A Cozy Corner for Stories

Welcoming You to My First Blog

Hello, dear readers, and a most heartfelt welcome to this little corner of the internet.

Thank you, truly, for being here. It means the world to me to have you pull up a virtual armchair, pour a cup of tea, and settle in for a chat. In a world that spins so very fast, these moments of shared quiet and imagination are a special kind of magic. I’m so glad we can create them together. As this is my very first blog post, it feels doubly special that it also serves as my November offering—a cozy literary companion for these shorter, colder days.

I’ve decided that once a month, I’ll be opening my writer’s notebook to share a story of mine that holds a particularly special place in my heart. I’ll talk about why I love it, the little seeds from which it grew, and the feelings it never fails to evoke in me. It feels only right to begin with a tale that embodies the very spirit of why I write: "Oliver Hefflewhistle and the Gingham Glimmergit."

There are stories we write that feel like work, and then there are stories that feel like a gentle exhale, a happy sigh that somehow finds its way onto the page. "Oliver Hefflewhistle" was undoubtedly the latter. It arrived not with a bang, but with a soft, whimsical nudge, much like the snowbird feather that drifts down to Oliver’s cheek.

So, why does this story, above so many others, fill me with such a sense of wonder and joy?

I think it begins with Oliver himself. In a world that often celebrates the loudest voices and the grandest gestures, I wanted to create a hero who finds his strength in quiet persistence and a heart full of earnest hope. Oliver is "brave yet slightly befuddled," a description that feels deeply human to me. He isn’t a knight slaying a dragon; his quest is to serenade a girl on a cold night, a mission both monumental in its personal stakes and beautifully, comically simple. He talks to his mittens and chastises the wind, and in doing so, he reminds me that courage isn’t the absence of fear or awkwardness, but the decision to proceed in spite of it. He makes me believe that we can all be the heroes of our own peculiar, wonderful journeys.

And then there is the setting—that "peculiar January evening." I have always been enchanted by the idea of a world that is just a little bit sentient, a little bit alive with its own personality. A sky that leans down to watch us, stars that abandon their twinkling to practice their arithmetic. As a child growing up in the West Indies, snow existed for me only in the pages of books and the landscapes of my imagination. Writing this story, I was able to build that wintery world I once only dreamed of—a world where frosty air makes your breath swirl and the cold nips at your nose. It’s a feeling I’ve carried into my adulthood here in the UK, a nostalgic ache for a world brimming with hidden, frost-kissed magic. This story lets me live in that world for a little while.

The heart of the tale, of course, is the Gingham Glimmergit itself. The name alone makes me smile! I have a deep affection for objects that are a little bit odd, a little bit unique, and full of untold potential. The Glimmergit isn’t a perfect, polished instrument; it’s a "contraption" from an "Emporium of Miscellaneous Curiosities." It represents the beauty of choosing the path less travelled, of seeing the unique value in something others might dismiss. Oliver’s defence of it—“You can’t sling a piano under your arm and serenade a lady from beneath her window”—is one of my favourite lines. It’s a triumph of practicality and romance over conventional wisdom.

But the moment that truly defines the story, the image that crystallizes its entire spirit for me, is Oliver’s decision to play with his mittens on. This was the spark from which the entire story grew. The idea of a muffled, "charmingly rustic" serenade, played with numb fingers but a warm heart, felt so profoundly tender to me. It’s a perfect metaphor for the story itself: life doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. Our efforts don’t have to be flawless to be meaningful. Sometimes, the most authentic and touching moments come from our willingness to be a little bit awkward, a little bit uncomfortable, all for the sake of something—or someone—we love.

This leads me to Sally Snodgrass, the "parsnip princess." I didn’t want her to be a passive prize to be won. She is "clever and captivating," a girl with a sharp wit and a secret whimsical side. Her gesture of tossing down the feather is not one of royal favour, but of quiet, mutual understanding. She sees Oliver’s effort for what it is—a genuine, heartfelt offering. She is impressed by his persistence, not his perfection. In that simple, silent exchange, a connection is made that is far more powerful than any flawless performance could have elicited. It’s a celebration of seeing and being seen for who we truly are.

As the story winds down, with the wind softening its mischief and the stars shifting their equations just for Oliver, I am filled with a deep, comforting contentment. This story is my literary equivalent of a warm blanket. It assures me that the universe is kind to the kind-hearted, that our small acts of bravery are noticed, and that there is magic to be found on a frosty lane, in a pair of woolly mittens, and in the strings of a curious guitar.

"Oliver Hefflewhistle and the Gingham Glimmergit" is, at its core, a story about the courage of gentle souls. It’s a love letter to the odd, the earnest, and the beautifully imperfect. It reminds me to look for the arithmetic in the stars, to talk to the wind, and to always, always keep my mittens on if that’s what it takes to play my song.

Thank you for letting me share this piece of my heart with you. I wonder, what stories make you feel this way? What tales return you to a place of wonder?

Until next month, may your own adventures be filled with melody, mischief, and a sprinkle of magic.

With all my love,

P.S. 

The sunflowers, inspiration, and coloured

 pencil thoughts are yours to keep, but as for this world, it is meant to be shared and, shared often  .

From the girl with feathers in her hair, stories in her head,
sunflowers in her garden, books on her table and art in her soul,

Joules Young, the Story Catcher…

Find your part, start your journey, choose your destination.