find out every single person's. Probably not.
But then we are the music makers, we are the dreamers of dreams.

New Year Plans

New Yea huh?
Does it even make a difference? Apart from the fact that its just one more reason to get sloshed.

I was thinking about resolutions, things to do and ways to change. You see, people have now realized that New Year Resolutions are just another way to guilt- trip themselves. But I swear if I hear another person say " My New Year Resolution is not to make any more resolutions" I will take someone's eye out. The moment has passes, the joke is dead. So drop it unless you want to wake up in the hospital with no remembrance of what happened.

New Year according to me is all about hope. You favourite internet astrologer has prophesizes that bad times will be over by the end of the eleventh year of the this century so you can't help but feel relieved.
Think about it, though. New Year is all about hope, about that feeling when you believe that the tides will change and with it the winds will too. Maybe things will work out, maybe they won't. But everything you do is of your making. I honestly believe that I control my own destiny and that you control yours.

No you don't have to make weak promises when you know that you're too far gone. But what you could do is give yourself another chance. Give the world another chance.

I have a few suggestions that might strike a chord. Usually I don't do posts like these because I don't want to look back and smile in embarrassment but for some reason I need to write this. So here are some things that you could try out these things to start New Year with some good vibes.

1. Don't watch the clock tick to 12.00 am in your bedroom by yourself.
New Year's Eve has always made me feel a little depressed. You don't need to go and get sloshed and end up doing a New Year's walk of shame. You could party if you're a party person.
But if you aren't ( like me sometimes), spend it with family and friends. Or even better, spend it with an awesome book, an amazing movie and gorgeous food that you don't even realize that the time's passed.

2. Go shopping!
Apart from the fact that the sales will be going on now, shopping is an amazing way to start of a year. Yes, it's an excuse that my mum will not buy but a new top will make you feel better about going back to work.
If you don't want to shop for yourself, then shop for all the girls you know and love- Everyone loves gifts even if they deny it.

3. Clear out your room.
Yes your room is clean ( apart from the dirty clothes, the stack of unwashed plates, the books everywhere and all the wires in a jumble) but you could get rid of all that junk you keep accumulating. Like that box of stuff from school that you insist is very important - Admit it, you've always hated school so why hold on to the past?
Put up new posters, change the way your furniture is positioned, buy some wind chimes and (while your at it), clean out your inbox and delete all that cluttering mail.
A clutter free life indicates a clutter free mind. (Apparently)

4. Do something you haven't done in a long time.
I'm not saying you need to do something big and time consuming. I'm talking about those small things that actually meant something to us once- eat a popsicle, go to the park you used to play at when you were nine, Watch a rerun of the Pokemon series, Play Badminton or frisbee, Blow soap bubbles, Read Enis Blyton..... The list is endless.
Do something that reminds you of the happiest times in life when you didn't have to give a damn about anything or anyone (except your parents and homework)

5. Do something new.
It doesn't have to be something that you're going to follow for the rest of the year.
Try a haircut. Or a different band that everyone's been raving about but you have always dismissed casually.
Or get a massage. Or have a water balloon fight ( It sounds fun).
Do something that will tell you that you have started afresh and to convince yourself that you're on a better footing than the last year.


Note: None of these things are very time consuming or costlty. They are fun though and just something you could try. None of these are tried and tested but they are things that come under our comfort zone in some way. I know they're going to make me better and hopefully it'll make you feel better too.
 I'm going to try atleast three of these. But if someone actually thinks that these are good ideas, comment and you'll make my day!

The strength she has

She was dancing. My crippled grandmother was dancing.

I stood in the living room doorway absolutely stunned. I had come to visit her, knowing her habit of keeping the kitchen door open ("Oh, stop complaining. If a burglar comes through the door they´ll soon realize there´s nothing of value here. And once that is clear, I´ll make a pot of good strong coffee and give them blueberry pie with whipped cream! Maybe we´ll strike an interesting conversation.") I glanced at the kitchen table and sure enough - on it, right under a small framed picture on the wall, was a freshly baked peach pie.

