My top 10 writing tips

  1. Don’t just say your character eyes are blue try adding more descriptive colours such as cornflower blue – it adds more texture and helps the reader build a picture of them in their head.
  2. Think about your characters names examples if you name one of your characters names is Anastasia – it means she will rise again so it will insinuate that your character is born feisty and brave.
  3. Don’t overuse adverbs – it’s lazy writing.
  4. Don’t mix up your tenses – I tend to do this a lot and thank goodness my editor has a lot of patience and will correct all the time I’m wrong.
  5. Try and keep a writing journal you could write down things that inspire you such as; song lyrics or even something you see you when you’re out and about or something in a newspaper article or something in the story someone is telling you.
  6. We’re going to write back to basics here; remember that your story has to have a beginning middle and end. It’s always nice to start your story off in the middle of an action so that way the momentum of the book and storyline gets going so it’s not too slow.
  7. Set yourself writing limits don’t be silly; When it comes to writing my sensible limit is right 1500 words and no more. Otherwise I just start typing rubbish because I’m too tired.
  8. Take inspiration from your favourite authors, for example when I’m writing a comedic story I tend to read Sophie Kinsella or Jenny Colgan.
  9. Start your social media presence now. Join every writers group that you can on Facebook and on Twitter always look for the hashtagwritingcommunity and for people Who are doing the same as you and make friends because writing a novel is not easy on your own. (A computer class may help you grasp the basics if you’re more notepad and pen)
  10. Make sure you plan a basic plot and stick to it but otherwise have fun and let your imagination run wild!


Book two: work in progress

typewriter-peach-2As you all know I’m determined to write this next novel in the next six months like my dear friend and author, Kitty Neale.

I finished my research for this young adult novel and I just hope I can pull off such a sensitive storyline. I begin the job tomorrow writing 303 words a day for the next six months.

The deadline for me to finish my novel is the 12th of October 2019. I’m hoping this will give me discipline when writing and learning to push through writers block.

I am very proud to be part of the LGBT community that will be featured in this book and I’ve spoken to many people of gone through the same experiences as my characters so I’m hoping it will be authentic. It’s time we read more YA books; they seem to be ignored as novels for kids between 13-17 And are they just keep the kids quiet. But actually they carry the most serious messages more likely than Sophie Kinsella.

I haven’t ditched writing for adults good. Right now if I can help, Young people find the path in life through my writing then I’ll consider it in a success, Young adult writers are undervalued by far, when ultimately they are the ones guiding their preteen readers through reading about certain subjects that might not be discussed at school or a book that just helps and figure out who they are. Young adult writers are very brave; they often write the taboo that society thinks children cannot handle , but they can thanks to our writing as We are helping them to understand what’s going on at the world at present without reading like a pretentious broadsheet article or being patronised with a five page Illustrated book meant for three year olds.

I hope you’ll join me on my writing again and it won’t be easy and I won’t be as active on here is much, to be a writer you must write… You have to make sacrifices so we can fit around your daily life and then you’re doing it subconsciously too.

I’ll pop in when I can. Probably when my mum hides my laptop and makes me take a rest so my ME doesn’t flareup as much.

Why I write

| write to give escapism. When my pen flows it takes me on a journey, wether that be my character’s or a reflection on my self. The pen gives me power because sometimes I can’t speak my fews clearly but with my pen I can rewrite it until it’s perfect.

I write to change the world, and with the pen I have the power to do that. I write to express my feelings wether it be anger, happiness or sadness, it’s become my therapy. Sometimes I think it is best to let ink flow, rather than blood. I love the TS Elliot quote; “The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.”

I write to get minorities heard, I want to hear their stories, Just like Maya Angelou in ‘I know why the caged bird sings’ and Cathy Watson’s and Cathy Glass’s autobiographies about fostering. We NEED to have these stories written down to raise awareness.

If you have a story in you, write it down, don’t procrastinate!

Writing provides a way for us to communicate, through letters or poetry. Without writers how can have someone say the truth because we’re too scared too. Writer’s are like knights, the pens their swords.

I love this writing quote; ‘Reading and writing, like everything else, improve with practice. And, of course, if there are no young readers and writers, there will shortly be no older ones. Literacy will be dead, and democracy – which many believe goes hand in hand with it – will be dead as well. – by Margaret Atwood. I feel like it is my job to write otherwise people won’t read and be inspired and write themselves, the chain of writers will be broken.

I think it is an honour, I think to be a writer because after I die, my work lives on.

Writing inspiration/ Tips



Use Grammarly – best writing tool ever!

Use Pinterest for inspiration

Get a thesaurus

Write for 10 minutes each day

Always do your rough drafts in pen – ink flowing = ideas

Turn of your internet

Go through your projects and if any are unfinished – finish with them. For example, I realised I have three numbers on the go before I can start my autobiography so that’s what I’m concentrating on at the moment.

