I’ve decided to take a breather from my main novel. Again… shut up.

There was something that wasn’t sitting right with me. I felt all motivation leave each time I sat down to type. There was no flow, no satisfaction, no light at the end of the tunnel.

But I realised, it was all down to thinking how much readers would hate my book, if it were to ever hit a shelf. That’s when I had to write something new, something for me.

I’ve taken to challenge of writing a children’s book, which I tend to self-publish through Amazon’s KDP. Now, this isn’t the best for advertising, or selling. But that’s not what I care about. For this one, I intend to write for myself, and publish for myself. Once I see my book online, then I’ll know what I’m capable of doing. There’s something exciting about the thought, and that’s what drives me.

L. A. Draper

This is the cover for me new book, Glass Houses. I’m writing under a pseudonym surname, as it helps be separate this from my main novel. It’s about a young boy named Jordan, who collects Snow Globes, and can speak to them. I’m not going to go into the entire plot and bore you even further. But for those of you struggling to push thorugh your novel, here’s my recommendation this time around:


That’s it, just stop.


You can’t do your best work when you’re pulling out your hair one strand at a time. Those chapters are going to be rushed and rough. So just stop. Close the word document, and start something new, nothing too long, nothing too strenuous, just something small, something you can craft a little easier. Something that, when you finish, will tell you just how much you love to write.

That feeling when you finish a book is like nothing else, and will give you a hunger to do it again. Only when you feel that, can you truly write what you indented.



(oh look, an advertisement) – Glass Houses is up for pre-order: Glass Houses

Writing a book – the realism

Were you ever young and wondered were books really came from? How long did it take you to realise that it took endless, agonising hours for one individual to sit at a desk and type it all up, just for you to read?

For me, it took far too long.

I remember the first book I read interdependently: Darren Shan’s Cirque Du Freak. This is the novel that gave me a desire to do this on my own. I sat there and thought “I can do that!”, so, like the young naive, not even a teenager idiot that I was, I wrote a story about a boy with snake scales who scoped around a city, which of course, was far too similar to a book I’d just read, but that’s needed.

It took countless ideas, multiple jumps of joy as a new idea popped into my hair, only to get to a thousand words and get bored, and finally, something clicked: it’s not as simple as having an idea and away you go.

Oh no, it demand blood. And depression. And every ounce of hope that you have just to get a plot down. My writing got better, I began to plan fully, I lived for the new worlds I created just for me, but they never seemed to stick. Yes, I enjoyed them, yes, I miss the days when all I cared about was getting home from school and sitting down at my desk, but it never got me anywhere.

Until one day, in 2013, when I was running home in the rain, and an idea dropped into my head as a tiny droplet of water gave me the ideas I needed. I’m not going to tell you what the idea was (yet), but I can say it’s the only idea that has stuck with me all these years.

I pondered the thoughts for hours that night, already having a developed plot in my head, and the next day, I got to work – my method is to write a full A4 page of hat I think happens at the start, that way I can filter out what works and what doesn’t, what needs tweaking and what has potential, but it still wasn’t enough, I needed more planning, more driving force for the protagonist, an obstacle only he could over come: a plot with meaning.

Now, seven years down the line, one overly rushed first draft and countless rewrites, I finally gave in, and did what I should have done almost seven years ago – plan EVERY tiny detail, down to the last bullet point. And here’s how it goes.

Call this my timeline of a downward spiral of mental state:

  • have an idea
  • Create the characters
  • Set the scene
  • Create a justifiable ending
  • Figure out how they got to that point
  • Create realistic relationships between characters
  • Go far too in-depth about the backstory of a dog that appears in one scene
  • begin to like the book
  • read some back only to realise you hate the book, and yourself
  • Question why you do this to yourself
  • Do it all again
  • Find reasons not to write even though you always say “I really need to finish writing” (Oh really, Liam? Then why are you writing this blog post?…. shut up)
  • Cry


And here we are. Hating every inch of the novel, craving to find something new to write, just a little something to “get you back into the habit”, only to find yourself back at that idea. And that’s the most important part. It stick with you.

Think of it like a leaf; it’s there on that tree, you know what it looks like, it’s green, with a hint of autumn orange. Turn away for one second, only to look back and the leaf is gone. Now, you see another leaf, it’s a similar colour, if not a bit more withered, but you like it, it has potential, until all you can think about is how much fresher that last leaf seemed, and it falls,  and all of a sudden, that one leaf you began with is back on the tree, and that’s all you can look at.

It’s a cringe worthy analogy, I know, but you get my point. A bit of advice: NEVER disown an idea that follows you everywhere. If it stick, it must be something. It might be a disaster, but it’s yours, and yours to write. Who else is going to do it?