She was gracefully and softly moving to the tune of an old Waltz. Her eyes were closed, in concentration as if trying to remember the steps. I didn’t want to disturb her. She had always been a perky, upbeat and funny to the point of being rude. Her features were softened, her wrinkled skin was somehow glowing and her feet! The feet which my mother had long since told me were immobile were carrying her without any signs of faltering. It was a beautiful sight.

At last when the music ended, she opened her eyes and wasn’t a little bit startled to see me leaning against the door frame. “Hello dearie, do you want some cake?” She gave me a quick hug before settling into her wheelchair and the moving to the table and cutting up her Peach Cake.

I was still reeling from the shock of seeing my grandmother walk so steadily and then seeing her sink back into her armchair. “Um…Gran…um…You were dancing! Like actually on your feet: dancing!” I spluttered. She put a slice of the cake on her fragile yet friendly porcelain plate and pushed it towards me. “Was I now? Do you want some chocolate sauce with that?” she asked unperturbed, making sure my cake was dripping in brown oozy sauce. For a minute I got distracted by the cake but then the minute ended and I cleared my senses. “You were dancing Gran. How? I mean, you can’t… I mean, you’re not supposed to… I mean…” I felt very wrong footed.

“You mean, my feet are supposed to be frozen and I’m not supposed to be able to do that?” She asked her voice a little sad. “Eat up dear, or I will.”

“Gran, am I supposed to make sense of any of this? I’m a little confused.”

“Alright, I guess I must tell you now… Has your mother ever told you why my feet don’t work?” she asked quietly.  Come to think of it, Grandma in a wheelchair was something my cousins and I just grew up with. It was nothing special and was nothing different.

“Its because your mum and your aunt don’t know either.” “What! I mean… Did something happen Gran? I mean…were you hurt or something?’’

“Something like that dearie. Now don’t go thinking about one of those terribly frightening movies that is blasted all over television these days. It was quite simple.” She didn’t meet my eyes. Instead she fully concentrated on the chocolate dripping over the peach cake.

“Before I had your mother and your aunt, I gave birth to a baby boy.”

I was flabbergasted. Shocked. Stupefied.

“His name was Michael. Your grandfather was so proud. The first child was a boy and a beautiful one at that. He had a mass of black curls and he was small and chubby and amazing. It had been an easy birth and he was healthy.” A long silent pause.

“He liked classical music. The first time he smiled was when your grandfather sang Carnatic songs. He would gurgle and laugh through the Pallavi and would be asleep by the time it got over. And every night, his tiny fist would close over mine right before he slept. I wanted to know if he had dreams. I wanted to know what his dreams were about. I never found out”

This time when she paused, she took a long breath as if confessing.

“He was three and a half months old. It was midsummer. I fed him and played with him. And then, I danced with him like I always do before he drifts into his afternoon nap.

I put him on his back in the crib and put a pillow on each side. I covered him till his chest and tucked his hands inside. I left to clean the house and start on the preparation for tea. In two hours I went to check on him like I always did. This time, he was turned on his stomach. The pillows were disheveled. I knew it. I knew that he was gone before I turned him over.”

The slight tremor in her voice had grown into a sob but Gran didn’t stop:

“There was nothing we could do. He was gone and no one knew why. Now they’ve come up with some fancy new name for it. But then, they said that it was my fault. Your grandfather didn’t say a word but I lost our Michael. I lost my baby boy.”

I reached over and gripped her hand and found that tears were rolling down both our faces but neither of us attempted to stem the flow.

“I fainted when they finally said that he was gone. I fell sick and then my legs were paralyzed. In a few years, I became well again. But I couldn’t stand up. I didn’t try to because I didn’t want to. Of course, we had more children but my feet had become weak and I didn’t have any more stamina.

