pivotal

I have read through my old journals recently. Flipping through, noticing how my handwriting has changed, how frequently my pen would run out.

The patterns I created, the ideas I've had over time.

Scenes, poems, characters.

Plays, monologues, dialogues.

Badly sketched set designs, lists of random items I realised could come together with a later-revealed significance.

All usually written past 7pm, stretching to midnight or the morning of the next day. Sometimes added half-asleep because of a dream or a wandering mind full of creativity.

All scrawled and smudged by my hand, with time being the only space between each entry.

Sometimes I'll address myself, my far in the future self reading what a 15 year old girl wrote. Younger Me always comments on the way I inevitably compare progress or try to hyperfocus until I remember writing that specific line...

I usually don't remember, but there's still a familiar voice inside it. It definitely highlights the depth of my mind, my creativity. Most of it is rushed, like I've just thought of it in the shower, and then scrambled to get it down, to make it tangible for more eyes that the ones in my mind, before it is gone forever.

One thing I've kept consistent is how I begin and complete each entry, which I think is unique.

I enter the date, and the time I started.

And when I finish, I enter the time again.

This gives me perspective, more than a good memory would.

Am I sneakily holding my pen close to the page to avoid a scratching sound at 11pm? If so, I'm usually writing in smooth cursive swirls. A gel pen, not a ball point.

Is it a Friday, so a late night doesn't matter? Then my writing is chaotic and unstructured (despite the lined paper), as though my mind is jumping from idea to idea without letting my hands keep up. I've mentioned a song that still remains in old playlists, that I revisit when I want to speak to my inner child, the one who loves loud noises and musicals. The songs reveal the mood and how much of the world I want to block out.

I can also decipher emotion. Am I pacing myself through this scene, taking time to consider word choice because of the way three synonyms for 'darkness' have been scratched out?

Or am I fuming? Fresh off a shit day at school, an argument, an episode of self-doubt grappling me from behind. Am I overwhelmed, stressed, seeking an escape?

More often than not, this was why I was writing.

I found this site in 2021.

I came back, really discovered writing, in mid-2024.

But I've always been writing. I've written stories that have made me laugh till I cry, because of the little grasp on structure or story I had, but how the words I managed to use become impressive when you see how I used my fingers to space words in a sentence. How my spelling was better than most. How my handwriting was still evolving so I could receive a Pen License in Year 3.

'The Girl Who Was Never There' with an intro that was all sarcasm that led nowhere speaks to the narration I was exposed to in novels like Scarlett and Ivy, Friday Barnes, Geronimo Stilton; movies like How to Train Your Dragon, Frozen, Big Hero 6.

My obsession with dragons and mythical beasts and strange creatures with the head of this, the body and eyes of that, connects to my childhood; my fascination with fantasy novels, magic, the tales that whoosh you away to another place.

Writing is an escape.

Following this nostalgic road in February 2026 comes with a purpose. My anthology was put on hold for most of last year, which was the right choice.

It meant I could give the year the attention it needed, because it demanded it, and I did something unique, that I haven't done for a while to be honest.

I wrote poetry, stories and all the rest; but I did not immediately publish them here. I left this site as a second, third, fourth, fifth priority. I kept some words for myself.

So now, when I've found time to revisit the words I left, I've realised that my taste has changed. I've outgrown those stories of the Fox and the Snake and the Owl.

I must see them for what they are: a small snapshot of my life in 2025.

So as I revisit my idea of an anthology, I've decided to use the hoarded words. The unseen ones (with a few exceptions, where it works), the unpublished ones.

The ones written in messy cursive or precise paragraphs. The ones decorated with sketches of dragons and original characters.

The ones timestamped, dated with songs, all gloriously mixed with the newer style I've been developing.

It's all a work in progress. That's how it goes.

Maybe I'll be doing the same thing in a year. Maybe I'll have submitted it to be published somewhere. Who knows?

I will continue to hoard words. I've been submitting to literary magazines as a way to expand my voice. I want to get my writing out there and experiment.

Speaking of, I made an Instagram account dedicated to poetry, so if you'd like to stay in the loop, please follow @the_red_fox_poet over there! A goal of mine is to get into the habit of posting more updates, as this was a spontaneous decision and I'm still getting the hang of Instagram posts generally.

Anway, this is not a goodbye to Vocal. This is a check-in for the start of 2026, a howsit goin', a Happy New Year, a yoo-hoo, helloo?

Too keep things interesting over here, I'll also return to changing my pinned stories regularly, and maybe publishing the occasional snippet. We'll have to see where the tide takes us though!

Alrighty Vocal.

See ya later!

- Red 💖