Pride, shame, and love in the time of corona

Things have been a little hectic in my head lately, so I haven't written for a while. My medication, while seemingly quite effective this time around in terms of increased energy, has resulted in an absolute inability to retain focus for very long. I've been focussing on trying to channel that little focus I do have into what feels essential - therapy, art, housework, and life admin. I wish I only had to focus on art, but I think the other things are probably good for me too. 

Recently, my doctor recommended that I take some time before looking for full-time work. I have a mingled sense of relief, and deep shame. It makes me uncomfortable to think about it or talk about it, so I think I probably need to do both. In fact, the beginnings of this post have been sat in my drafts for a couple of weeks, because I feel so embarrassed about the contents, and about being a Vulnerable Adult. 

There's nothing shameful or wrong about being unable to work, obviously, but I feel still as though I ought to be better. It doesn't help that 'better' can mean 'more worthy, more good', and also 'more well.' What I need to strive for is wellness, but I can't help feeling I need to strive instead for worthiness and goodness, through becoming more well. It's the wrong way to look at things, and I know that, and it causes nothing but pain - and still, my mind goes there. 

Anyway, I have been quite productive - lots of housework, yes, but I'm also 10,000 words deep in my novel, and am working on competition pieces. I have been painting like a demon, and doing a lot of baking too. 

Someone said to me a little while ago, 'what a life you lead! you're always creating things!' It made me feel a bit weird, because that really isn't how I see myself at all. I see myself in all my slumps, troughs, and valleys, and being seen as all peak is a little unnerving. As though I will let this person down when I inevitably stop producing as much art and baking and so forth as they think I do.

Lockdown is a weird time to be a creative. I remember when all of This started back in March, feeling intensely jealous of people on furlough who were seemingly able to throw themselves into baking, creating, gaming, and so on, while I was stabbing away at my final assignments for university and trying to earn money with freelancing. But I also know a lot of people probably feel jealous of my position; and I think it's worth remembering that social media is often a highlights reel, with people feeling less inclined to share the moments that they feel scared, sad, bored, and listless.

Creating realities, and living by them

Well, I haven't used this blog for over a year. I promised myself so faithfully to keep up with it, as well. But I think I am often much better at starting projects than continuing them or finishing them. 

That being said, I've finished something - over the past year I've been working my arse off to finally complete my degree, and that has absorbed almost all of my energy and writing time. To my shock and delight, I graduated with a 95 in my dissertation, and a First overall. It's gone. It's done. 

Finishing my degree has felt really weird, in all honesty. I am having to adjust my beliefs about myself and my life, in ways that feel uncomfortable, even though a lot of the adjustments are actually positive in nature. I suppose thinking of myself as somebody who doesn't finish things gives me a really wonderful excuse not to finish things. Thinking of myself as somebody who fails gives me a really good excuse not to succeed. Now I've done this, I can't think of myself that way, really - not logically. 

It's funny how we create realities about ourselves, and live by them. An example - I've always told everyone, including myself, that I don't paint, that I'm dreadful at painting, that I have absolutely no ability in that area. I had a really humiliating experience in an Art lesson seventeen years ago, and basically haven't picked up a paintbrush (other than in a psych unit when it was a highly encouraged, semi-compulsory Group Activity) since then. And recently, I decided - why shouldn't I paint? Does it matter if I'm dreadful? And it turns out, I'm not 100% awful at it.

I will never see my work hanging in the Louvre, but there's no reason I can't hang it in the loo.

And - more to the point - I'm having fun. What a waste of time it was, telling myself I didn't paint, and I couldn't paint, and I didn't even want to. What other ways, I wonder, do I limit myself with this created realities?

Anyway, I realise I started this post saying I never continue things - and that's another of those created realities. I am going to continue with this. And with my writing, and with thinking positively, and making things, and hoping for the future.

Maybe not every day. Maybe not with everything I ever do. But when I can, as much as I can. That's a reality I want to create.