Life went on but every once in a while I can’t help thinking of him and how unfair it was that he had to be taken away. I just knew it was my fault. Everyone whispered that it was. But I had fed him right. And I had put him to sleep on his back.

Sometimes, I remember dancing with him and my feet just wake up. But then they go back to sleep and I must continue on. Some pain never quite disappears.’’

I couldn’t help crying. My mind was still reeling and I had many questions and I felt terrible and sad. My grandmother wheeled herself next to my chair and gave me a hug. And then she buried her face in my neck and I found that I was the one who was holding her.

Sometimes, the people you’ve always known will reveal a previously unknown chapter of their lives. And you will see a side of life which you had never thought of before.

 Sometimes, you will see a flash of pain in their eyes, a little strain in their smiles. But before you dismiss it and immerse yourself in your own problems, try to be sensitive.

Sometimes, in the most unexpected places, you might hear the gurgle of a baby who is now an angel. And just sometimes, you might get to meet an angel’s mother who lives with the echo of that gurgle in her heart.
 Note: This post was inspired by:


"She was dancing. My crippled grandmother was dancing.


I stood in the living room doorway absolutely stunned. I had come to visit her, knowing her habit of keeping the kitchen door open (“Oh, stop complaining. If a burglar comes through the door they´ll soon realize there´s nothing of value here. And once that is clear, I´ll make a pot of good strong coffee and give them blueberry pie with whipped cream! Maybe we´ll strike an interesting conversation.”) I glanced at the kitchen table and sure enough – on it, right under a small framed picture on the wall, was a freshly baked peach pie."

My blog sister Trusha wrote a topic on the exact same piece - In her words "Same Pinch!". Check her post out at http://horizontola.wordpress.com/
If you wanna know why exactly we're writing about our dancing grandmothers (amongst other things) check out http://unsecretpromises.blogspot.com/2011/12/lets-start-at-very-beginning.htm

My first plunge

 The following pictures have been taken using a Cannon E 550D!

Sometimes captions ruin the essence of the photo. So I'm going to let these be.

A walk in the park

I was sleeping. Not literally, but my mind felt sluggish and slow and it had been like this for some time now. My days were long and boring my nights were even longer and restless. My life was empty and blank. I had convinced myself that I was happy. Somehow, I felt that Stumble upon, Facebook, Fruit Ninja, movies and television could not satiate my thirst for some excitement. I could not bring myself to concentrate on books. Nothing could satisfy my hunger for something new and exciting.

My eyes were quite heavy and felt worn out. Hours of staring at a monitor did that to me. I walked in a zombie like fashion around the house. I can't remember a word of any of the conversations that I had over the day. I yawned countless times, snoozed throughout the days and nothing mattered. This must how hibernation must feel like.

I finally pushed myself out of the house. It didn't make much of a difference. It had been a hot summer day and the air was still. As I walked, I found my feet taking roads that I had not taken for a long time and somehow I found myself outside a park. It was quite a big park and I remembered playing there when I was younger and more alive. Then, it was new, with flowers and a big stone fountain and plenty of children running around. Now, it was overgrown and the green leaves seemed a shade darker. The fountain no longer had any water; it was now mossy and was very statue like. Few children ran around and their anxious parents kept an eye on them while closing business deals in Oslo on their phones at the same time. Plenty of old people ambled about, talking about their children and their grandchildren. I suddenly felt nostalgic and sat down on one of the park benches. Next to me was an old lady who gave me a stern look. I knew immediately that she was the kind that believed that the next generation was going to the dogs. After a brief appraisal ( I knew that she had given me up for a lost cause), she turned and looked in the other direction. I christened her Granny Grumpynathan.

Across the park, I could see a Carnatic music class was taking place. A bunch of girls around my age were singing (Pitch perfect) while their teacher nodded approvingly at their tala. The faint tune resembled a song I knew to play on the violin and I started humming it softly. Granny Grumpynathan suddenly whipped around and smiled at me, as if to tell me that she knew the song I was singing. I smiled too and she started humming in sync with me.

