OK, this is before edit…..

…..so keep it kind. Afterwards, you can have at it. Beta readers anyone? End of February. Fingers uncrossed and intentions pure.

glencoe 2nd choice


Reliving history for Jack has become a matter of survival for the future of mankind. When all technological means of communication are withheld to thwart the Dawning it becomes imperative on those Awakened to share what they remember and what has been revealed.

With possible extinction in sight, at negligent hands and the hands of those who wield the power, it is Jack’s task after the Awakening to ensure that his granddaughter understands the past and uses her gifts as one of the Evolved to ensure its continuity.

Young as she is, and with so little time allocated to her, he must let her see inside his mind and disclose to her what she needs to know to ensure she may live a little longer. A place of images and imagination melded with fact and mythology, Jack allows her access to his memories and hopes it will be enough.

Set in the heart of the mountains of Glencoe in the Scottish Highlands, Jack reveals the secrets of his life and its history as he has come to understand it. By at last putting his own guilt and betrayal to rest, and facing fears known to all, he summons the strength necessary to reconnect with a world he has shunned for too long.


Yeah? No? Maybe?

OK. Excerpt.


It is difficult to describe a place nearer to heaven than the mountains of the Scottish Highlands. Difficult not to imagine that the hand of an almighty creator visited them and shaped them through the eons of time to ensure that they arrived at their perfect majesty. It is difficult to think that any other means was possible in their creation.
But we know that the land was formed in the evolution of a world become scenic through calamitous periods that graced the landscape with more wonder than is possible to inhale at one time. It is easy to breathe the air there and feel the source of all life pour into lungs glad for its renewal.
And it is not difficult at all to fall in love with the wild mountains and air that speak in a voice only whispered in sighs descending from the summits and up from the earth. A voice sometimes raised in wild wind and frozen breath, chilling into the marrow of our beings.
It is all too easy to think of the people who inhabited those mountains in days gone past and whose lives and livelihoods were dependent on working with the land they were born to, a land they became a part of. Some more closely a part of than others.
In the mountains of that land there lie secrets that only those who lived at that time may ever really have known. And even then, perhaps, the stories told would be one-sided, slanted as all stories are by who recounts them.
In the telling of history it is said the winner has the upper hand. Who else is left to relate the story and publish memoirs if not those who vanquished the other?
Then there is the word passed down, the history that is never written but is etched in the hearts of those who ensured that another account was possible. Another version of events that may just be as true as the ones scribed.
History is strange like that. Hindsight sees clearer but does not see all.
Imagination and some clarity attached to the events, reliving the moments as if one of those present, might better relate the feelings and thoughts of those who lived at that time. At least, I think so.
We pore over notes and search in vaults for clues as detectives of the past when we are the living embodiment of that past. In worlds within worlds, in places everywhere we carry the legacy of that past into our present, living it while rarely learning from it, it seems.
Forever destined to repeat the mistakes made, to follow the path outlined before, to not see and to not hear, to ignore all evidence that says there must be a better way.
Across the manifest histories, horsemen, battalions, warriors, and common folk have succumbed to the power that seeks to wield the control, to wrest from the earth and all upon it the privilege granted to share in the wonder around us. We do not enjoy. We eat it up and spit it out. Glad only that we have, that we can have more.
Then we see. We awaken.
And we see that whatever we have we only have for such a very little time. We pass as all others have passed before us. And leave only the legacy of our ways.
This is mine.

I see light now everywhere. The stars have been turned on and their light shines even in the daytime, seen from afar by all who have Awakened. But before that there was darkness. And illusion.

The purple of the heather has never been so bright; filaments on thistles reveal every nuance of history fed into their roots. The colours and life on these mountains bring me home. Home where I’m happiest, among those I love and those who love me. Among brothers and sisters, daughters and sons, old and young; life passing in its quiet way with grandeur setting the scene and diminished grief in the understood belief that we share one source.
I pick idly at the petals on one stalk of thistle and play a game in my mind as I pluck from its centre, asking ‘Reality? Illusion?’ I know that soon the thistle flower will die and I will watch as the down is cast on the wind. Each indigo filament becoming the seed that will grow afresh in a new flower; a wild flower dismissed as unimportant. A weed in the landscape. A mere nothing. But intrinsic to the landscape and as meaningful, to my mind, as every rose or orchid that ever graced more worthy tables. More worthy only in the eyes of the observer. Never more worthy than the child before me. One of the Evolved born to my daughter the night we Awakened. It is my task, as her grandfather and chosen mentor to ensure that she understands it all.


