Last week I was sent this utterly divine personalised leather journal for my writing pleasure. Never have I owned something of such high quality to record my thoughts inside, it's almost biblical. A glorious leather bound beauty of a book, the pages even have stone-marbled edges. For this I have to thank Central Crafts who are a family run business sourcing and making beautiful handmade products, set Hertfordshire countryside which has served as both inspiration for running a firm they're passionate about and selling further afield, to all around the globe. Amongst an array of other pieces for your home and garden are a wonderful collection of journals, this is the Firenze which is handmade in Florence by a small family business who use high quality leather and sustainable vegetable based tanning techniques to bring out the character of the natural material. The end result is not only beautiful but hard wearing too.
It's got my name written all over it. (well, the corner certainly does at any rate). The paper inside is plain and acid free which enables a fountain pen to be used and even though my crow's feather is no quill, it reminds me of how we were forced to use fountain pens between the ages of 10 and 13 for seemingly no good reason whatsoever at school. I doubt a soul of us has had cause to pick one up again since leaving. Though in my heart I'd rather like to give calligraphy a go one day; those ornate pages of script used to fascinate me. Maybe one day, one winter, when I'm confined to quarters on dark evenings.
You can imagine how delighted I was to open the carefully boxed parcel, open the cotton protective bag and slide out this heavenly book. What a timeless gift, especially when personalised for the recipient with their name or maybe a little message.
A big thank you to Central Crafts for sending me such a gorgeous gift, I will treasure it and fill it's pages full of thoughts.
Sophie
All content and opinions are my own

We sat in the long grass for hours, hidden from the world. That day, when the sun shone down like a beacon. The golden blades just swaying gently in the breeze from time to time with the ripening seeds jangling and jousting amongst one another. The buzz of grasshoppers creating a bassline on to which the caw of the crows layered clumsily. Do you remember the hours that slipped by? The time that snuck away, unaccounted for while we spoke? The depths we covered, lengths of time swam by while we remained oblivious to the sun making it's quotidian pilgrimage across the sky. Your eyes. My eyes. We laughed; mutual humour bringing us closer. Your palms under scrutiny, then mine. Lines traced down to our wrists.



Twirling my hair in my fingers, plaiting it to my right. Shielding our faces from the sun, eyes shut, words exchanged behind closed lids. Murmers. Lips barely moving, corner of my mouth twitching into a smile. Dimples revealing themselves in little moments to the sound of shy giggles.



Sitting on the river bank where the shallow waters ripple by, dipping toes into the cool clear stream. Wriggling feet, sweeping and splashing, paddling up to mid calves on the stony bed. Daring to go a little deeper, just a little further. Cold ankles, warm knees. Sprawling back out under the sun to warm up, we stretched and flexed our numbed joints. The dry, crispy grass crunching under shoulders and elbows. Did we ever leave completely? Part of me still lingers where the grass whispers.
Sophie

I heard a quote once which I automatically assumed was one from Einstein (probably wasn't as I cannot find a trace of it) but may in fact have been something Derren Brown once said. It went something like this:

Virtually no ideas we have are unique. We pick up inspiration from all around us without even realising. 

It's true though. So many tiny little details get filed in our brains each day which all seep into the melting pot of our imagination, dance around before churning out ideas. Often, I can pinpoint things which directly send me off in a particular direction; overhearing a conversation, seeing a picture or headline, that sort of thing. It immediately triggers a little light bulb moment. Other times it's as if I've suddenly come up with a great idea unprompted.

The influences we expose ourselves to have much more of an impact than most of us realise. I'm fairly mindful of how powerful the media can be in twisting views and transmitting propaganda to support it's own objectives. Stop supporting the bad influences by spreading the word. Shut it down with silence.
I'm also now much more aware of how positivity can play a crucial role in how I go about daily life; hearing someone cheer you on really does give you that little lift to push yourself. C describes me as a pessimist. I prefer realist but I'm striving harder to be an optimist although quite honestly it feels most unnatural and unnerving.
Listening to people give motivational speeches, hearing inspiring stories, reading through people's passionate outflows make such a difference to my mood and mindset compared to hearing people whinge and complain. Just understanding how sentiments can be absorbed as if by osmosis is a big step for me in making changes for the better. I'm setting myself a mission to surround myself in positivity, with the right messages reaching the deepest, darkest corners of my mind. A 'can-do' attitude is surely a winning formula. The glass IS half full. I want to be inspired to think well of people, to admire their best qualities and to believe in the future. Innocent until proven guilty. Create and enjoy and sharing happiness. MORE. I want to laugh with joy and wear a smile all the time. There's another lovely quote that goes along the lines of

Be happy for no reason, like a child. If you are happy for a reason, then you're in trouble because that reason can be taken from you - Deepak Chopra

Waking up each morning is an absolute joy that should kick the day off to a good start. Smile, share that smile and spread a little joy.