Suddenly, before I knew it, she rose up and started singing. Her voice was a little weathered, a little shaky but then she took my hand in hers and I started singing too. My voice surprised my soul to its very depths. It sounded better than ever before and I was quite astonished. The children, their parents and the elders stood and stared at us. And suddenly our voices rose high and we started enjoying ourselves. 

Suddenly, I felt alive, awakened and fresh. I imagine this is how Sleeping Beauty would have felt after waking up. I could feel the touch of a soft, withered and chiseled hand holding mine. I could feel the sunlight illuminating every cell in my body. I felt awake.

I caught a pair of brown eyes in the crowd looking at me. A boy, few years older than me was staring at me curiously. His hair was messy and his face was filled with spots of paint. He had a set of white teeth and his dimples gave him a half smile. His eyes were large and innocent. But they were also sad and filled with pain. 

I was still singing without any conscious effort and Granny Grumpynathan was having an amazing time. When we finished, she turned and I saw her eyes shining with a few tears. But before I could say anything, she quietly exited. 

As the boy made his way towards me, my heart fluttered just a bit. I sank into the bench and something fluttered into my lap. I held up a 10 Rupee note against the setting sun; amazed, amused and a little insulted.

The sunrise at heaven

I was tired; my limbs were aching. I had walked a little but I had run most of the way.  My breath was staggering, my stomach hurt, my feet were numb, my cheeks were throbbing and my hair a mess. But I just had to run. I had to bolt to the top because I may never do it again. I could feel the wind in every cell of my body. My nose could smell the clean purity and my lungs filled up with the scent of vegetation I did not recognize.

      Every inch of my body was crying from the pain but it did not resist and it did not beg me to stop either. And finally, I was there and I had reached. Of course, I fell over.

I had made it on time. Below me, what was once a humongous valley was now sheets of white and grey. The sun, pink and orange, young and gay was waking up slowly and illuminated the snow and made it look welcoming. The sky changed color at every moment and I could not help but hold my breath. Everything was still and serene. If you could imagine new beginnings, THIS was the perfect one. 

    Suddenly, I was a part of it. I was one with the sun, one with the dewdrops on the grass and one with myself. I felt the ribbon of my hat brush the nape of my neck. It tickled me slightly but I couldn't move. I was entranced; enamored by the sunrise. My breath rose and fell calmly and I didn't even feel as cold as I had expected to.

    I felt happier than I had for a long time and suddenly, the most beautiful music started playing. I saw it resonating on every ray of light, on every drop of dew and on every crystal of snow. It was the most terribly beautiful, saddest music. It was my song. It was my life, my emotions and my emotions. It came from inside me and I felt like swaying to the tune of the sunrise. I just stood there for the longest time, in awe and in gratitude.

As the notes fell faster, I sank into a stupor into the place of nothingness. I felt like I was let go.

I felt like I was in heaven.
Note: This post was inspired by the picture: http://www.flickr.com/photos/piazta/5957652167/in/photostream/
Read Trusha's take on the picture at 

The path to peace from clutter winds through nature! 
P.S: Its a lot better than mine!

If you're wondering what this writing project is about or who Trusha Navalkar is, then you will have to start go to http://unsecretpromises.blogspot.com/2011/12/lets-start-at-very-beginning.html!

The day my baby brother grew up

How many people know the exact day that they've stopped being children? Everyday, children lose their innocence and become adults, some sooner than expected while others stay children their whole lives. I don't know the day I became an adult but I have seen one little boy who learnt to see the world as it was when he was a very young child: my brother, Adarsh.

Sunlight pierced through the white curtains, filling the house with a sort of weird, soft light. Maybe nature was mourning with us. Or perhaps my father, now a part of the universe was trying to console us.  He had been a quiet man, firm and strict with us. I remember being in his arms when I was a child. He didn’t speak much but he worked a lot and was sometimes frustrated, but never showed it. He was sharp as a razor and was funny at times. He was just a normal man, and I adored him when I was younger.  I lost touch with him when I was in school. I’d like to blame it on the distance but it was one of those things that I’ll regret forever; not taking enough time to spend with my father.