Maybe? Well, I’m going with it.

For some the world is small. For others a place too huge to venture alone. But together, we can change the future. ‘The Evolved’ is going to be the second book. Starting in December. Or maybe tonight. Not sure. Wine dependent. 😉

The third I know the story. Just not sure of the ending.

Guest bloggers required for the near future. 😉

And my thanks to all who let me wander in mind while my blog thrived in the hands of guests. I owe you all.

Paul is pending. Have you been pending before, Paul? 😉

If there is anyone who would like to use up the rest of November as guest let me know. I’m open to a few days R&R.

You have been the stars in my firmament while I wandered. Bless you all.

Takers? Anyone? Collaboration? Sexy poetry? Bit of sensual innuendo? Anything within reason! #not a pervert but…;)

Third glass of wine about to go down and I think Ill go and build me a farm on some virtual reality. Or knit a few rows. Or….maybe write just a couple more sentences about what our future may or may not hold.


Fuck! That would have made a much shorter synopsis.

Ach, well. That’s me.

Still loving you all.x





Was it good for you? November, I mean.

I can’t quite believe I’m doing this.


And I’m really pleased. I’m delighted I think is the appropriate phrase.

I am. Seriously. Dead chuffed, as we say here.


It’s been a strange sort of venture.

I started by signing up on a whim. I do that. Whims are my thing. Sometimes. Other times I’m steady as a rock. I flooded my blog the night before the 1st of November with posts that ensured I reached 1000 posts since my blog’s inception. My apologies. Wine (or whiskey) and blogging as no-no’s should be in the guidelines somewhere. Perhaps they are. I don’t read stuff like that. Until later.

Like I never read the Nano guidelines. Until later.

No, really. What the hell was I thinking?

I have just spent 26 days in a place I’m not sure I would voluntarily revisit.


I’m going to.

For more than three weeks now I have absorbed myself in a world that my mind and imagination has decreed should be so. Make it so. ( Is that Star Trek or something? I’m not sure. TV and me are not on intimate acquaintance. But I think my reading here tells me that it is so.)

And you wonder why word count is not the issue for me.

No. My issue is sewing up the jumper after I have knitted it. I’ve always hated that part. Despite the fact that the patience and resolve necessary are worth it in the final product. One jumper. Hand-crafted. Modelled by moi.

But you have no idea how many jumpers I have ripped out and started again, how many times I’ve unpicked stitches and ‘fucked’ under my breath (sometimes quite loudly) all so that, at the end, I could model my creation.

I feel a bit like that about my book. So much picking and unpicking to be done. So many holes in the plot and sequencing. So much more I want to revisit and work on.

But the guidelines everywhere say….let it be. Leave it alone.

So that’s what I’m doing.

Despite the fact that I still have whatever number of days left in November, I’m letting go. Fallow shall be its name. Until January and February when I shall edit the arse out of it. And request patient readers to be honest and spare my feelings in the name of the best I can give.

In the meantime…..

* my seven year old wants to know if I’ll be writing over Christmas and if I’ve bought any Christmas presents yet. The answers are, of course, yes and no. Why lie?

* my husband thinks he’s a monk. Feel like a nun myself if truth be told. Would it be ok for two such characters to get it on? Frankly, I’m gagging. TMI? Hell, why end the habit of a lifetime?

*I need a break. Seriously. I am sick of eating on the hoof. Over the weekend I subsisted on Corn Flakes and Weetabix and peanut M&M’s (broke a feckin’ filling in the process. Why, god, could it not have been the Weetabix that did it? I could live without them.) Hubby was off in Robin Hood country running for his country while I bought the kids Mcdonalds and made pizza. ( Farmfoods. I never made them. Heated up. Truth.)

*I have lost more weight than I ever have on any diet. Looking good, btw. 😉 Well, once I get rid of the black shadows under my eyes and the haunted look from the same source.

*I’m gonna finish a jumper I started for me. Begin the one I promised Anna. Find out where I stored my kilt during the summer months. I mean how many places can I store things?

* I’m gonna watch mindless TV. I feckin’ am!

*I’m gonna go, on Thursday (tomorrow), to my next political ‘Yes’ meeting. Because I’m still Yes. To life. To purpose. To meaning. To all the shit that isn’t shit that Yes means for me and all who are still in the affirmative.

*I’m making a dental appointment. Well, you know why.

* I’m gonna BLOB! I never really blob. But gonna. For a few days. Then…..

*I’m going to explain to Anna and Louise and Rachel and David. To the kids who don’t live here any more. To Frank who is still trying to get why, (think actions not words), that this is something I have to do.

