At the start of this year, I was struggling with my creativity. What was troubling was the fact that I didn’t want to create anything.
Most writers I know have an addiction to something (coffee, Twitter, buying books, stationary). I have been collecting notebooks for years and years, and recently I have started to make my own. I really enjoy crafting my own supplies. I feel like it gives me a certain kind of creative independence, and it allows meContinue reading “All About My Writer’s Notebook”
What is writing, after all? A form of communication. A listing of symbols through which we convey meaning. I am of the belief that it’s a kind of magic. It’s time-travel. It’s the undenied profession of human existence. It’s a ritualistic expression of self and discovery. It’s catharsis, murder without jail. It’s growing up onContinue reading “What is Writing?”
Recently, I had a flip through How I Write: The Secret Lives of Authors by Dan Crowe and Phillip Oltermann, and was fascinated to learn about all the quirky rituals and specific places that help writers complete their work, and found a few inspiring. I realised that we all have quite particular ways of doingContinue reading “How I Write”
I remember I got invited to a spoken word night to read some of my work, and all I could think was ‘Huh, surely someone has made a mistake, my stuff isn’t good enough to be read out loud.’ One of my short stories got picked out of a dozen others to be published onContinue reading “Always Feeling Like an Impostor”
A beautiful backdrop, completely disconnected from the outside world and seemingly out of this decade, the dramatic coastal path stretching left and right. Does it make you want to pull out your pen and paper? Because this is the type of thing that really gets my creative juices flowing. I don’t get a chance toContinue reading “Prussia Cove Writing Trip”
Snow Fell On the Day I Was Born On a cold December morning, a woman gave birth to her firstborn. She was full of love and excitement, and she held her daughter against her bare chest. The child was small, hot skin against her own, and cried out in the night from the adjacent cotContinue reading “A Day In the Sun”
As a writer, I felt obligated by an unwritten law to lend myself, particularly my perception of my human experience, to my reader. So long, I have debated how to capture myself in my own writing, until I understood, about two years ago, that wasn’t the case at all. Two weeks after I moved to EnglandContinue reading “The Art of Me”
My teeth are the resting place of a hodgepodged smile. I press my fingertips into my mouth, to feel them. My fingernails are searching for a shred of my voice that might be stuck between my teeth. Instead, I find seeds of doubt sticking to my molars, and this poem hiding under my tongue.