Last year I made a commitment to take myself seriously as a writer. I protected a bit of space to write in- usually Sunday afternoon in a scummy Wetherspoons near Blake’s grave- I often light a candle and pray to him and then sit with a half pint of Punk IPA and try and thrash out my thinking. I love the process of writing -and that space, in the seedy ‘spoons around the corner from Blake, has been sacred ground for me. I feel like I have written myself into a better writer this year because of that weekly date with my soul, but I have also been read into being a better writer. Thank you to everyone who took the time and did emotional labour of reading and commenting and talking to me and thinking-alongside me. I have a handful of devoted readers who helped me develop my craft and I am so grateful you- I think tiny-but-devoted audiences might be my literary kink.
I feel restless though now. I feel like I’ve walked myself to the edge of this particular writing project. I feel like I’ve developed a voice and mapped the contours of my own logic of mothering. Perhaps I’ve plateaued and I want to keep exploring- I don’t want to repeat myself. I need a fresh arrow from Eros. I’m hungry to keep growing as a writer and push myself into new territory- I’m not sure what or where that is but I have some instincts and I’m going to follow my nose. One thought I have is perhaps figuring out how to get these accumulated essays published in ‘book’ form. But maybe not. I’ll follow my nose and appetite and see where that takes me-
following my instincts has led me to some pretty gorgeous landscapes this year and I have higher hopes for 2019 too. I have five Thursday publishing slots left till the end of the year and I’m going to think carefully about what I haven’t said yet, what is still burning in me to say. Five more scummy spoons dates with myself and Blake. 📸 @khayletts