28.

It's been two weeks since I last blogged, but there's not an awful lot to catch you up with on the writing front. I've been suffering from severe burn-out, and dealing with some Emotions. Most notably, I recently saw a family member I've not seen since I came out as trans. He is severely ill, and I honestly believed I might never see him again. I'm not ready to talk about quite what it meant to me, but there's a lot to unpack there.

Anyway, I have written very little but I have been thinking an awful lot, about old ideas and new. Recently I've become interested in the politics and goings-on of magpies. There's certainly a story in there somewhere, and I'm going to dig it out.

In other news, I turned twenty-eight! Every new age I turn feels momentous to me; there have been many times in my life where I've been convinced I would die extremely young, so to come crashing into my late twenties is a surprise. But not an unwelcome one.

I wrote a poem about turning twenty-eight, here it is:


27, I have not learnt to draw 
like Van Gogh, not developed a taste for 
vermilion and chartreuse and peacock blue
sharp-scented, fanned out on the tip of my tongue. 
I have found no rapture in colour and line
and my pencil wobbles like a child’s.
But still, in two days, I turn 28.

27; I reached out a hand for the comfort,
the bone-cold comfort, of death reaching back.
The first instinct, they say, is to live.
Lungs swelling like bellows, one two, one two.
I was born without breath; blue-faced, beaten.
And sometimes I think I was right all along. 
But still, in two days, I turn 28.

27, the age of tragic, too-young 
the year I tried to rip clean from myself 
and to-be-or-not-to be nothing at all.
27. The skin of my teeth pulled raw.
And in crawling back out of the drain,
I started something I couldn’t finish. 
And in two days, I turn 28.

Creatively speaking, the last couple of days have been wonderful. The house remains untidied, of course - but I have done a tremendous amount of writing.

On Tuesday, my dearest friend and I went to see an exhibition by the artist Halima Cassell. They were weird, wonderful sculptures in porcelain, stone, bronze, and clay - twisting, geometric designs, ethereal and alien, which managed to look both ancient and futuristic at the same time. She is another artist I will have to credit in the acknowledgements of my novel; I did some writing in the exhibition room that I'm really pleased with. Here's a Cassell piece for you to look at:

It really fortified for me the idea that I need to feed my starving soul, and allow my work to be a response to more than my own solitary thinking. The more I fill my soul with art, the better my work is.

I've been devouring poetry since coming back from France - and it's prompted me to start writing more of my own again. I've been dreaming in rhyming couplets. Here's the small beginning of a (non-rhyming) poem I've been working on. I say small beginning - but I think this might be the ending. 

Spring evenings carry the scent of you
from coat sleeves and pillowcases.
The sound of your last breath fills my ears.
I plant flowers in the hole
you left.

Yesterday I decided to take a day off from writing (although I still devoted an hour to editing) and spent it doing domestic things - chiefly, making orange & ginger marmalade with my partner. It was glorious - like stirring a tremendous pot of liquid amber. We made seven jars, and I immediately deposited one with my dearest friend. Another will go to my mum. The rest are for us - and although I say it myself, it's fucking good stuff.

There and back again.

Hello again, friends!

I'm safely back in Manchester, and have taken some much-needed resting and reflection time over the weekend, but I'm not ready to stop blogging yet.

Things have been good since coming back from France, as strange as it's felt not to wake up to the sound of birdsong.

I spent a lot of the weekend flopping around, catching up on sleep (and Game of Thrones) but I also spent a lot of it writing, and thinking about writing.

As I mentioned in my previous post, being surrounded by writers emphasised for me just how lonely and devoid of inspiration and community my life has been recently.

I think I need to start cherishing my own company and nurturing my relationship with myself, in the same way I would with a friend. I also need to start making a conscious effort to seek out inspiration; of course my writing has felt stagnant, when I'm doing the same things over and over every day. I need to plan more, and live more.