Sophie

Did I undertake a creative writing course? - Asked Kezzie. No, I haven't is the answer. However, I do feel like my writing is different to how I initially started, back in 2011.
Writing is something very personal, isn't it. Using your voice to explain and describe things but in a way which lasts for ever. Writing something down crystallises it in time. The spoken word is more a fleeting conveyance, often misquoted afterwards or reinterpreted. I like how re-reading passages is reassuringly familiar and always stays the same. It's one of the many reasons I love letter writing.

As a child I was a classic bookworm; spending hours in the evenings with my nose pressed into the novel of choice. Enid Blyton was my favourite author for many years, although that's down to my grandparents buying me books at the car boot, rather than me scanning bookshelves. Maybe I've read everything she ever wrote, but I never kept a tally. I was introduced to Roald Dahl sometime at Primary School but they never filled me with the same satisfaction. By middle school we were pushed into picking up books by different authors and of all genres so my tastes expanded too. I remember taking part in reading challenges and smashing the competition with sheer volume; I could read at lightening speed and had an insatiable appetite for more. My teacher accused me of fabricating my reading list when I said I'd got through two books one night.

Reading is integral to writing. You learn by watching and repeating until you find your own way of writing. Writing itself takes years of practice until you find your own voice, or until you start listening to what your own voice wants to say. For me, I think when I finally stopped wanting to write something specific and just let out what my voice wanted to say that it suddenly clicked into place. It's personal. The way you vocalise thoughts is personal. I feel grateful, in a strange way, to myself for persisting and getting through years of faltering and stumbling over sentences awkwardly because it made me realise how I don't want to write and gave me the confidence to let my hands type away then have a little look through to see what I've said. Do you ever do that? Read back your own work but have little recognition of putting it together? I'm pretty sure that makes it natural.

I like words. Expanding my vocabulary, exploring the lexicon. Delving into dictionaries and thesauruses. I'd like to jot down the new ones I come across so when the time comes I can slip them in seamlessly.

So no, not a creative writing course, Kezzie. I just started listening.
Sophie

So often here I can feel like I'm an imposter.
Much as I adore taking pictures with my camera then writing my thoughts down to empty my mind, with the end result complete and scheduled for publishing, doubt creeps in. I'm convinced that with every coming post I'll be rumbled as a clueless pretender, that you'll realise actually I'm rubbish at producing content. Somehow, I've got away with it day after day for years. One day someone will notice that actually I'm just no good. In real life nobody considers me creative.

Thinking back to when I was younger I was always interested in writing things down. Little poems. Thoughts. Notes to people. Letters. Lists. Writing stories. As a child I was happy left to write whatever I fancied, but remember the lack of interest with which they were received when I excitedly read them out. Naturally, you can't please everyone. Grandparents did seem much more easily impressed by things. One memory that really sticks in my mind was when I created a little story book and illustrated it myself when I was around 10. The paper was some curious old fashioned writing paper and string was threaded through a hole in each sheet to keep them together. The story itself was about a few friends joining a football team. My handwriting was abominable; the letters all different shapes and sizes, weaving their way round the pages and defying gravity.

Recently, I found the book again in the stash of things Mum keeps from our childhoods. Knowing it would be there (they weren't all that many things worthy of keeping) it filled me with nostalgia seeing the paper again. The mini book obviously had an impact on my (paternal) grandfather; when I was 15 and the question of career paths reared it's ugly head I received a typewritten letter from him. This baffled me slightly, but even more than the idea of him writing to me was what he actually wrote. He questioned whether I had considered becoming an author as the story about the footballers I had read out some years before had stuck with him. My grandfather put forward the suggestions of how I could go about writing a book and the realistic practicalities of being a writer. I dug out the letter a few minutes ago, knowing exactly where to find it. Reading through it brought a tear to my eye and a lump to my throat. His enthusiasm and sincerity was touching; the letter came with a sheet of notes jotted down with perhaps how to create an ideas board for a story's format.
Racking my brains I can honestly say that nobody else has ever encouraged my writing in the least, not even vaguely. Perhaps he would have been the only one to support my blog. Perhaps, in the back of my mind his letter written in 2001 gave me the thumbs up to go ahead with writing down my thoughts, sharing my ideas. No, I'm not ready to consider writing a book yet. Probably no more so than half a lifetime ago, but that's not to say never.

Sadly, my grandfather passed away several years ago, before I started this blog. I like to think that even if everyone else in my family were to disapprove of it (if they were to find out - you know I like to keep things to myself) that my grandfather would have enjoyed being an approver against the flow.

That letter is one I will treasure forever. Someone had faith in my creativity.

Sophie