The Prodigal Daughter.

I used to say that writing was like breathing for me, and if I didn’t have it I would die. On that notion, my oxygen has run decidedly low the past couple of months.
But sometimes, these short breaks make you realise that every human has the capacity to try on something else for size and live at least on some concious level seeking the next thrill, the next little thing or hobby or interest that gets you feeling something.
But in the end, you always come back to your true love. There’s a peace in that. There’s setting your hopes far off into the distance just to keep your heart a little bit alive.

Circumstance is another big factor in this. Should the circumstances be incorrect that you’ve grown so accustomed to, it can be difficult to have to go back to the ritual with added elements. Outside might be too loud. Small cluttered shelves might be screaming at you. Sometimes everything. Sometimes nothing.

So much has happened. The weeks feel like years; absolutely pushed to the brim with news or drama or gossip or just HAPPENINGS filling every minute of every single day; becoming louder and louder and more intense and faster and the boat is showing no fucking signs of stopping.
I got overwhelmed. I got scared. And that’s ok; I’m still learning. I’m still learning to navigate my way through day to day interactions and trying to be lenient on myself for feeling way way way too much. But there’s pride too. Even though I was scared, I did it anyway. I handled my business.

Writing is still hard right now. I’ve flexed the muscle and will ease back into it.


All’s Well That Ends Well.

The end of the year is upon us and I’m taking this opportunity to take a break from writing over the holiday period.
I’ll be back on 4th January 2018 with the first Story Time Thursday of the year.

Thank you so much for all your support over the last year, writing is something that runs through my bones and is something I must do. It’s as important to me as breathing.

See you in a few weeks!

Paige Maris xx

Just A Thought.

I love being older. There is a respect that comes with that, which comes with age; as though your experiences are now relevant and you have caught up, relaxed and stopped giving a shit. There’s a zen about it; even in the tissue skin, the laughter lines. I smile more now than I ever have in my life.

STT – The Skirt.

On my balcony lives a cupboard I call “Punk Cupboard”, though it has also been dubbed “Hat Narnia” by Jeb. It does hold several of my spare or work in progress hats, as well as books, shoes, trinket boxes and clothes left over from my punk days. I don’t go in there very often, so when in one of my spring cleaning frenzies on Monday (my spring cleaning frenzies happen at least three times a week to varying degrees, thanks anxiety), I was hit with a large amount of nostalgia and sore memories when I found The Skirt.

Continue reading “STT – The Skirt.”

STT – Fluff.

I was one of those little dance girls. Not to the extent that it was rehearsals every single day with my dance mum constantly telling me to put my show face on; but I did ballet, jazz and physsy (that’s physical culture for those unsure). I loved every single minute of dance classes. I loved the glamour of back stage and preparing for a performance. I loved my mum putting makeup on me, those hideous shiny brown tights I was made to squish my sausage legs into. Hell, I even loved my ballet teacher holding us in sixth position for hours at a time.

Continue reading “STT – Fluff.”

STT – Race Day.

From 2009 – 2011, I worked in a boutique costume store in Bondi Junction named Fancy Shmancy. There’s always something about working in retail that makes the workers form some sort of comradery; be it against the boss or customers, the music you’re made to play in store or just general other gripes. Fancy Shmancy had all of these in spades, and lets just say our team became, well… a little incestuous.

Continue reading “STT – Race Day.”

STT – Snuff.

It’s not that I’m not one to kiss and tell, because a good story should always be told. There’s a part of my personality that comes across as prudish, years of my mother’s influence to not speak about sordid details, and avoid bad language have left me with somewhat of an inability to use certain words, unless shifted into a mood that calls for it.
That said, I’ve set myself a challenge this week, to describe a hot moment using careful language but nonetheless tell a story that should be classed as smut.
But by christ, I’ll be hiding both our families from seeing this.
It all started on this past Tuesday.

Continue reading “STT – Snuff.”