Guest Author: Hugh Roberts – Where Do Your Ideas Come From?

Sue Vincent's Daily Echo


It’s a simple enough question I’ve been asked many times yet, many times, I do have to stop myself from answering the question to have a good think about it first.

When I wrote my first short story, shortly after I started blogging in February 2014, I never gave the thought of where the idea for the story had come from. However, I remember very well the moment the story came to me and since then I’ve talked about it a lot. There I was, ironing the third of seven shirts, and up walked Grace Simmons demanding that I write and publish her story. Somehow, she’d managed to get the story into my head and, within seconds, I’d abandoned the ironing board for the keyboard. An hour later, I’d written Graces’ story, published it on my blog, and the first comment had come in.  Smiling, I thanked Grace, who had…

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A painter’s palette

The Silent Eye


The faded flower caught my eye as I was trimming the potted plants on the windowsill. The rich shades of its life and death were so striking they would make an amazing watercolour. Appropriate, really, as the flower was an Anthurium, the painter’s palette. The heart shaped bloom seemed too beautiful to simply add to the compost so I reached for the camera, thinking that really, I should have reached for the paints.

Then I realised that I haven’t painted once since I moved house several months ago. In fact, I haven’t even unpacked them. Granted, there is a problem of space. There is no longer a spare room to serve as a studio and storage area, but that excuse only works for the oils and the big easel. The watercolours would slip in a drawer.

I used to paint something every day, just to keep learning, even if it…

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Guest Author: Linda Bradley – Apples don’t fall far…

Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

Do you ever wonder where your love of something really comes from? With the loss of my mother this past year, sorting through stacks of letters, postcards, and family photos has brought a fresh understanding for some of the mysteries that lie within me. Naturally, I’m curious about family history and could spend hours, maybe even days sifting through items that meant something to someone at some point in time. Imagining the hands that touched them and the feelings that were attached intrigues me.

Even though I’ve never met the ancestors in most of the photos, I feel that somehow they live within me when slivers of their existence surface. Even though they lived in an earlier time, I can unveil pieces of their identities. It becomes real when I touch my grandfather’s baseball, read my father’s first grade report card, caress the silky bonnet my mother wore when she…

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