I didn’t need to turn off the highway so damn early. I was happy in that old Ford, for once in my dramatically shortened life: free as a bird, the … Continue reading Final Cut
Creativity & Chronic Illness
First of all, I want to say I’m lucky. What I have isn’t going to kill me, nor am I housebound or bedridden. There are lots of people much worse … Continue reading Creativity & Chronic Illness
Imposter Syndrome
We’ve all heard of it. Most of us have it. What causes imposter syndrome and how can we overcome it? Imposter syndrome is the name given to a lack of … Continue reading Imposter Syndrome
Pretentious
Not a word I like or use. It’s usually levelled at working class people, by other working class people, when they express themselves through art. I expect it’s been used … Continue reading Pretentious
Poem For Chris
Our love is this.
It is a smile at a bedside.
Linking of arms and
clinking of glass.
A sunrise. A sunset.
It is ease. Joy. Truth.
Its unquestioned presence
wraps around every word.
Our love is this.
Soft hands held together
and cold feet
warming each other.
Knowing. Feeling.
Hurting. Together. Apart.
It is laughter and it
is sorrow.
Our love is this.
It is you, it is me.
A lifetime and a moment.
Poem for A
You are small but powerful.You don’t need to tie yourselfdown to specifics;Infinity is within your grasp.You are a dreamer, a wordof possibilities.Indefinite but not undecided.You present us with choices.Create a … Continue reading Poem for A
Baby thinks about colour
This is my tribute to Baby Suggs, from Toni Morrison’s Beloved. It is a nonet poem (9 line poem of descending syllables) Words which shook the trees and made men … Continue reading Baby thinks about colour
Small print
It came bubble wrapped,in an envelope marked ‘fragile’.And even as I lifted it outsome pieces broke offand floated up to the ceiling.They’re still there now.The rest was as you’d expect.Fluffy. … Continue reading Small print
Medusa leaves home
Tired of the constant bickering,
the ‘he said’ ‘she said’ never ending
circus. Tired of being the butt
of local gags and sick to death
of being harassed by the local gods,
she leaves. Takes an Uber
as far as she can get on her
Saturday wages and then
hitchhikes the rest. Doesn’t
look back.
They’d met by the sea.
He promised
to shake the world for her
but all she got was
a bellyful of anger and a
head full of snakes. Spiteful.
She’s alone now. Walking
the pier and looking
strangers in the eye.
The waves, his waves
crashing in front of her
like some kind of metaphor.
She wishes she could
turn herself to stone.
She could stand here forever
feeling nothing and
even the sea couldn’t
move her.
Am Editing
Until you have to do it, editing seems like the easy afterthought of the novel writing process. Just like childbirth, the memory of the painful editing process fades once it’s over, compelling you to put yourself through it again at a later date (and having given birth twice I feel I am qualified to use that comparison).
The novel is so close to completion that it’s now more frustrating than ever. I like the beginning, most of the middle and the ending. There’s a section just around the black moment when it all goes very badly wrong, not just for my protagonist but for me and my reader – the writing is dreadful, honestly. So that needs re-doing. I have a missing chapter and I repeat myself quite a bit (thanks, thyroid brain fog).
I just have to force myself to keep going. One of these days I’ll be happy to report that it’s done and I’m happy with it. Then I can start giving it to other people to read, which will involve a whole new set of issues to deal with.
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