Diane Foster
Bio
I’m a professional writer, proofreader, and all-round online entrepreneur, UK. I’m married to a rock star who had his long-awaited liver transplant in August 2025.
When not working, you’ll find me with a glass of wine, immersed in poetry.
Stories (248)
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4 Types of Creative Blocks
Let’s be real: when your brain feels like a stalled engine, being told to “just start” or “push through it” is about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine. We’ve all been there, staring at the blank page, cursor blinking in mockery. But what if I told you that “creative block” isn’t one big, scary monster? It’s more like a squad of different gremlins, each with its own specialty in shutting down your ideas. And you can’t fight a Motivation Gremlin with the same stick you’d use for a Perfectionism Gremlin.
By Diane Foster3 months ago in Writers
How to Get on Santa’s Naughty List
By the second week of December, the coal scuttle sat by the hearth like an empty mouth. Mum kept saying it was fine, in the same tone she used when she said the roof only leaked “a little” and Dad’s cough was “just winter.” The truth was in the air anyway. The house had a brittle cold that clung to your fingers, that made the kettle take forever and turned your breath into a steady little ghost.
By Diane Foster3 months ago in Fiction
The Kiss of Rome
Marcus Tullius had always believed the Empire eternal. Marble gleamed beneath the sun, aqueducts sang with water, and senators spoke of Rome’s destiny as though Jupiter himself had carved it into stone. Yet beneath the Senate’s grandeur, Marcus carried a hunger that no feast could sate, a hunger for a kiss, for something human and fragile amid the Empire’s iron perfection.
By Diane Foster4 months ago in Writers
The Ash of Second Chances
The bell above the door didn’t chime; it gasped, a breathless sound of old brass waking from a century-long nap. Elias stepped out of the relentless, greyscale rain and into the shop. The air inside was dry and smelled of ozone, beeswax, and things that had been forgotten in attics.
By Diane Foster4 months ago in Fiction
Back to the Dirt
I hit the field with pockets heavy with names, hands reeking of iron. Apples. Each stalk I snap is an answer I can actually hold. I’ve learned to hoard what ripens, coercing that brittle light into the basket, nodding yes to the scrape of the stem.
By Diane Foster4 months ago in Poets