In my house sat a group of relatives, clothed in black and tears. My youngest cousins were asleep in my room. It didn't matter though. My dad's relatives sat on one side, in deep mourning themselves. My mum's relatives looked at us, talking in low voices, worrying about my mother and how we were going to manage. We were a normal middle class family with rather indulgent tastes, both Adarsh and I were still studying and we had very little savings as far as I could remember.

 My mother had been the strong one, the pillar of strength while I had been the crazy, volatile teenager with a new batch of hormones. Our roles had been reversed now though. My mother lay down on the floor, her head resting on my lap, her eyes on the sunlight peeping through the curtains. I remember stroking her hair and thinking of how my part time job would help cover college fees and whether I should move back home and give up my apartment on the other side of town. At this moment, the first time after the phone call, after the funeral, after hundreds of people telling me how sorry they were, after leading my usually strong mother back home, after my father wove through my dreams every night since; for the first time I felt tired.

This was when Adarsh entered. He had been at boarding school and it had taken him three days to get here because an uncle of mine had to go fetch him. He looked disoriented, confused, tired and only a little sad. My relatives surrounded him and each hugged him and murmured encouraging words while others started crying openly. As soon as he extracted himself from them, he came to the corner where the both of us were sitting. My mum saw him and spread out her arms. They both snuggled up on my lap. I smiled inspite of the situation; it was kind of sweet...

He looked at me, his eyes a little sad but he hardly knew Dad. Dad was amazing and he and I used to have these heart- to-heart talks during the summers but I doubted if Adarsh had even talked to Dad. He came and gave me a ritualistic hug and I returned it but suddenly I realized that we were two strangers though we were the closest to each other by blood.

Due to the large number of guests at our house, the both of us were forced to sleep on a single mattress laid out in the hall. I was a little miffed because it had been a long day and that I had to give up my own bed to my little cousins while I was the one who had lost my father. Somehow, the adults didn't seem to care. This was when Adarsh and I started talking. He kept asking me questions in his piping little voice.

- Do you think Pa would have liked all this sadness?

- I don't know Adi. I really don't.

- Why did he die?

- Because he was too good to live. And heart attack. (I smiled a little. He didn't)

- Did it hurt?

- I don't think so. I hope not.

- Well, if it hurt, then he's happier now, right? Because the pain's stopped.

- I hope so.

- Do you miss him?

(This question threw me on the rocks. My father and I weren’t close. We spoke, enquired about each other’s' lives but that was it. I had hardly known the man after I had left to boarding school. Mum and I were close because she demanded to know every single detail of my life but I hadn't known Dad or Adi.)

- A little. I don't know Adi.

- Where do you think he is?

These questions carried on but I think I must have fallen asleep sometime in between. The night was restless and I kept dreaming about how I had to give up college so that our family could survive. My father appeared and silently stared at me and I felt more angry, hurt and irritated than before. When I woke up, I felt tired and cramped. I also found a pair of large black eyes staring into my own. "What!" I snapped, suddenly awake and uncomfortable. “You kept sleep talking”, he said, a little hurt. “I did? What about?” I asked, a little fearful.

"About your boyfriend." He said smiling. I stared at him incredulously. How could I have been sleep talking about a boyfriend who I didn't even have? I caught the eye of my brother and suddenly I realized that he was making it up. We both started laughing. Finally when we stopped, he looked into my eyes again, "You were talking about quitting college". I stiffened. This time he was not making it up. "Why do you want to quit college?”.  I didn't know what to tell him. "Umm...I don't want to quit college. I probably won't either. I just get paranoid sometimes." He was not convinced, "You were muttering something about a job." "Yes, I was thinking that I should get a job" I suggested, twirling a strand of my hair. “Why would you want to quit college? Don't you like it?" he asked, his brow furrowed. “I like it but sometimes it's not about the things you like or don't like." I tried to reason. '' You were also yelling at Dad and talking about money" he said quietly, his eyes on the floor.

