I do read fun books. I do read writing books. I do read writing websites. And I do try to write. I don't know what's most important, but I do whatever takes my fancy, when I have the time (and whoever has enough of that?).

But I am lazy. I enjoy reading more than writing. Less effort. Unless it's Mr George R R Martin. And it's absolutely not a wonder he takes so long to write the Game of Thrones books.

So I figure if I write a blog then at least I am writing, getting some practice. Can't be bad. And although it's public I seriously doubt anyone will be reading, so I don't have the confidence crisis of cyberpeeps critiquing my feeble efforts. 
 
Cool website: http://www.creativecopychallenge.com/.

Been enjoying working on the prompts, though not as often as I would like. They're challenging but possible, and some nice ideas coalesce from the murky depths. Good fun to read what the other posters come up with. Amazing what dishes can be made with the same ingredients - it's all in the cooking.
 
Found some short pieces I had written below and there should be links to the right under Pages. Say what you think. I don't bite and I don't cry often. Also found the following first few paragraphs:

“Have we met before?” we asked ourselves. 

We smiled, laughed, hugged each other like old friends. 

*                    *                    *

Marcus and I discussed the plan deep into a velvet night.  We knew it was risky, that my life might never be the same again, but we struggled to imagine a viable alternative. We settled with a firm handshake and a grim grin. 

We could put nothing in writing - that would downgrade our plot from risky to foolish - so we had to rely on our natural recall to maintain the plan.  But we were professionals.  We had worked together many times before and we knew what we had to do. 

There was only one piece of incriminating evidence, apart from the two of us.  A quantum cubice, holding a complete scan of my brain, its folds, whorls, wrinkles and depths. The synapses mapped, every neurone's position, as of ten minutes ago, accurately recorded.  I had entrusted this to Marcus, my oldest friend, secure in a black-box, protected from electromagnetic scans, deep within Marcus’ overcoat. 

We split in the early hours of the morning, going our separate ways, but careful to make sure neither was followed.  The moon was bright, piercing the stifling dark like a spotlight.  I imagined werewolves howling their appreciation at the wondrous sight. 

I felt like one myself.

Tastes like potential - think I need investigate.
 
Written a lot, most unlike me. Cheeps for now.