I need to start accepting that I both have and want a future. As silly as it may sound, a big step for me was planning to lay down some nettle wine. I've always wanted to try my hand at wine-making, but with a two year wait for the results, it's always felt somewhat out of reach.

It's always been hard for me to focus on the future. I've experienced chronic suicidality since childhood, and although I've always been ambitious, I've also never really believed I would live long enough to fulfil any of those ambitions. Applying for the retreat was a struggle in and of itself - a large part of me didn't believe I'd ever get to go. I procrastinate on learning new skills, taking on new challenges, committing to socialising - and it's damaged my life for a long time.

So here we go: I am going to live. Grasping for the future, in all its terrifying uncertainty. Planning, working, waiting, for all the magic life has to bring me.

Last day in France.

Whew.

Everything has had a feeling of lastness today. The last workshop, in a beautiful forest full of standing stones. The finality of a group photo, everyone grinning in unison. The last supper, with everyone gathered around the table. Swapping email addresses and phone numbers. Goodbyes, and thank yous, and promises to stay in touch.

It's not that I don't want to go home. I am so fortunate, in so many ways. I love my home, and share it with the loves of my life.

But I've been thinking a lot about how much this week has meant to me, and how starved my life has been of the kind of inspiration and interactions I've experienced here. I've been extremely isolated and lonely for the last year; lonely in the kind of soul-gnawing, bone-twisting way that I associate with my early teens. I hadn't really thought about it much until now. I knew I was lonely, but I suppose I've just become used to it. Most of my days are spent alone, with the dogs for company, and as much as I love my ridiculous hounds, they don't talk back when I talk to them.

I don't want this week to be a bright spot in a dark year - I want it to galvanise me into making my life a more joyous space. I want this to be restorative. I want to enjoy my life more. I don't want it to be something I tolerate, or sleepwalk through. I want to be writing more, laughing more, living more.

Remember this place, with its whispering walls 
alive with the passage of time.
Remember the half-sunken tree that awoke
the schoolboy's desire to climb.
Remember the thistles that stung your bare feet 
spots of pink creeping through green. 
Remember the person you are in this place 
Remember the poet you've been.

A short one tonight - I am so tired. My health caught up with me a bit today and I had a few seizures in the night, which have left me utterly wiped.

But anyway, this morning we had a great workshop on seaweed, where two seaweed experts took us through local samples, their uses, and their history. Then we got to taste some of them. It was really, really fascinating, and it sparked some great stuff - I did some writing on my dissertation for next year, which I won't share because of scary university plagiarism rules.

At the peer to peer critique I managed to stumble out some of my Big Secret Novel, which is an unbelievably huge deal for me. For those who might not know, I've been writing this fantasy series for around twenty years, and only my partner has seen any of it so far, and only tiny fragments. Anyway, I read out a chunk (hands shaking, voice wobbling) and people seemed to really like it and really...get it?

There were lots of comments about the poetry of the writing, and the power dynamics - and just, yeah, it felt really good to share. So that was wonderful, and made me decide that I need to work harder at sharing this project I love so much, and feel so passionate about. In fact...here's a bit I wrote earlier.

