This website is simply a collection of stories randomly selected for the reader to dip into as the impulse takes you.
i set up this website a few years ago. I bought it on impulse, while domain shopping, thinking it a good idea to the put the writing from the past ten years or so in one place. Then i did not do that. I put the project to one side, and did not do that. Now I have the site up and there are no excuses. So I dig into the archive and there is not as much as I thought. I feel embarrassed at the thought that really not much of this is any good at all. Then I console myself to say that no one will read it anyway. But then some of what I unearth really does surprise me. I am curious about this writer. To my mind, at least, some of it is good to read, even if feel I have little relationship with the person that wrote some of this stuff, in another life time. Then there is the hidden stuff which would betray or reveal me too, and the incomplete stuff, best kept under the wraps. But then some of it is the best of me. Both real and imaginative, all those writing facets of the scribbling Daniel. My mother used to say ‘Are you scribbling again?’ If this is a vanity project then so be it: it is done.
Then there is the so called academic writing, the published and peer reviewed stuff. You know, there is a long list of what I have published on my tedious academic CV. But I can find little of it, and not in one place. Perhaps i never truly cared enough about that stuff enough to curate it properly. Yet a minor panic – would I in truth ever find it again? And would it really matter if all of that oeuvre were lost? As I look back on that long listing then I wonder – now I am mercifully out of the academic credibility and peer approval seeking business – if all the efforts for publication have meant anything at all? Ephemera after all.
And then there is the PhD, probably the most complete thing i have ever written. I am told that that does get read, does it not? Students from afar seek it out on search engines and they tell me it inspires. I am glad to know that. I have not read it for years.
Then there is my private journal, only a fragment of which gets glimpsed here. That journal now contains nine years of digital daily entries now amounting to about 300,000 words. I am fearful of it being read: and fearful of it going to the grave with me unread. The curse of all diarists, I suppose.
Most recently there is the novel. By new year 2018 I had progressed this to a first draft and felt elated. Then I parked it, waiting for the muse to return in a new, deeper form. Now it is the Gollum on my back, waiting in its cave, somewhat patient, waiting for my attention to return. God knows it almost did me in last time around. I do not even remember the plot or the characters any more. and maybe that is a good thing too.
The stories as they came out I have entered in blog form, and would like the listing to be less clunky, as the stories scroll down in their entirety, but that is how it is for now. I may find a better way to organise this, but meanwhile bear with, as they nowadays inevitably say. Some of these entries are travelogues of a sort; others reminiscences of my life-coaching of now dead celebrities; some musings on a variety of singing experiences; pure some random deranged products of my deliquescent imagination. I include below a current listing of the story titles as they appear. This may help you to be selective from among this collection. They are not in a historical time sequence.