So, I’ve realised that I’ve written more words on this post than I’ve written on my novel in, what, a week? Heh… Practice what you preach!


It’s Been a While

It’s been some time, hasn’t it?

This blog has truly lived up to its name of being “dormant”, but here’s hoping it’ll all change!

These past few months have reminded me why I write; it isn’t just about telling a story, or how much I love it, it’s also a distraction. I need not remind you that the world is burning. Writing, for me, allows me to live somewhere else, even for a short while – just like reading, only, this is my world.  When reading, you’re living someone else’s tale, but when you’re filling in a blank page, there’s just something special about finding yourself lost in your own narrative.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that writing was a good was to tackle mental health. Like a lot of people, I long for the distraction, just to feel better about taking another breath, and suddenly, after all these years, I finally found something that makes me feel good about myself – my novel.

For those of you that have had the awful pleasure of following my blog, you’ll know that I’ve been working on a book for SEVEN. LONG. HAUNTING. DRAINING. YEARS. and though I start over again and again, I find myself coming back to that one story, no matter how many new ideas I seem to pen down. There’s just something special about it, something that feels like me. And that’s what I long for.

My advice? If you’re constantly finding yourself starting a new project time after time, and never really sticking to just one, then stop. Pun down the pen, close down the word document. And breathe. You’re forcing yourself to find that next best thing, only to find you’re not proud of it, buy a new notebook and start over.

You need to find that one story that just sticks with you, almost like a bond. Like the bond you have with your pet; unconditional. You should be drawn to your story, you should want to know exactly who lives where, why they got there, where they’re going, everything! Only when you feel that, can you truly be proud of what you’ve done. Otherwise, you’re just writing because it’s something else to do.


You’ll get there. And when you do, no one can tell you to stop.

Pushing through that second draft

Now, if you’ve followed my confusing, babbling posts, you’ll know that I write, or at least, I claim to.

We all know how daunting it is to finish that first draft, but if you have pushed through that final page, you’ll know just how bitter-sweet a feeling it is.

Now, there’s no shame in admitting defeat at this point. What you’ve created is something incredible, but I struggle to even think about that second draft. Time and time I try, and time and time again I hate myself for writing such rubbish, even if it’s not.

Do you constantly have that urge to start over? Tell yourself that a fresh start is probably better than editing? Well stop with that thought. Don’t touch your novel for a day or two from this moment, and just think about it. Speculation of your work is far greater than reading through it over and over, spotting tiny errors, building a false impression that your time as wasted.

Once time has passed, after thinking abou your story, go back to it, and force yourself to fall in love with that scene, with those characters, with your work. Then, you’ll find yourself twitching to bsck into your weird little world, and crwtate something you can finny say you’re proud of.


Okay, I’ve finally done it. I have finally hit that stage where I can no longer endure University without ranting about it. I have officially became “one of them”.

So, none of you are aware of the fact that in September, I enrolled to university to study Animal Science & Welfare, and just like everyone else, I was excited. I enrolled, moved into my new accommodation, Freshers was awesome! ………………… annnddd then real-life began to kick in.

Now, there’s only so more immaturity I can bare within the space of six months. I may be sounding a little grumpy (well, I am!), but let me explain; first of all, there’s the people who you are bid to share a floor with. Yes, I’m fortunate to live in a room of my own, accompanied with the sweet solidarity of my en-suite, but it’s not enough to drown out the sound of blaring, irritating music at 4am on a constant basis. Now, I’m not being a Grinch here, but the music was so loud I’m sure I could feel the headache for the next day.

My time living with the Cave-Trolls has been an experience and a half. Some okay, some terrible. Nothing has seemed to be “amazing”, other than the fact that everyone like the shortbread I made. In short, student halls has been so frustrating, that I wonder why I even bothered in the first place. Yes, it’s an effective way to meet new people, but it’s also a good way to find out just how many noisy buggers can cram into one tiny kitchen. And to top that all off, it is SO. DAMN. EXPENSIVE.

You thought the £9k tuition fee a year was bad enough? Well, here’s another £1.5k A TERM to get you by, and that doesn’t include the £2.80 wash cycle and the £1.80 dryer (I can hear my mother sopping as we speak, for some clothes did not feel the sweet release of cleanliness).

Okay, so as per usual, none of this makes any sense, and my writing is far less sctuctured than usual as once again I’ve been awake for 24hours playing Super Smash Bros. rather than finishing off my work or adding the final tweaks to my novel (which should be done soon, I’ll keep you updated… if you ever care… please care I worked really hard on it), but you get the jist.

