I’m always having these epiphanies. Where I realise I love this, I am serious about my craft, I want to be a legitimate writer and use all the time I have cultivating words into stories and poems that make me think, oh, yes, this is why I am here.
So I’m stepping up, like I think to myself every week, like I am constantly trying to make myself do. But I’m typing it out of hold myself accountable. I’m going to write more, get as much work as I can out into the world, I’m going to update this blog at least once a week. I am going to set up a mailing list to fire out tarot poems at people once a fortnight, and perhaps invite them to buy me a coffee. I will clean up some old stories and poems to put them on my payhip, for anyone who is interested. I might set up a patreon, but I’m still a little bit shaky on the logistics. Note to self: speak to someone who uses it to find out how it is as a platform
Writing: In Case You Missed It
I have two highlights, one for each week since I last posted. Last weekend was the Queen’s Park Book Fair, and I don’t know how to articulate how wonderful a time I had. I met Zadie Smith’s mother Yvonne Bailey Smith who has a wonderful artistic voice of her own, and I got to speak with several other poets and authors, too, including Crys Salt, MBE, who I found endlessly enthralling and inspiring to speak to.
This week’s highlight, then, was our latest Write Young Things meeting (pictured above, with a horribly unflattering and yet endearing photo of me reading), where, despite there only being a handful of us, and despite the horridly warm weather, we got to have a lovely time just sitting and talking like artists for awhile. There is nothing like that time, among people who love what you love. I wouldn’t trade those moments for the world.
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