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 (233)
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Practicing Gratitude Amid Cancer
If you'd asked me a year ago whether I believed in the power of gratitude, I might have shrugged it off as a bit too "new age" for me. But living through my husband's cancer diagnosis has taught me something very different, gratitude isn't just a nice idea; it's a lifeline.
By Diane Foster8 months ago in Motivation
Velvetpaw and the Whispering Machine
The vending machine stood like a relic, half-forgotten on the corner of Maple Street, its faded white frame softened by creeping ivy and clusters of wildflowers. Painted in strokes of sepia and honey, it seemed part of the street's quiet hum, but those who passed rarely glanced its way. All except Velvetpaw.
By Diane Foster8 months ago in Fiction
Echo in Glass
Mirror holds a smile, Silent secrets in the light, Stillness whispers loud. This Haiku represents a change in my life that has made me pause, and while outwardly I seem composed or even hopeful, inside there’s a deeper, quieter story I'm still processing.
By Diane Foster8 months ago in Poets
Echoes of a Night Sonata
The night pulled him in with a gravity that felt almost physical, like sinking into thick velvet. Jason’s fingers curled around the neck of his guitar, worn wood smooth from years of restless practice and endless nights chasing a sound just out of reach. The city around him was a dim blur; neon reflections melting into puddles, distant sirens slicing through the dark, but here, beneath the flickering streetlamp, all that mattered was the song waiting inside him.
By Diane Foster8 months ago in Fiction
A Tapestry of Summer
Lila perched on the balcony’s edge, toes curled around the rough wood. The valley below sprawled out like an endless canvas; soft green hills dappled with sunlight, a lazy ribbon of river cutting through, and clusters of white cottages nestled among trees. The sky stretched vast and unblemished, pale blue that promised no clouds for the day. It should have been the kind of view to make her breathe deep and feel alive. Instead, it felt like she was watching through glass.
By Diane Foster8 months ago in Fiction