[Content warnings for physical violence from a parent.]
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Nevus fell hard, and his wrist shattered underneath him like pottery. He heard the snap of bone before he felt it. Then he felt it. He turned his head against the floor, swallowing his cries, which would only make his father worse. He lay still, as pain began to bubble under the skin, terrible, biting pain.
           He had fallen on the broken rabbit. Small shards crunched under his hand as he lifted himself to kneeling. Darkness crawled up his eyes and nearly floored him. Blood hissed in his ears.
           ‘Nafe,’ his father said, soft-voiced now, and hunched on his hands and knees as though praying. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
            He was crying, sobbing like a baby who has broken his favourite toy. He always got like this afterwards; pressing the weight of his guilt onto Nevus, pawing at him, and kissing his hands, and blubbering apologies.
            ‘It’s all right,’ Nevus said, through lips pulled back over gritted teeth, said it because he had to, because as bad as his father’s anger was, it was nothing to his sorrow.
            Graede’s eyes clouded with relief at the lie. ‘You’re not really hurt, then?’
            ‘Not really,’ Nevus said, white-knuckled with pain. ‘It’s just my arm.’
             Graede took his arm with rough tenderness, and pressed kisses to the bruises already flowering on milky skin. ‘Your mother bruised so easily too,’ he said, his tears falling freely.
            ‘I remember,’ Nevus said, longing to pull free.
            ‘I think your arm is broken, Nafe.’ His face twisted into an almost comical grimace, and he wailed again, with grief and guilt, clinging to Nevus as though he could not bear to let go. ‘My dear son, how could I hurt you so?’
             ‘It’s all right,’ Nevus said, running the fingers of his good hand through his father’s short, spiked hair, with its soft, baby-pink bald patch. ‘It’s all right, Papa.’
              ‘You shouldn’t cross me,’ Graede said, mournfully. ‘You do know how I get.’
              I know all right, thought Nevus, grinding his teeth to dust. 
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Some of the other writers have been teaching me to play pool. I am hilariously bad at it, but it's been a lot of fun. The pool table here is a somewhat dangerous set-up, being laid out a foot away from the ledge that drops down onto the stone living room floor, and surrounded by sharp things, and - no, honestly - it has a grill of spikes hanging over it.

Another magnificent dinner followed by another open mic, where we had some truly fabulous readings.

And now I am sitting at the dining table in this house that has so quickly become like home, with people whom I have so quickly grown to love and appreciate. Feeling so grateful and warm.

Hello again!

Today has been an exciting, but exhausting day.

We began with an early start, being driven into Quimper for a workshop at the pottery museum. We talked about how different pieces of art can be in conversation with one another - something I've been thinking about more and more the longer I'm here. As I wrote the other day, the world is art. The world sparks art too, and we are constantly in conversation with ourselves and with the world, with ideas flowing through us and out of us as well as into us.

Anyway, there were so many stunning things at the museum, including an amazing ceramic violin. My favourite piece was a lithe, skinny rabbit mould that looked like the rabbits in marginalia - long and lean, and almost sinister, nothing like the cuddly, fluffy bunnies we're used to. It makes me wonder whether rabbits have changed their shape since medieval times - whether they once were these gangling, ranging creatures.

I used the rabbit as inspiration for a new chapter in my Big Secret Novel, which I won't share, but I used a stapled plate and a display of broken pottery as inspiration for this poem, which I will share.

10:23 on a Tuesday. I smoke, and
think of bright broken things, fractured
birdsong and shattered light across fluttery pages.
My bodice tight against the cage of my chest.
I draw with my fingernail a line across my wrist
along the blue road of my veins, across torn broken skin.
I am a broken thing, held fast with staples. We look quietly at broken things trapped behind glass. 

After the workshop, we had the opportunity to explore Quimper. We poked about in some little boutiques, and I managed to find some lovely things for people back at home. We also visited a wonderful creperie. I wanted to take pictures of my crepes like an Instagram fiend, but unfortunately greed outweighed exhibitionism and I ate them before I thought to reach for my phone. But needless to say, they were delightful.

After lunch, we decided to go to the cathedral. I've never been much of a fan of cathedrals if I'm absolutely and totally honest, finding the statues and gargoyles a little unnerving and watchful - but witnessing my dear friend losing their shit over the paintwork and the stained-glass windows gave me a new appreciation.

Then we went to the museum. That's much more my speed, and there were some wonderfully ancient things there, including the paw print of a dog from Gallo-Roman history. Just think - centuries ago, and pets were still walking across freshly laid concrete.

On the whole, today has been a brilliant day. But I am very, very tired, so I shall love you and leave you, faithful readers (of whom I am sure there are plenty, ha. ha. ha.)

