Hello Blog,

 I have neglected you recently. This is mainly because I have discovered Write Out Loud which is now the most affirming thing in my life. It’s a place to put poems on and have them read by other poets and then they leave feedback and oooh it’s just lovely. I have also discovered Read Write Poem but I’m having a little difficulty getting into that, like ‘100 years of solitude’ which I still haven’t read.

 Well…news news… I have had some exciting writerly things happening. Firstly , I got proactive on my ass and contacted the editor of my local paper to see if they would let me write for them. He said yes and I am now a monthly columnist. Inspired by this, I then googled the contact details of every submissions editor in the national papers and sent off an article. Just the one, and never grew the cojones to call back and hassle about it. Need help with this I feel. I was also asked by the lovely Jenn Ashworth (A kind of intimacy) to read some of my poems at Word Soup 8, a live literature event in Preston at The Continental. The results can be seen on Lancashire Writing Hub’s youtube channel…see me cock up ‘Stockings’.

 I also was bought the Mslexia Diary for xmas by my Other Half and have spent since xmas morning feverishly interwebbing all the recommended sites they mentioned.

 I finished the Nanowrimo novel by the way, it was poo. It still is poo. It shall still be poo, sitting unloved on my hard drive till I decide to edit.

 I am doing a Creative Writing Course too, led by Jenn Ashworth, most excited about it…now, just need to stop the poetry flow for a while and write some prose ready for it. I have the Old short story that was going to be this years Nano till I got carried away with the rubbish one. maybe I’ll polish that up a bit. Maybe I ought to do some more articles, maybe I should stop googling Asham and Bridport and stop dreaming and actually get some stuff written.

 I’ll leave you with a poem though. You know you want one.

Little Clock

Her eyes fast forward through the scenes she’s played.

A warm and milk rimmed baby boy, sleep slack against her shoulder as she hefts him for a burp.

A sturdy legged toddler kicking round a ball, skenning against the sun

A leggy youth awkward in his best shirt smiling, shoulder shelfing on his mum,

A son to grow, to outgrow her.

All halted like the stopping of a little clock.

She shyly shows the card they gave her on the ward.

I marvel, tears rising like fear in my throat to see the tiny print they made.

Who unfurled those tiny fingers?

Of a hand no bigger than my nail.

His weight five ounces

His length that of his mummies hand.

She wouldn’t hold him though

But she’s glad she has the polaroids they took.

She won’t show them, they are for her alone.

Grief rises from her like a stink.

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