Flash fiction

We’ve lived in Wales for over a year now having fled Kabul. I’ve watched my husband struggle with the language, to go to farmers auctions whilst I kept house and prayed for success, Wales is the land of farming and that’s what we’ve done all our lives. We are comfortable with our life but revel in luxury after the dusty streets of Afghanistan. I have swapped my Hijab for a housecoat and curlers. Religion has fallen into the wayside after what we’ve been through.

Our luck changed one faithful day in Spring when Muhammad came to the kitchen door what was a lazy afternoon. I shuffled outside in my slippers to find shivering sheep and it lovely cloudy ball of wool in the field. My husband and beamed at each other. The next thing I know he’s got the ancient brownie out and snaps a candid photo of me holding our treasure. It was rather soft but it felt like gold.

60 years on that timid housewife is now gone, after my husband is passing I was forced to learn English and fully integrate myself into the community. I’m taking my GCSEs exams. There was a time when I lay in bed dreading the day, it seems so long without him. Without him as my shield I had to stand on my own 2 feet. Of course I’m encountered racism but as soon as I became mother the other women saw I was just like them. Before people wouldn’t hold my hand but now I’ve lost count of how many henna tattoos I’ve done. People used to wrinkle their nose when I walked in the room, the smell of spice and coconut lotion. Now, people plan off my recipes! it’s nice that I can bring a bit of Kabul into our little valley.

I always tell my grandchildren to persevere and to be grateful of Te smallest things. I was born in Kabul but Wales is my home.

Packages tied up with string

“But why do I have to go?!” Wailed Rose Bennet for about the third time that morning as she sat eating a meagre bowl of lumpy porridge at the kitchen table. Her mother was fervently running around stuffing things into a battered satchel, her patience wearing thin

“Because it’s bleedin’ safer for you in the country than having the jerry drop bombs ‘ere and could do with a rest from all yer moaning!” Emily snapped as she stuffed a rather grubby pinafore into the bag. She instantly regretted it though once she saw a tear trailing down Rose’s small face.

She softened immediately and out a boney arm around her daughter’s skinny frame. “You know I didn’t mean that, right love?” She stroked her cheek, “A mum doesn’t ever want to be apart from her kids no matter what.” Rose nodded and hugged her mum back. “A mum just wants her kiddies to be safe.”

She straightened up and dashed away her own tears and picked up the plastic comb and began to run it through her daughters raven hair, she’d given rose a bath last night and used the last of her good shampoo. She didn’t want anyone saying she couldn’t look after her daughter, with each stroke of the brush she wished the war to pass quickly and perhaps then things might be better and they could have a fresh start. The one bedroom flat was sparse; the chairs had wonky legs, the floor full of splinters. Emily had tried to make it homely by lighting a small fire in the grate on the coldest nights, the cream curtains were made from one of her old floral frocks and she’d knitted a nice peach bedspread to cover the lumpy mattress that her and rose shared. Pride of place on the mantle was a photo of the King and a smile came to her lips as she remembered how when Rose was little, she’d pretend that was her daddy. The less said about her real father the better.

Rose had gone in the bedroom to fetch her teddy and battered book of bedtime stories, whilst Emily went in the kitchen and scraped together the last of the jam and stale bread to make Rose a sandwich for the journey and a tin flask of water. She sighed as she gathered together the last few things. She wishes she could afford a full pantry and better clothes for her daughter, she hoped whoever cared for her wouldn’t think Emily a bad mother. Right now though, she just wanted to get this morning over with.


Rose was still reluctant to leave her East End but, her mother had found a way to get some toffees and the new Beano which made things a bit easier.

The sky was grey and overcast by the time they reached the school playground, The wind whistled through Roses thin mac. Her tummy began to feel funny and bubbly as she reached her class all lined up ready to walk to the train station. She slipped in beside her best friend Nancy Carter who looked like she’d been blubbing already. Rose couldn’t help feeling envious of her friend’s new coat with what looked like a mink collar and her hair tied back into neat plaits with pink bows. She was just about to ask Nancy if they could sit together on the train but, as she opened her mouth to speak Mrs Gundy, nickname Grumpy blew sharply into a whistle which gave her everybody’s attention.

“Listen, children, has everybody been to the toilet?” A chorus of ‘yes’ answered her. “Good, now mums say goodbye to your children please and don’t fuss.” Emily handed over Roses gas mask and made sure she had her rations and coupons in the front of her bottle green knapsack before enveloping her in a big hug. Naturally, they didn’t tell the families where their children would be sent to which made Emily worry even more. “Now you be good,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Don’t’cha get into any trouble!” Rose nodded solemnly. Emily smoothed over her daughter’s hair and planted a kiss on her forehead. Rose took in her mothers’ scent of Lilly which she only put on for special occasions and promised to herself that she wouldn’t forget her mothers’ scent or smile.

As Rose gave her mother one last kiss before she turned her back and went into line. Lilly pressed a threadbare hankie to her eyes praying that her baby would be kept safe. Mrs Gundy blew her whistle again as it was time to go.

Emily kept her eyes on her daughter until she was way out of the school gates. It was as if they were little mice being led by the pied piper.