Introduced By Amber Hall
Our theme continues to be ‘(R)Evolution’ and, for my final Monday Moments page of the year, I wanted to reflect on the idea of personal evolutions and the revolutionary acts behind them.
For me, 2025 was all about taking risks, following my gut, and finding my footing. I returned to an old place of work, only to (quickly) realise I could no longer put my energy into something that I didn’t really, really care about. And on returning, I couldn’t stop thinking about the person I’d been before. My twenties were chaotic: I worked without boundaries (and basic self-care) to claw my way out of precarity – the only state I’d ever known. I often look back and wonder how I survived it, because I was running on empty the whole time.
I’ve since settled into the charity sector, where I can use my wordsmithery to make a positive difference in the world. And you know what? It feels right. I know, instinctively, I’ve done the right thing for me. I had to go backwards, to literally step into my past, to realise how I’ve evolved, and what the ‘new me’ needs to live healthily and happily. I left my old job without having anything lined up, which is arguably not a responsible thing to do. But I’ve learned to trust that whatever feels right, is right; I had faith that things would turn out the way they were supposed to, and they have.
When I finally started to listen to my ‘why,’ things began to fall into place. And writing was a huge part of my journey back to selfhood. Discovering and using my voice became a way for me to live and connect authentically, and it opened up avenues – like Write On! – that have become important facets of my life. I found mentors, friends and collaborators who are on the same page as me (sometimes literally, as well as figuratively).
Revolutionary acts, on a personal level, are commitments to ourselves. They’re the actions we take to build the lives we want and they don’t have to be big. One of the most life-affirming things we can do is to simply recognise our needs. This year, I settled down, became a puppy parent and forged a path that fits. It all started because I listened to my intuition, stood my ground, and stood up for myself!
Thank you for another year of readership and thank you to the team at Pen to Print and Write On! for your continued support. Wishing you all a happy holiday season!
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The pieces I’ve chosen for my page this month celebrate personal evolutions and the actions that bring forth change.
First, we have a prose piece by Mirabel Lavelle, who writes about the initial leap of faith she took that led her to writing. Reflecting on her most recent creative endeavour, Mirabel also shares an excerpt of her novel in progress.
A Fresh Page
I remember it clearly, that particular early evening sitting on the same commuter-packed metro I took home, four dark evenings a week. My mind could not stop thinking about writing.
There was so much I wanted to explore and to write about. I slipped my hand into my work bag and pulled out the book I’d borrowed. It was about writing short stories.
As the Christmas break approached, I found myself searching online about writing classes, events and recently published, prize-winning books. I kept going to work but I spent more and more of my free time finding out about writing; even entering a competition.
I had to take a large leap into the unknown because I knew it was right for me. I was leaving a salaried lecturing post to start a new life as a full-time aspiring writer, with no guarantees of success.
That was five years ago. It was terrifying but I have learnt a lot about who I am and what I can achieve, despite my fears. I’m now a published author and currently working on completing the draft of a novel I promised my mum I would finish.
An excerpt from Adelina (unedited manuscript):
Part 1
Deluge
Malta, October 1943
The torrential rain did not stop me from collecting our rations from the Victory Kitchen. I tied my veil with a double knot and ran for it, with one hand holding onto the veil and the other clutching tightly to the coupon in my skirt pocket. A bolt of lightning caught a discarded metal pipe and fierce white fire snaked in front of me. I jumped out of the way and ran down the next alleyway which was strewn with debris.
I joined the line of people waiting and discovered that they were giving out oranges that day. The Maltese government did this last August with tomatoes from the Pitkali market. No wonder so many were happy to queue up in the soaking rain!
I couldn’t wait to show Ma, Simon and Nina the juicy oranges. When I arrived home, an eery feeling swept over me, stopping me in my tracks. I stepped inside and dropped the ration bag onto the flagstone floor. I knew something was not right when I heard Zija Gina’s distraught voice, “Miskina Ohti.”
I ran straight to the bedroom. Ma lay like a wrung-out spectre on the thin straw mattress of the bed. Our zinc tin bath lay underneath it. The rhythmic plop of a liquid dripping into it pounded at my ears. Coppery air made me sway. But I hung on.
Ma lay shivering. My eyes moved from the bed to the squeaking window which, despite the stormy weather, stood open. A drawer from the Credenza lay under it. The sombre white flannel on top, confirmed my dread.
Zija Gina walked towards me.
“For the tiny soul to fly back to Heaven,” she whispered.
© Mirabel Lavelle, 2025
Visit Mirabel’s website to learn more about her work: www.writebymirabel.co.uk, and connect with her on Instagram: @mir.j.car.
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Next, Sarah Frideswide writes about her experience in the British Army Reserves, and the felt legacy of her fellow reservists.