"Um... yes.... you see, I was dreaming that...err..." I had no explanation and was desperately trying to figure something out. And then he dealt the final blow, "Are we poor now? Is that why you're quitting college? Am I quitting school?". I didn't know what to tell him because there are some things you cannot explain to your 10 year old baby brother.

"Ok...listen, you are going to school. There is no doubt about that. And I'm not quitting college either. I'm might just take a short break to help mum with stuff." I exhaled hoping he'd buy it. “But Dad got us most of the money. It was his role. That's why he was the head of the family." he protested. "Well, Dad's not here now!" I snapped, losing my patience at his whining. “He’s gone and he's no more head of the family and there's no more money!"

My eyes were welling up with tears. I felt a little hand slip into mine. “That means I'm the man of the house, right?" I looked down to see him trembling, his own eyes filled with tears but he just brushed them aside. "Dad wasn't head of the family because of the money. He was the head of the family because he was the strongest...” he said in a quiet voice. He looked at me and as he said those words, and understood the meaning only after he had uttered it.

Suddenly, Adi stopped being a kid. To me, he suddenly seemed grown up and mature. Maybe it was in my eyes but I knew that at that minute he felt the need to be The Man in our family. He was no longer a child. He helped around the house and stopped throwing tantrums (almost anyway). Once in a while, I would catch him looking at the sky wistfully but I never managed to ask him what he was looking at.
After that, he always uttered the words "my father" with an air of gentle pride.So, strengthened by a purpose and a hope, the little lad of ten bravely began the world, and entered into his inheritance, the memory of a wise and tender father, the legacy of an honest name.
That was the day, he grew up. Or rather, that was the day I started to see him as the man he is.


Note: This post was inspired by the lines:" He always uttered the words "my father" with an air of gentle pride.
So, strengthened by a purpose and a hope, the little lad of ten bravely began the world, and entered into his inheritance, the memory of a wise and tender father, the legacy of an honest name" an excerpt from the book 'Little Men' by Louisa May Alcott. 


Trusha Navalkar has attempted a brave stance of a proud mother. Take a look at http://horizontola.wordpress.com/2011/12/07/elijah-ke-gender-pe-mat-ja/

If you're wondering what this writing project is about or who Trusha Navalkar is, then you will have to start go to http://unsecretpromises.blogspot.com/2011/12/lets-start-at-very-beginning.html!

Lets start at the very beginning

Its not often that we meet a person who's striving towards the same goals as we are.  A few months back I met a quirky, just-as-weird, just-a-dreamy writer who also found inspiration during our rather uneventful Event management class ( Pun intended). Meet Trusha Navalkar ( and check out her blog: This, That and Everything In Between)
Ironically the first time we spoke, it was a pact to shave our heads ( a story for another day). Although the deadline for the pact was December and both of us seem to have lost that initial enthusiasm, we were struck by another amazing idea. A writing project.
Our first writing project involved us gazing at people inside the food court of a particular mall. I remember writing a funnily bitchy post about the people near the kids zone. But it actually inspired us to actually do something with our blogs.
 The basic idea is that we would settle on a theme (or an image) and our posts would be based on the same theme (per say) but we'd still continue it from our own viewpoints. We pitch in our themes and choose a minimum of two to three articles to be put up every week. As we're both insanely lazy and we perfectly understand the whims and fancies of our crazy college, we decided that we would back each other up
We are going to continue this project as long as possible. The moment it stops being fun, we'll put our pretty little head together and start something else but lets stay optimistic, shall we?
Yes, we were supposed to start nearly a month back. Yes, our first posts are slightly overdue. But we're here. We've started and that's a good sign. Innit?
Note: See what Trusha has to say about our writing project at I'm back and hopefully on track!