Now, some of you may not have stepped foot into Uni yet (or college), so please don’t let me put you off (you can do that yourself). No, University is great when done right, and clearly I didn’t do it the right way. I can see how this type of environment can be stimulating yet rewarding, if the shoe fits. If your degree is good, then bravo! If your living experience is just as good, then I envy you.

But seriously if your degree is any good please let me know, as I’m about one grammatical error away from locking a lecturer in with an agitated Chipmunk.


I can feel my heartbeat. I can hear it when I lay on my chest as though it was in my ears. It tells me that I’m alive, that I’m still ticking, but it also tells me that I’m getting older. And that terrifies me.

After each and every beat, I age, and I’ll keep aging until my heart stops beating. That’s when I’ll know I won’t age further. But, my body will keep on changing. I want to be buried. Where? I don’t know, but I do know that I want my body to remain intact for as long as possible… even when time begins to set in on my corpse.

I often repeat a saying to myself: For time is not the giver of life, but the dawn of the end that follows the knife. I like it simply because it’s the cold truth; Time eventually brings death to things that are alive, just like a knife could do once it makes contact with something or someone. Time. That’s my enemy. I’d give anything just to slow it down a little. I would of course love to step back in time, to see my grandma again, but time waits for no man, and my life must keep ticking away… but I just wish it would slow down a little.

I’m 21. Twenty. Fucking. One. I remember standing in front of a mirror in my bedroom at my dad’s. I was about 11 or something like that. Age didn’t matter then. But something else did. I remember seeing myself in the poorly lit reflection, my hair a little too long for my liking, my green eyes gawking back at me, and I remember feeling this odd sensation as I realised that I was actually alive. Yes, I know it sounds silly, but to me it was an odd experience. I understood some ways of life, and I knew that the chances of me ever existing were slimmer than you’d think.

There was a moment then, where I tried to think back. I thought back to a stupid time like 10,000 BC. And there was nothing. N.O.T.H.I.N.G. Not even darkness. It’s like when you’re asleep, having a dream, and once you wake up, you’ll try and recall the dream for a while. But sometimes you can’t. Sometimes, you see nothing, not even black. It was in that moment where I began to realise that it might all end the same way it began. With nothing.

A Rogue Thing

This one is going to be a bit rough. Well, then again, when are they never?

I recently had a thought spiral; what is the point in living? The question isn’t regarding the thought of not seeing a point in living, but just a rogue ponder of why we are living. If we MUST earn a living in some form, solely to support ourselves and contribute to the forever failing government that rarely gives anything back, then what is the point?

Take a moment to question it. We go to school in order to develop our minds in order to gain the knowledge to eventually get a job, and once we get a job, we have must work until we are at an age where we are more than halfway through our lives (sometimes 3/4 through), and once we retire, we don’t have the time, nor the energy to do what we always wanted to do. And after that? Well, that’s where things become bleaker than ever.

For those lucky few who do the work they’d happily do for the rest of their lives – I’m happy for you. For the rest, I feel your pain. I get it, I truly do.

I’m only 21, so I probably haven’t reached the point in my life where I’m happy with what I’ve done, such as starting a family. Yet, there’s a darkening thought that resides within that lifestyle; yes, starting a family is probably one of the best things that could happen within your life, but it can easily be one of the worst after time. I’m not saying that it’s something to avoid, I’m simply stating that everything ends at some point, and once it does, despair and sorrow sinks in.

I’m happy to be alive. That’s one thing I’m sure of, but I’m not happy that my life will eventually come to an end. That’s the one thing I know I can never come to terms with, and I know I’m not alone. It’s natural to fear death, and the struggle I’ll forever face is finding a way to give my life a meaning, whether that be doing what I dream of doing, or allowing myself to smile knowing that I can make someone else smile, too.


A Rogue Thought

Let’s start with the question I ask myself a lot of the time: what happens when we die?

Can’t answer me? Don’t worry, I never expected you to. Quite frankly, I’m afraid of the answer, even if the answer is something I want to hear. Knowing the truth isn’t always the best medicine for wonder, as I’m sure you’re aware, but then again, what are we gunning for?

I know that I’m not the only person who is afraid of the end, and to be honest, I question those who aren’t. Fear is what drive us to do things, to live and love, to help others. Fear of failing, fear of falling, and fear of rejection is what give us the motivation to keep on pushing until we can’t do no more.

Sometimes I wonder if the easiest option would be to eradicate the possibility of a depressed life. I mean, the end is ultimately the same regardless of how it occurs, right? Then again, that’s a selfish though. I’d be robbing myself of the possible riches life has to offer. Not only that, but I’m skipping the chance of making something of this life, like starting a family and making someone else happy. Isn’t that more important?

