Ah writing, how I've missed you. My dear friend, my old familiar, my comfort blanket. And why deny myself this comfort when there is so little comfort to be had?
I need to challenge my thoughts about writing. It's a treat that must be withheld until I've done enough drudge to deserve it. It's a vice. It's an addiction that must be fought, a siren-song that will lure me away from life.
But it builds and it builds. The itch inside the brain, a scribble here and a jot there. It sneaks in through the chinks like sunshine through the knot-holes in grandad's shed. Until I am choked up with the words. I will burst like a confetti-bomb. Shoot out poems like a bunchberry.
In the end it is an irresistible force. I am up at 3am in the spare room. I give in: I'm a writer.
[The richly resonant heading of this post is the title of Daniel Sluman's brilliant collection from Nine Arches Press. Everyone should read this. Everyone.]
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