I Left the Window Open for Courage Instead

I saw him again this morning.

Fear.

Lurking behind the bottlebrush as I closed the blinds.

Not today, pal. 

Your lease is up.

Because these days, I wake up slow - coffee in one hand, courage in the other and write notes to myself in the dark. 

Not out of desperation. 

Out of desire.

Desire to see what happens when you say yes to the thing you always said maybe to.

No roll call. 

No yard duty. 

No lessons.

Just some characters who exist and some who don’t and stories that won’t leave me alone.

Welcome back

Late Night Musings with Rogues & Scoundrels 

I Left the Window Open for Courage Instead

Suddenly, I find myself indulging in a little 3 am note writing because I can  - there’s no staff meetings for me tomorrow.

And just like that - it’s writing full time.

I used to squint into primary school corridors like I was auditioning for Prison Break: The Musical - work satchel in hand, smile stretched too wide, navigating behaviour management with jazz hands and sheer willpower. 

But now?

Now I co-write grant applications with the theatrical intensity of a Shakespearean monologue and flip fear off like a seasoned cabaret queen who’s forgotten her lines but remembered her power.

That little bastard - fear, still visits, you know. Sometimes he’s subtle, peeking in through the blinds like an old perv in a trench coat. 

Other days he’s loitering near the compost bin of my self-worth, whispering, “Are you sure this story’s worth telling?” 

And on Thursdays, he wears my performing arts teacher’s voice and mutters something about real jobs.

Flip…

But I’ve got time now. 

Not luxury time - no, I can’t afford that yet - but stolen time. 

Rogue time. 

3 a.m. ideas that don’t need permission slips. Time to wander between genres, fingers dancing from cosmic noir to historical 10th century feminism to a little Gary, god damn Gary - like a strange genre-bending waltz.

Evie Raven is elbow-deep in suppressed grey world memories, just one tab over from Eilidh weaving rebellion in 952 AD. 

While Gary - well, we’ll just leave Gary to his tab and his fantasies. 

I am their bridge. 

I am the one with blurry screen eyes and a reheated cup of Earl grey I forgot three hours ago. 

Again.

This is what I chose.

To ride the high of getting shortlisted. 

To reread rejection emails like horoscopes, searching for coded encouragement. 

To refresh the bank account and find inspiration in the decimals. 

To sob in front of a wonderful pitch deck, then laugh because the images are perfect and the font is beautiful and that’s enough reason to go on.

To walk and rewrite in my head. 

To walk and talk out loud - like a nutter.

To continue the trust in myself by having the space to delve into my imagination. 

To indulge the flow. 

To hear dialogue in a restaurant mid-whiskey and just type. 

To forget what day it is but remember exactly what my characters wore when their world collapsed.

And fear? 

He still shows up. 

But I just wave now. 

Or flip him off for laughs. 

Sometimes I let him sit beside me, let him read over my shoulder. 

But he doesn’t get to edit anymore. 

He’s been evicted.

(He’ll probably be back. But I’ve changed the locks.)

So here I am - writing, risking, repeating. 

No timetable. 

No lesson plans. 

Just the quiet, defiant joy of showing up at the page. 

And when the doubt creeps in, I remind myself

I am the one who has dared to stay.