*I’m going to explain that even while it seems selfish, that….maybe it’s not. That sharing isn’t really selfish. And that that’s kind of what I’ve tried to do in my book. Kind of what I thought and was taught I should always do. How can that be a bad thing? Even while I feel that I’ve locked myself away and absorbed myself in a world that is in my mind. But is also too close to my reality. A reality I fear in many ways. But one I have huge hopes for.

* I’m going to have a second glass of wine tonight. I have been inordinately abstinent in the name of art. I feckin’ have! Just the odd lubricating of wheels.

One for loosening,

Two for slack,

Three for, ‘Fuck it!’, no going back,

Four for, ‘Did I publish?’

Five for, ‘Ach,’

Six for, ‘They’re faceless, what the feck!’

Seven is a charm I’ve yet to uncover

‘Cos usually by then I’m……

* I’m going to rest and chill with my family.


I won’t stop writing.

I can’t stop writing.

There are a few days left in November….one of the oddest Novembers I’ve ever experienced. Apart from the one where I lost my mum five years ago. On the 30th November, St. Andrew’s Day when, just a few days prior, she told all the family gathered. ‘ I need to get my kilt ready.’

I don’t believe in coincidences. I used to. Now I believe in connections. And reasons why things happen. And in reading the right things at the right time, in meeting the right people at the opportune moment. In worlds within worlds. And a cosmic connection that says, ‘Make it so.’

I’m going to post in a minute or so a synopsis and bit of my book that I hope gives you a wee insight into what it’s about. But, more importantly, what I think we’re all about.

Make it so.


The shakes are beginning!

I’m starting to quake.

No more blogging!

I feel like a flake,

Imagining a world where here I feel I belong

Yet, denying its presence to sing my own song.

Can’t do this, I’m sweating (although I’m quite cool 😉 )

I’m raring and ready but shit what a fool

I’ll feel, if I start this and fall at first fence.

Guess I won’t know lest I try, my defence,

Believing and dreaming that maybe the might

Is not quite so distant as seen at first sight.

2000 I’m sorted! Better than Twitter,

I’m a talker, a writer (sic), I’m not bitter,

To try and not muster is better supposin’

I fail, nope won’t hear that, I try, I prevail.

I’m waffling, excuse me, I’ll miss you like hell.

That’s part motivation so I’ll be back just to tell

The tale of the author who talks and who tried.

Luck wished between us. Feck, I’m so fried!

Nah! I’m not worried. I know you’re forgivin’,

I’ve read you all here and you’re all blessed from heaven.

You get it, you know it, I know that you do,

It’s a drive born among us, I feel it like you.

I can’t do the Twitter though I’ll be tempted if words

Fail me in novel, I’ll just twoot #absurd.

One more this evening I think that’s the score.

Waffling for Scotland #Independence #once more. 😉

Well, you didn’t imagine that my freedom had gone to hell, did you?

#No chance.  On till all the dreams are realised. Feck, missed a hashtag there somewhere. #bollocks!


Lovin’ This, btw

I’ve obviously confused WP with Twitter. Why else would I be filling you in on random thoughts? ( And, I ask you, 140 characters and sometimes that amount’s already there if you want to retweet. What’s that about?!) FB’s slightly better but I’m among friends here whereas I don’t know half the feckers who follow me on FB. Mostly, it’s political. I don’t know a fair few feckers here either. But, it feels like home.

So, I was having a night off tonight from all techy, bloggy stuff. Lasted about as long as Brief Encounter. What a movie, bar the jawries in the gubs. So, she’s gone home to hubby and now Bette Midler has got her falsers in and is gonna sing, ‘I put a spell on you’. And Hugh has yet to come. Pardon the expression. So I have that to look forward to.

I’d forgotten that blobbing in front of the telly could be quite so enjoyable. If only I could stop talking.

Thing is, I start Nanowrimo tomorrow. Got to clean out my office now that two further fledglings have flown the coop. Mucky feckers. Seriously. It’ll be thon time tomorrow before I write my first two thousand words.

I don’t see the word count as a problem per se. I have a slightly garrulous gene factor going on here. I’m about 4, I think it is, away from 1000 posts in the time that I’ve been here.  ( 16 months). I wouldn’t normally think that’s a problem. If you’re a talker, you’re a talker. Even if the words are just written.

Factoring in reblogs, I’ve talked for around 900 posts. That’s a rough guess. I can’t be arsed checking.


