We all have a story to tell … big, small, funny, heart-breaking, courageous … stories of our biggest achievements, most crushing blows, strangest encounters, of our families, friends, of the love we have found and lost, of survival … of who we really are.
We are life’s adventurers, discovering and exploring the magnificent fruits and wonders of the world every day, uncovering the buried treasure within with every breath we take. Even if you think nothing special has ever happened to you; you’re wrong.
Your story is unique …
I’m Hayley, by the way. Come in. Pull up a chair. Take off your shoes. There’s tea in the pot.
I’m a ghostwriter and creative writing teacher working to fill the world with stories of real people: the struggles and triumphs, achievements and catastrophes, the smallest, most private, cherished moments and those that explode for the whole world to see.
I’m glad you’ve come because I have so much to share … about me, about you, but most of all about these stories: how we can tell them honestly … healing, growing and knowing that others are benefitting from our shared voices. Because telling our truths is sending a gift of hope into the world.
I write two blog posts per week. One focuses on an aspect of writing, storytelling or simply living truthfully. It is here that I also blog about my ghostwriting work and occasionally share the writing and stories of others. The other is more personal, sharing gratitude from my week … my way of telling my own unique story.
I absolutely love writing these posts and I hope you enjoy reading them. Feel free to explore. I hope you find something that resonates.
Latest Blog Posts
Interview yourself for your autobiography. A useful resource for autobiography writers.
I contacted ‘LGBT She-Ra’ a few weeks back to see if she would do me the honour of sharing her life story, to potentially create a memoir together. I should add at this stage that ‘She-Ra’ is not her real name. It does, however, reflect what an absolute warrior she is – a warrior of the heart.
Hello! Just a quick post today to put a call out to anyone who has a real-life, flesh and blood, pen and ink penpal. I’m not talking about long-distance Skype or Zoom, emailing or any other online platform. Do you – or does anyone you know – still sit down to write a letter, slip […]
“You’re in the river,” she says. “It’s choppy, too choppy, wild. It’s throwing you around. You’re drowning.”
What the hell is she trying to do? My panic intensifies, grows colour around it, as I’m thrown around by the unyielding current. How is this helping?
Good question …
“We could get dressed up, move the sofa, put the light out, grab the opera glasses and Frazzles.” (Our snack cupboard was looking a bit bare.)
So we did. I in my long pinstripe jacket and bowtie, hair oiled back and moustache drawn on with eyeliner pencil. She in her flapper dress and boa. I have no idea where she found the peacock feather to stick in her hair, but it was a nice touch.
It’s almost as if we spend our lives guarding our darkest secrets, shielding ourselves from the gaze of others, but what if these authentic parts are our most beautiful and human?
It’s such a small, frivolous thing to be thankful for when the world has been brought to its knees by influenza’s older, demented half-brother, with a chip on his shoulder and daddy issues.
If I don’t write every day, I lose confidence, and then I can’t write, because, like most creative people, I am quite mad.
I’m a buzzed-up giant. The washing machine in my head is spinning my clothes for the 800th time although they’re already clean. I’m a whirr. I’m polo-mint breath puffed onto an eyeball …
My God, I was an arrogant writer when I was younger. I knew my work was good, and I reacted to criticism the way flat-earthers respond to the inconvenient truth. I was hot stuff, they were wrong/moronic/picking on me, and the world would have to catch up with my genius sooner or later.
I recently watched a man drink a whole bottle of salad crème in the library, and there wasn’t a salad leaf in sight. Straight from the bottle. Glug, glug, glug. To me, this epitomises libraries in the twenty-first century: a catch-all for those in freefall from the community services and projects that have been cut by the government, looking for a place to belong or snooze or drink condiments. As a writer, obsessed with people-watching, I love it.
Writing truthfully is an act of rebellion. Writing longhand is revelling in the experience. In the absence of cave walls on which to tell our stories, it is the rawest way to express the written word.
My emotional ghostwriting experience, telling a story that needed to be told.