Never A War Hero
I was accepted into the British Army Reserves on Remembrance Sunday 2011, after passing my selection tests on my second attempt at the Army Training Centre, Pirbright. A few days later, I swore my oath of allegiance to the Queen and all her heirs and successors.
It was an auspicious day on which to become a soldier. When we’re accepted into the armed forces, we no longer belong to ourselves; we belong to the country. While many of us don’t go on to give up our lives in the physical sense, the giving up of ourselves as individuals begins at the point we pass our tests, swear our oath of allegiance and become a soldier – no longer a civilian. From then on, we’ve voluntarily stepped forward to act as the first line of defence between any hostile force and our sovereign and the people of the realm.
In one of his talks to us, the Officer Commanding (OC), a Major, reminded us of how far back the history of the British Army goes – it’s reservist element in particular. We come from a tradition that began around 1,500 years ago, where the people who worked the land around a lord’s estate doubled as his defending army when the need arose. Later, this became the feudal system. When the King needed an army, he would send out to his lords to raise that army from amongst their tenant farmers and citizens. This was the case centuries before the country as a whole had its own standing army. To this day, reservist soldiers usually join their nearest geographical unit, rather than entering the central system and moving far away, as regular soldiers do.
It’s always the case that we’re conscious of the immense history we step into when we put on our army-issued assault boots for the first time. This was magnified for me because I began my transformation on what, for soldiers, is the most significant day of the year. I was in an army training centre where generations of soldiers have begun their careers over the past 140 years. As well as being part of the modern institution of the army, I became rooted into a history and identity I hadn’t been born into, but which was now conferred on me and which I was, and am, allowed to claim as my own.
After we’d all passed our tests and were about to return to our home units, we had a final triumphant gathering. In that dim room, with its worn greyish carpet, I could feel the presence of many hundreds of soldiers around me. Their voices spoke to me from the old uniforms on display, from frayed flags and from the walls themselves, which had soaked up their thoughts, fears and memories. You’re one of us, they said and, while I never went on to become a war hero, I did walk in their footsteps for a little while.
© Sarah Frideswide, 2025
Connect with Sarah on Instagram: @SarahFrideswide and X: @SJFrideswide.
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Finally, this concrete poem (or shape poem) by Hongwei Bao reflects on the festive season, bringing a childhood memory to the fore in this honest and emotive piece.
Christmas Tree
One
Christmas,
Mum asks me
to read out my prize-
winning poem from the school
writing competition. Obviously, she’s
very proud of me, more than I am of myself.
My uncle and aunt stop talking, all eyes on me.
My cousin opens his big mouth, showing crooked teeth,
as if to say, you are done for. Now I’m standing in front of
the Christmas tree, the one Mum struggled to get out of the loft
the day before, in display just for a few days and then quickly tucked
away. It’s covered with silver tinsels, red baubles and twinkling lights. On its
feet lie boxes of different shapes and sizes that await discovery. But what about the tree?
Its colour
has faded. Its
plastic needles have
gone dry. Having lived a hidden
life for years, it must have been enjoying
its privacy, solitude, insignificance. How did it feel
when it was suddenly dressed up and moved to the centre
stage? Did its face turn red, palms sweat, and legs shake? Does it
feel well enough to perform? The thing is, I happened to have written
a few broken lines about my dream, and that was nine months ago. My dream
has since changed. Why do they still hang on to the old stuff, wanting to hear me read
that embarrassing
poem? Why can’t people
just leave me alone? Why is
Mum so eager to show me off in front
of everyone? She must think I’m no longer
that timid, introvert boy, good at neither maths nor
sports. She must want to prove to her relatives that she
can bring up a child without having to rely on a man, the heartless
man who walked out of his home several years ago, never to return. But
will the show make me smarter, braver, more confident? Will it make my loss,
our loss, less painful? Now my uncle and aunt are clapping, showering sweet words,
my
cousin
is rolling
his eyes. I return
to my seat, wishing
there was a crack on the floor.
Everyone is eating and drinking
and talking about something else. They’ve
completely forgotten about me and the tree. Its lights
have dimmed, its boughs are hanging low. Is it sighing? Is it
weeping? Does it also hate the limelight, the brief moment of pretended
glory? Does it miss the loft where it enjoyed so much the freedom of being left alone?
© Hongwei Bao, 2025
Follow Hongwei on Instagram: @PatrickBao123 and X: @Patrickbao1.
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Issue 26, featuring Patrick Vernon, OBE is out now. You will find it in libraries and other outlets. Alternatively, all current and previous editions can be found on our magazines page here.
You can hear great new ideas, creative work and writing tips on Write On! Audio. Find us on all major podcast platforms, including Apple and Google Podcasts and Spotify. Type Pen to Print into your browser and look for our logo, or find us on Podcasters.Spotify.com.
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