As usual, I’m rambling, but this all makes sense to me, even though I sometimes question my own thoughts and sanity. Death is an art in the form of sorrow, but life is a gift that we were all lucky enough to be given. The chances of an individual being born is one out of the masses. Taking that away seems a waste, even if the life is nothing more than a bleak horizon.


Ew, you sponge off the government?

Seriously, I’m sick of hearing that question.

To those of you who haven’t read my previous posts: I’m currently receiving Universal Credit, which, to some people, means I’m stealing your hard-earned money.

Trust me, I feel physically sick at the thought of it. Really, I do.

I’m the kind of person that has to be occupied. There’s rarely any moment in most days where I don’t want to be doing something. Even writing this blog-post allows me to feel somewhat productive. I despise sitting around, strolling through the internet doing nothing. I just don’t see the point.

Now, going back to the main point of this post – Yes, I’m being given money for doing nothing. Well, a small amount of money that doesn’t even support living for the majority of days, but it keeps me alive. But what a lot of people don’t understand is that everything is not as it seems.

In my last role as an administrator, I didn’t pass my probation. I simply wasn’t the role for me; I was bored, feeling as though I had the potential to do something grater and more productive, and this sadly reflected on my work. Now, I can hear what you’re saying, “but it’s a job, stop being ungrateful!”. Believe me, if I’d have kept that job if I could have.

Within the space of a few months, everything fell apart for me: I broke up with my partner, who I still miss dearly, I lost my job, I had to stop driving my car, I couldn’t afford to travel to interviews, hell, I couldn’t even afford to travel to the doctors to pick up my inhalers for my asthma. I fucked up.

The struggle with finding a new job after being dismissed is that a lot of employers are quick to assume that an individual is untrustworthy once they have been dismissed from a single role. I’m a hard worker, I put effort into my work to ensure I have a future, and just because I made a tiny slip up – just like everyone else has done – doesn’t mean I’m destined to be a failure for the rest of my life. I think people are just too quick to judge, and I’m sure you understand what I mean by that.

If you’ve ever struggled to make ends meet at the end of each month (or sometimes even at the beginning), then I’m sure you can understand the situation I’m in. I have been lucky enough to have family who ensure I eat enough to keep me alive, but I’m 21 years of age, I shouldn’t have to be relying on others to care for me. Is that wrong to think? Sometimes I reject the help just so I don’t appear to be weak, which has caused me to be ill on more than one occasion. Perhaps I need to swallow my pride a little more.

It kills me when people assume that I’m on Universal Credit just because I don’t want to work. Yes, there are a few people out there who would rather have tax payers pay for their food, water, electricity and unneeded items rather than go to work and have the satisfaction of spending their hard-earned money, but that doesn’t mean everyone is the same. Sometimes it’s just hard to get yourself back out there, sometimes confidence fails when an opportunity arrives.

Sometimes, we just need a little moral support.

Guys, if you’re one of those hard-working individuals who pays taxes that allows me to live, then I can’t thank you enough, because I don’t deserve it, but I promise that soon, hopefully, I can return the favour.

Like Clockwork

Have you ever wondered why we need to go to school, why we need to work?

Of course, the answer to that question is “to make a living”. That’s it put simply. But, why?

Making a living, to most people, is earning money, being able to buy food and pay the bills. But to me, it’s something more than that. I take pleasure in helping others, as many have helped me over the years. I want to make  living not only to survive, but to give back to those who gave to me.

What do you want to do in your life?

If you don’t have an immediate answer, then it’s up to you to find that out. No, I’m not talking about wanting to be rich and famous, it;’s the reasons that I’m talking about, the reasons for fame and riches. I personally want to become a full-time author, what do you want to do?

You didn’t go to school every day for years on end to just be able to survive, no, you’re not clockwork, you’re not controlled by something. Ambition is something that is missed by the majority of people who are caught up in getting a job and surviving – those are the two basic things you need, not the things that you want. Do you want to live to help others? Live to start a family of your own? Do you want to do something with your time that you enjoy, or is beneficial to those around you?

Those are the questions you should be asking yourself, the questions that matter!

It took me a long time to realise that I was living my life by the book. I was moving like clockwork. I got up, I went to work, I came home and ate, I got paid, I repeated. It took me years to realise that I was missing the one thing that mattered: my own desires.

Once I noticed that my life was empty, a lightening bolt struck my mind. My thoughts were fighting with one another to try and figure out what to do in my spare time, and once I found it, everything changed. I had a purpose to live. It may not have mattered to anyone else just yet, but for then, and for now, it matters to me, and that’s all I care about.


I ask you again, what do you want to do in your life? And remember, you’re not a gear in the clock.


I ask you again, what do you want to do in your life? And remember, you’re not a gear in the clock.