Well, I suppose I'm probably becoming repetitive, but, quelle surprise, today is another wonderful dayin France. Being out in nature is doing my writing and me the world of good. I'm feeling calm and healthy. It's hard to believe that just a few short months ago, I was in a psychiatric facility. 

Today's been crisp and cool; cool enough to wear a jumper. Since my jumper is excellent, allow me to show it off. And also to show off my own slightly sunburnt face. 

I prefer to think of it as 'sun-kissed.' 

I woke up early again, and walked out to feed the sheep. My romance with Bob the ram continues, and if anything, is only becoming more passionate as time wears on. I also befriended a chicken, and did not befriend a goose, who went into angry paroxysms of hissing.

I now know 'Fuck off' in goose, and it's 'HSSSSSSSSSSSSKKKKKKK'

Our workshop today was perhaps my favourite so far. We began by being given some local stories in translation; pieces about the successful rebellion against a new nuclear power plant, and moved on to a discussion about how to write history, and moreover, how to write history responsibly. I really, really appreciated that; it's such a valuable part of the craft, and one that should be given far more weight. 

Because I was not the only participant in the workshop, naturally I won't be too detailed about the discussion, but it was exceptionally moderated, and one that left me turning thoughts over and over in my head. I've been ruminating on the responsibilities we have as writers, to write carefully and with consideration for the fact that history is populated not only with events but with people who lived through those events. People who had voices of their own, even if those voices were never elevated or recorded. And it's stiffened my resolve to not only be the best writer I can be, but the kindest, the most principled one. 

Claire was kind enough to give a few of us a lift to the supermarché, and (since it was actually closed) we ended up in a rather nice bar. I've been drinking (in moderation, don't worry Mum) every day since I got here, all the booze is so good and so cheap, and it's going to be a bit of a shock to get back to Manchester where wine is expensive or vinegary. Also, I don't have words for the cider here! It's so light and crisp. Exactly how I imagine it would be to drink cider made from the golden apple in Rubens' Judgement of Paris. Which is probably rather a silly thing to imagine, but, well, I'm silly. 

Doesn't art make you hungry?

Anyway, we made it to the supermarket, and amongst other things, I bought some chocolate and brioche, because every tooth in my head is a sweet tooth. Brioche with Nutella is my new favourite snack.

Dinner was another triumph by Tori, who is not only an extraordinary writer/workshop-deliverer, but also, it transpires, a sublime cook. I'm getting pleasantly plump off her dinners, and also the amazing butter they have here in Brittany. Genuinely considering dumping my clothes and filling my whole hand luggage with butter and cheese.

After dinner, we had the first open mic of the retreat. There was some astonishing work read out, and I was close to tears at various points. I really am here with some amazing writers, and it's so wonderful to be surrounded by creative people. Something that I struggled with in my early twenties was a tendency to self-deprecate around other writers, and to negatively compare my own work, but I think that I'm getting better at having faith in my own work as separate from other people's work, and not drawing comparisons that will harm me. Hurrah for personal growth!

Anyway, this is a fragment of what I read aloud.

People love bluebells, but I have always found them somewhat unnerving. Their colour and fragility makes me think of my own veins. 

            Effy is enraptured by them, and kneels to pick them as though she is a child. She thrusts a fistful of them at me. Their heads loll; like drowned men. 

           ‘You shouldn’t pick those,’ I said. ‘They’re not yours.’

           ‘They’re for you, dummy.’ 

           ‘They’re not mine either.’ 

            She laughs, carelessly. ‘There are thousands and thousands of them, Prue,’ she says. ‘A whole great carpet of them.’

           ‘If everyone who came to your house pulled a lump of pile out of the hearthrug,’ I say, ‘you’d soon start complaining.’ 

            Effy laughs again. ‘For a young woman, you’re such an old man.’ 

            She spills herself across the bench. Since we were fifteen, I have tried to hate her, and fallen short. I have tried to see her as other women do; fat, boorish, brazen. In her white dress, she looks like a felled blossom. The sun catches in her hair, painting it bronze. She is unutterably lovely. One day I will lose her to a man, and break my heart. 

