Just a shortish one this week, since I’m tired and I have a lot of other things to write.
The book is out! You can buy it here.
The past week can mainly be summed up by this picture:
I have written so many books over the years, and yet until now I’ve had basically no idea what I’ve been doing, which is probably why until this year none of them have been published. I read as much as I could find about how to write a book and tried to apply the advice, but so much of it was simply too vague.
“Work on it!” they said.
“Plan it!” they said.
“Stick to a writing schedule!” they said.
Yeah, OK. But how do I plan it? How many words long does a book have to be? How many chapters should my novel have? How many words per page? How many pages per chapter? How many chapters per book? How do I know which bit goes where? How will I know when it’s finished? FUUUCCCKKK HELP MEEEEE
my friend is coming over today
isn’t that nice?
she’s a therapist
obsessive compulsive disorder
Yesterday was Teachers’ Day. Today is National Poetry Day. These two things have been interwoven in my life for many years, and both are important to me, so I thought I’d write a quick post about them.
I wrote my first poem when I was twelve, and I wrote it because of a teacher. We were in English class, and I was in a new school in a new country and wasn’t settling in very well. I was looking for a way to distract myself from life, and while I had the school library to keep me going, I wanted something more actively creative as well – a new string to my bow.
it’s cold over here by the quiches
i pull my shawl tighter
around my shoulders and
as someone steps just a bit too close.
the bread aisle is full of choices
i’m sure there weren’t
so many types of loaf
when i was young.
in the fish aisle i stop and stare
my mind switches to a frequency
aligned with the hum of the refridgerators
and i lose myself momentarily
in its gentle buzz.
the world outside is loud but it is morning
and the shop hasn’t yet been invaded
by screaming children and toddler tantrums
and life-tired workers at lunch.
“beep” says the machine as i feed it my card and
“beep” as it replies with my receipt
stuff in bag, i schlep
out through the whoosh
of the automatic doors
and back to the world beyond.
swallow the stars
glow from the inside out
as the pain of what you’ve done
spreads seeping through your body
filling your veins
with excruciating light.