Every creative person I talk to struggles to create. Writers, artists, musicians. We all identify strongly as these things. I am a writer. … But am I still a writer Continue Reading →
“Pain is a room for one. Only we can enter, and sometimes, we can’t leave.” … But what if someone else could actually picture the pain?
I’m a terrible public speaker. I faked numerous stomach bugs, colds, pains and periods to get out of doing speeches at school – and now here I’ve gone and said Continue Reading →
‘Pain is a form of alertness and particularity; pain is a way in.’
My immediate response when I try to search the Mines of Moria of my memory is usually a 404 error, and trying to think about the whole past year crashed Continue Reading →
I write a lot to stupid things when I’ve taken zopiclone, which is a sleeping pill that makes me think I’m a creative genius when actually I’m an idiot
‘Take your pills. Don’t take your pills. Read this self-help book. Call her emotional. Put Manic Depression on a mixtape and give it to her for Christmas.’
Working my way through the impressive and throat-gripping essays in new anxiety anthology Headlands, I’m struck by two things. How unique each story is – and how each one is Continue Reading →
Found poems, sex dolls, drugged cats and robots – just another day, really.
“I don’t see the point in writing about something that doesn’t really excite you; that doesn’t get right down into the base of your spine.” – Helen Heath