I’m enjoying the telly, going to continue the dream tomorrow of actually writing and finishing, albeit in rough format, a novel. (I’m not counting the fallow collection I’d be embarrassed to show.)

Lots of words.

As far as I know WP doesn’t have an app or widget to do a word count on accumulated posts. And maybe that’s just as well. Some may have to be categorised as pure shite. Who wants that in their inventory? Not I. At least, not until the final edit. Then god can have a say.

Point of this post? If there is one. Apart from reaching 1000 (including others’ reblogs).

I have a lovely core of followers, a number who bear no significance to the number that shows in stats. What a steaming pile that is in the big pile of shite that statistics is. No offence to carpet salesmen everywhere. Or that ilk.

But those who are here are lovely. They really are. They give me a sort of fuzzy glow. I don’t need accolades from them. I love popping into their lives through this medium. I’ve made connections that matter to me.

Now, one of the things that I’ve noticed – maybe you have too – is that reblogs don’t always do justice to the purpose of the reblog. I mean, do you reblog shite? No, of course not. Not unless it’s your own. But, those faithful, who like the smell of your shite ( is that a fetish, btw?) will still mostly only read your shite rather than someone else’s. I do it too. I followed you. Not who you fancy. Except, I’ve met a fair few worthy bloggers through reading reblogs from those whose opinion and judgement matter to me.

So, I guess this is an invitation.

If I already follow you or you follow me and I don’t follow you. (And I know there’s a fair few of those. Sorry, but I can’t keep up!) Or, if you think you’d like to introduce yourself to my peeps (‘cos chances are, if they like my shit they’ll like yours), I’d rather see my blog in use than let it fall into disrepair.

I have my fingers crossed that I can do 2000 a day before I allow myself the pleasure of blogging here. They’re not crossed because I’m lying- we don’t do that here- not the lying, the fingers crossed for that purpose. Fingers crossed here is for luck. And I guess I’ll need my share of that to achieve the aim. Live the dream. Gene factor included.

I won’t blog here unless I’ve done the equivalent of 2000 words a day. I figure that’s motivation for me. Carrots and sticks in operation.

If you’d like to meet my lovely people and put your words to them I’m one email away. And my blog is yours. Unless I write 2000 words a day. Which case, tough shit. 😉

Now, I think I have four more posts to go before the 1000. Is that embarrassing? I need someone to tell me this shit! It’s 8pm and fifty- two minutes. I’m going for four more then silence unless….

your words or mine…

Selfish, I guess.

Motivational, definitely.

A possibility to meet lovely new bloggers who have inspired me to just do it.

And maybe a bit of giving back for what I have received here. You bless my soul with your words and encouragement. No matter the numbers here, it may be that someone of those who encourage me may encourage you. And you might just do the same for them.

Mi casa es su casa. scottishmomus@outlook.com

140 characters! Don’t make me laugh! 🙂

One proviso. Don’t depress the fuck out of my peeps! Even pain has hope. I like humour. Love. Sensuality. Hope. Poetry. Myths. Aw, feck it, if you don’t know what I like by now you must be a stranger here. In which case, welcome. To the possibility of dreams.

Get in quick! I may be inundated from 1333 followers….ghosts in the night of all that’s yet to be holy.


Evolving Seed


New earthbound dream,  

Nothing quite as it would seem,

No one seen quite who they are,

Virtual reason, virtual stars,

Pictures painted,

Landscapes viewed,

Ungestured words believed, imbued,

Compelling world of make-believe,

Open, honest or deceive.

Venture where

Once footsteps trod,

Meet your nemesis or your god,

Faith in all enacted there,

Hidden ascension excluding stair.

No eyes to search

Nor touch convey

Friend or enemy, predator or prey.

World where judgement matters most,

Five senses voided, sooner lost.

Uploaded sixth,

Evolving seed,

Certified at point of need.

Embrace, escape, first sanctify

With power disclosed from inner eye.

Connect the bytes,

The matrix really,

See the feel, virtually.

Oy Vey!

Been and gone and done it today.

And freaking ever so slightly, if I may.


Maybe more than a bit. Well, hey

Flying by the seat of my pants. A chancer, some say.

The brave, the bold and the helluva cheeky.

Taking a chance anyway.

What the feck! What the hell, eh?

Might mean I have to shut up a bit here in some days.

Sorry, what was that? How very dare you! I say.

And it’s not even gonna be poetry, Oy Vey!


Neither was this right enough…

Might sicken your happiness though and just come on to bug you now and again. 🙂


Is it possible to shit a brick? Just wonderin’, as is my way.