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My poem, the one that was submitted to a writer’s website, is going to be published in a book! An actual real-life, hold-it-in-your-hands, put-it-on-a-bookshelf-book, with paper and pages and typography and everything! This is a momentous milestone - only for me personally of course, not for the literary canon more generally. Nonetheless I am thrilled. I must be on the way to becoming that which I wish to be: and to be introduced as a writer, rather than the more tedious current professional designation. Be the change you want to see. A tiny fraction of the wisdom of the wisest, but still taken to heart.

It has taken me too, too long to see that I can’t become a writer by talking about writing, or fretting about it, or complaining that I’m not: I can only achieve it by writing. And so here I am, my scales and arpeggios and etudes flowing, or clumping agonisingly, struggling leaden-slow from my fingers to the keyboard.