Fear is the enemy of love. I find myself singing an old favourite by the band, Sweetmouth, while I walk in the September sunshine this morning, knowing that I will return to write this blog. I often think in songs. One word can trigger a whole playlist and it often does when I’m running workshops; song titles make a fantastic springboard for new writing I’ve found. I played the album Goodbye to Songtown incessantly when I was a student, when I had no idea that fear was the enemy not just of love but of so many things, writing included.

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It’s back to school tomorrow and a time of change and anxiety for me as a mother. My little one is going off to secondary school and I see all of the challenges of his teenage years stretching out ahead of us (and the forty-five minute road to school stretching out ahead of him!) Meanwhile, my fourteen year old, having already had a tricky time of the teen years, is currently without a school thanks to an inadequate education system which is, no doubt, struggling under the strain of years of unprecendented times. The truth is, I think we’re all struggling a little after years of keeping going and with the cost of living crisis and Covid still rumbling on, this autumn doesn’t look set to be any easier.

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Starting the week with Monday Morning Motivation, a free-write prompt of “This week I need…”, my pencil diverged from the prompt. My brain was foggy from too much screen time the day before, watching the track cycling at the Commonwealth Games and then the final of the UEFA Women’s Euro 2022. When the final whistle blew and I watched the Lionesses celebrate, I could hardly process the emotions I was experiencing. I found it difficult to sleep, thinking of the impact of the tournament, and The England team’s part in it. Picking up my pencil on Monday morning to write about writing, I thought of the parallels with football.

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‘What are you most afraid of?’ asked the therapist. I was twenty-eight and had gone to see her because I was struggling with my romantic relationship. ‘Rejection,’ I replied. ‘Interesting that you’ve chosen to be a writer,’ she said, leaving me wondering if she was implying that I was some kind of masochist or what.

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It was probably the largest thing I ever stole, unless you count the baron’s heart, but how do you measure such a thing? The title, of course, carried some weight. It was the only thing I took when I left for New York, that and the diamond doorknob from the drawing room. I stitched it like a brooch on the lapel of my coat.

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The celestial reception area has the atmosphere of an executive’s conference. Mary was surprised already that so many earthly traditions had been carried over to the afterlife. If she’d been in charge she certainly wouldn’t have brought over this tradition of greeting delegates with spreadsheets and plastic name badges. And she would have made sure the cakes were at least home-baked. In heaven, everything had the texture of the pre-fabricated. It was, in truth, more than a little disappointing. As for the tablecloth. Had they not heard of bleach, or fabric conditioner? It was off-white and stained, like the shroud of Christ himself. Mary wouldn’t have allowed such a thing in her own home, never mind in the church where she was head deacon, had been head deacon.

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It starts with a seed – just a small idea. Sometimes we harvest the seed from someone else. Sometimes it drifts in like a dandelion clock. Sometimes it sticks like a bur and won’t let go.

We plant it in the fertile soil of our minds, water it with daydreams, let it sit for a while in darkness, waiting for the moment when it erupts.

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‘I’ll pass,’ says the voice, putting aside the notebook and filling the kettle.

‘You always do this,’ says the Inner Critic, kicking me hard and stopping me in my tracks before the kettle is even boiled.

The rest of the team line up to take free kicks. The negative voices are centre forward in my mind, sliding in and taking control. They pass the ball between them.

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Daffodil - a poem for spring

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I’m in a reflective mood this week. There’s been a lot happening, a lot coming to a close and a lot of memories resurfacing. Two years ago, my memoir, Dear Blacksmith, was published by Valley Press. In that same month, a family crisis took hold, precipitating two years of unimaginable trauma, and a strange virus blew in from China, upending life in ways none of us could imagine.

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It is one hundred years since the publication of Ulysees this week. I confess that, though I bought the book as an English student back in 1990, I never actually finished it. Like lots of readers, I found it challenging, confusing and obtuse and I just didn’t have the stamina. I got my post-modernist kicks from the more feminine perspective of Woolf instead and I think Ulysees went the way of the other unread classics in the Big Book Cull of 2017; on moving house, I decided to get rid of all the worthy tomes that, realistically, I was unlikely to ever read. I kind of regret that now and am almost tempted to buy another copy of Ulysees because, reading new articles about it, it feels like a gap in my education that I should perhaps fill, if only so that I can understand the feminist perspective about the role of Molly Bloom in a largely masculine-driven narrative. Actually, time’s tight as a working single mum - maybe I’ll just skip the end to hear the female character’s voice.

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His phone pinged the usual message: ‘It’s your move.’

They’d been playing Words with Friends for weeks now but suddenly those three little words were loaded with significance. He opened up the Scrabble board wondering if the spot would still be there. He’d been waiting for his moment, eyeing up the options, hoping that this time would come. And now it had. He had a seven-letter word and the triple word score was there, exposed, his for the taking.

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‘Oh. Would you just look at him,’ said Mrs Christmas, leaning over the opened stocking.

‘How precious,’ said Grandpa. ‘His nose is like a little red cherry.’

‘His cheeks are like roses,’ crooned Grandma, pinching the baby’s red raw skin.

The infant’s eyes twinkled, not with merriment, but because the glow from the Christmas lights was glinting off his welling tears. And his mouth was not a cute bow, but a tight knot. Then the sound came - a piercing cry, echoing across the North Pole.

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Dear agent,

Forgive me for the generic address. I don’t know your name but I’m sure that you and the rest of the publishing industry will soon know mine.

I have a book that you need to represent. I know it’s everything you’re looking for. It’s unique and universal at the same time which I know is a rarity. It touches on the great philosophical issues of our time in depth but with a light touch, taking the reader on a journey - both physical and metaphorical. It will leave the reader uplifted and ready to seize the day.

I’m sure it will sell in huge numbers and make us both rich. I look forward to the partnership we’ll have togther - the parties, the dinners, the trips to LA and New York. I’ll have a pied a terre in Paris from the royalties. The book will be so lauded that Brexit won’t apply to me and they’ll welcome me in France with open arms.

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Hurry if you must.

If your feet just want to race

if your mind can’t slow the pace

if you can’t catch a breath without a chase

then hurry if you must.

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Inspired by an exercise from Kate Clanchy’s ‘How to grow a poem’ and Kate Bingham’s ‘What I learned at university.

How to fold memories away in a drawer

When to open and when to close a door

How to recall the sound of a voice

How to keep going when you have no choice

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He stands by the desk, the curved end of his spectacles lodged between his teeth, white hair piled high, wild like candyfloss. He looks like the archetypal mad scientist but Mr Beeley’s experiments are conducted in language. He spins words like gossamer webs to ensnare me. Gossamer he says is his favourite word and now it is in my repertoire.

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I wish for you a moment of peace, or perhaps fifteen.

Moments when the world is righted briefly by the act of writing.

I wish for you a protective jacket, like the ornate cover of a hardback book

one that can be wiped clean of other’s people’s dirt

that can keep your soul intact,

a book full of blank pages pristeen and ready

for your own thoughts and ideas.

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I’m inspired by the writers who use pens like pokers to stoke fires, who use pens like wands to weave magic spells, who use pens like swords to cut through the crap, who use pens like needles to repair the damage.

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