7 Quick Takes about Beginnings, Endings and An Extract

Join me and other Catholic bloggers sharing our weeks over at ConversionDiary. 🙂


Packing. I’ll soon be saying goodbye to my current hall room, and moving back home for the summer. This means I’m currently surrounded by the remnants of my room as I dismantle it and decipher where exactly I need to pack what items.


Dancing. Swing dance seems to be filling my life at the moment, partly because, aside from walking to and from central campus every weekday, it’s the only substantial exercise I’m doing now Quidditch training has finished for the summer. (In fact, I attended very few of the summer term training sessions because their timings, moved to accommodate for the weather, always clashed, particularly with Sunday morning mass.) This evening I Hop the Hall as we’re travelling to a nearby town to do some social dancing there. This will be my first proper social dancing.



Endings. As such, however, all this year’s lessons have finished, as have all of the societies of which I’m part. I managed to catch the last creative writing session, so I didn’t miss an entire year!

I’m both excited and petrified that I passed the year and will be continuing a joint Psychology and Philosophy degree as a second year at Reading next year.


Beginnings. July’s CampNaNo is in full swing, and, yes, I am technically procrastinating by writing this post instead of trying to first draft. But first drafts are frustratingly shoddy, and I still need to abolish my fear of that.


I’ve started reading the strange yet rather addictive high fantasy novella Encante by Aiyana Jackson. I gather it’s a companion book to a novel, so I’m not so surprised that I feel dropped into the world. Regardless of that, I’m enjoying the visual writing.


I didn’t do much for the Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul, despite it being one of my favourite feasts of the year, when the Eastertide has passed and the bright sunshine floods our streets. We used to celebrate it at school, and in memory of this, I posted about the bravery of these two martyrs.


For your entertainment, an extract of my Work-in-Progress, ‘H’:

What wounded Cathy further was waking to silence from the airways. Alexander had sent no message, not by telegraph or long post. Not even a word of cancellation of their engagement. Sitting up in her bed, Cathy rubbed her forehead. She’d get an answer, even if she had to travel back to the Americas.

Not that such an adventure mattered so greatly.

Cathy levered herself out of bed, and rubbed the remainder of sleep from her eyes. The small, white mirror above reflected back her dishevelled visage, worn not from the tribulations of sleep, but by worry…and whatever was sending tremors down her fingers. That she was still in an angry pickle with him!


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