Annie-Claire Campbell

is creating Fiction and Poetry
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About Annie-Claire Campbell

About Me

**Note: I have not yet done a video as I have severe social anxiety which extends through the world wide web.**

Hi there! My name is Annie-Claire and I am a twenty-something stay at home mother of three (one human child and two cats). I have always loved writing fiction and poetry. I am very devoted to my craft and aspire to make a reasonable income of it to help support my family. Writing is ingrained in my life. I have battled mental illness my entire life and find a release and support in writing. It is very difficult to make an income writing and it often costs more than the return but I still believe it is worth it every cent. For me, juggling motherhood and writing is a challenge. Often the mood grabs me, or an idea, but my cheeky little monkey beckons me away. Gone are the days of spending my pocket money on dusty typewriters at white elephant stalls.
My husband suggested I join Patreon to garner some support for my writing and to fund the tools of my trade - notebooks, a new tablet/computer, a printer and cover publishing costs and/or receive support in the search for a publisher, as well as the possibility of childcare once a week so I have a dedicated day to just write.
So far I have self-published one book of poetry; a collection of haikus, micropoetry and longer form poetry (free and formed) - Uncorked Words: The First Bottle.

What I Am Currently Working On

I have been working on my first novel, thus far titled The Blue Vase. To very briefly surmise, it details a woman’s reflections on her life, mental wellbeing and motherhood as her life draws to a close. I am drawing upon my own experiences with some creative license to compose the story. To entice you, I will include a snippet or two below.

"The old falcon certainly did not live up to it’s namesake. The left hand side had several dings and scratches, each an imprint from the many journeys, as a falcon may have cuts and scratches from it’s own weary travels. However, these were no imprints of instinct, just mere carelessness. The white paint was fading, as an iris is blinded by the light at the end. The interior also had it’s fair share of ware and tear. Mostly cigarette burns and the odd take-away coffee or ice-cream stain. Each of these memories seemed so distance now. She attempted to apply her mascara through beaded drops of tears. She swore she could remember her fist long journey in the falcon. It was a long drive to the countryside, she half asleep and unable to read simplistic books, awaking to the smell of livestock a distinct lack of pollution. A line of woven trees of a rainbow of green and hints of lilac. Her hands shook slightly with weariness that suggested several bottles of wine, as she rolled a cigarette. Time agrees with one when about to partake in a vice. He always came home when her idle hands and mouth were occupied."


"And so it was, and, she would imagine, will always be this way.A head uncomforted by concrete tiles. Seemingly never ending. Her eyes never quite saw the truth that was present. Loud, in a quiet manner, quiet in a loud scream. People tried to tell her, but their words fell on deaf ears. I love you, if only for this moment, a moment of such fear and confusion. Such as what young minds imagine life to be. She never meant to struggle. She never meant to cry. I should love you. She raised her hands in front of her eyes, meaning to stop the flow of tears, though none fell."

I still have a little way to go and would love an audience!

I would also love to write another poetry book or two. I consider myself highly experimental dabbling in different forms and methods. I would love to share this with readers. I have a number of works in progress. My primary work I am focusing on is a "stream of consciousness" work of poetry focussing on current affairs and the state of life in modern society. For your interest, I am a "left leaning" fluid pluralist. In the past I have self-published through Lulu and require help covering the publishing costs as well as the domain hosting of my two websites, which both desperately need an update.

Below is a sample from my first book.

A figure masked by cloth and camphor fumes,
In all the gloom devours unforeseen louse,
All clocks and time dissolve to winds of plumes.

Poor child alone with mind ever more in tombs,
An umbrella for leg and no school house,
A figure masked by cloth and camphor fumes.

Toward the starving grace that is the wombs,
All limbs flounder toward the harvest mouse,
All clocks and time dissolve to winds of plumes.

A truant and whiskey hound, your blossoms bloom,
A lady paints her face and darns her blouse,
A figure masked by cloth and camphor fumes.

The stale tobacco smoke seeps through the room,
The rats in the grain flee to the whore house,
All clocks and time dissolve to winds of plumes.

The burnt sailors find a seraph to groom,
Peacocks birth mirrors for thunder to rouse,
A figure masked by cloth and camphor fumes.
All clocks and time dissolve to winds of plumes.


Standing roadside on a bustling street,

I spy you from a green car,
Would you much rather be elsewhere?
So unaware of where to go next,
Do you lack my set destination?
To me you are a drifter, a solitary figure.
Drab and grey, the clouds are envious,
Weighed down by shopping and sharp despair,
The rain could not cleanse those blemishes.
How far have you traveled?
Surely further than me.
Smelling of alcoholic beverages,
I would be the same.
Unshaven as a matted grizzly bear,
Windswept eyes of solemn knowing.
Your eyes see through mine and deep down.
I sense your fear of the day, as I do,
And the fleetingness of life.
You are a vision of an aged bull, with the aura of a lost child.
Your story simple, yet complex.
Facades we all hide behind, with delicate fingers over our faces.
Is there a moment you could describe,
As we toast by the fireside,
To relate a kinship with me?
Each passing car leaves you solitary.
And I am one of those.
Faded pants, scattered with filth,
Should I offer a ride, or a story or two?
Will you find my tales relatable or poetic, as I imagine yours?
Your torn shirt, could tell many a tale;
Brambles, thorns, or an ill-mannered occurrence.
Will you cross and will you change?
Your shoes are in need of repair.
Souls meet in the most bizarre ways.

The Numbers

Sometimes I feel I encapsulate the struggling writer.

  • I need a printer so I can organise my drafts (I hate reading off of a screen). This can be achieved for under $100 including ink cartridges.
  • Self-publishing costs through Lulu (obtaining and revising drafts) are approximately $10 per copy.
  • Domain hosting is $120 per year.
  • I need a new tablet to write on the go. I currently have a second generation iPad which obviously can’t run any current apps. It is too time consuming always writing in notebooks and then typing it all up.
  • If I choose to have a truely dedicated day to write, childcare costs for one day in my area is approximately $100-$150 per day. 
As for the rest of it my family rents a rundown townhouse with broken taps. Our income is approximately $1,000 per week, and outgoings (rent, bills, groceries, medical expenses, public transport) eats all of this. We have no savings or spare cash to support my writing. Melbourne may be the world's most liveable city, but it costs its fair share of sweat and tears. 

What Do I Actually Want

I have a habit of rambling sometimes, but what I would like to achieve through Patreon is the basic funding of my writing. And hopefully gain a fan or two! Thank you for reading my page. x
$0 of $10 per month
I need to order a hardcopy draft of my second work of poetry/prose to revise before I publish.
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