- WOMAN'S HEAD AS JUG
- Readings and events
- Small group poetry workshop 2018
- The Workshop Handbook for Writers
- Feedback and comments
- Case study - Labyrinth of Love, Rambert Dance
- Case study - The Species Book
- WORK IN PROGRESS - poems and prose
- Workshops and employment
- Critical writing
- Fever Tree
- Powder Tower
- National Poetry Day 2018 - Change
Monday, August 13, 2018
Then in April, on a tutor's retreat at The Arvon Foundation, which I hoped might generate some work, I realised I was mad. It wasn't going to happen. Time to stand aside.
Over a few walks in the rain under monumental trees, I accepted that knocking on closed doors was a waste of energy and, frankly, demeaning. I began to try the sound of the phrase I'd been avoiding.
How efficient it is, and precise. It has an official ring, as if it's been conferred, like an honour.
I earn just enough to live on through Airbnb, on doing a bit of cleaning for a friend. I don't spend money. I am frugal, mean. I make bread, I eat what I grow (mainly), I don't go to the cinema, subscribe to Netflix, go to festivals or eat out.
I'm running a reading group in the autumn and that's it. I'm semi. Like semi-conscious, semi-darkness, semi-automatic, semi-literate. Semi-retired.