            ‘Do you want to have a look around the house?’ she says. ‘It’s supposed to be very impressive.’

             I want to stay here, among the uncanny ocean of bluebells. I want to take Effy by the back of her throat, and kiss her. Her eyelids have drifted shut. Dusty with white powder. Short, spidery lashes. I want to brush them with my lips. I imagine taking her by surprise, mussing my fingers in her fiery hair.

We go to the house.

Above us in the eaves is a jackdaw’s nest, like a tangle of bones. When I was a child, I thought jackdaws carried off infants to feed their chicks. I am too old to believe such things now. I am too old for spooks, for ghouls, for ghosts. But I am still wary of the jackdaw, as she lopes across the courtyard, ungainly without her wings. Her curved beak makes me want to protect my throat with my hands. 

A few pictures of the house.

Since I'm up early this morning, I thought I'd do an extra post, and give you just a flavour of the house we're staying in. Now, imagine if you will a house with so much character and nuance that I could spend a year photographing it and not be finished. Here's just a snippet.

This is the main staircase. I've had a number of hairy experiences stumbling up and down, but they're beautiful to look at, and have wormed their way into a story already.

Banisters are for wimps.

This is an old cider press - the house is full of repurposed farming equipment, and this is just one example. Our wondrous organisers have provided a beautiful little library of writing prompts and inspiration, which I've yet to exploit to the fullest, but give me time!

Portrait of temptation.

This is the living room, one of my favourite spaces in the house. I love the contrast of bright, vibrant colour against the stone of the floor and fireplace. However, the living room does have another set of utterly treacherous steps, which is playing up my OCD something chronic. I'm muttering special words to protect myself from falling, like the loon I am. Oh dear.

Banisters are for wimps pt. ii

When we were being driven to the house for the first time, Claire told us the house had a
'display of eggs'.

It really is a display of eggs.

And now, my favourite quirk of the house - this gorgeous cow skull I have named Marguerite, because all cows should be called Daisy, and this cow is French!

Why the long face?

The world is art.

I woke early this morning, to do some writing before everyone else was up. I made a pot of coffee, lit a cigarette, and sat outside to drink in the loveliness of this place. Everything was quiet and calm and beautiful, and words spilled onto the page easily.

Being here has given me so many ideas, and sparked new ones too.

After I'd written for a while, I wandered down into the fields and befriended this chap.

My new BFF.

His name is Bob, and after we had conversed for a while (me in bad French, him in...well, whatever sheep speak) he allowed me to pet him. I am absolutely in love with Bob. Can I fit a ram in my hand luggage? (Maybe if I 'ram' him in. Ugh, I disgust myself.)

Our workshop today was in this magical little art gallery, based out of someone's house. Sadly I didn't manage to get a picture of their beautiful German Shepherds, but rest assured - they were stunning, and provided something like a nicotine patch as I miss and long for my own beautiful dogs!

Anyway, after having my trousers sniffed by an excitable, French-speaking dog, we went into the art gallery, and spent some time studying the pieces. The ones we were focussing on were made by a local artist (I'll update with the name) and are made of repurposed slate. I love using art to inspire poetry, and people had all sorts of wonderful ideas about what each piece could represent or depict.

For me, this piece was the favourite; it reminds me of music, and brought to mind all sorts of thoughts about the musicality of nature.

Leaves of slate.

We wrote our first pieces, and I wrote a short lyric poem in quasi-Middle English - for me there's a real unmatched lyricism to Middle English, perhaps because I am so fond of The Canterbury Tales. Then we were challenged to take it in an entirely new direction, so I shifted focus, and rewrote the piece as a take on Modernist poems. It was a really new experience for me; I love Modernist poets and poetry, but have never before had the confidence to try it out for myself. Anyway, this is my first draft, and although it probably needs a lot of work, I'm happy with how it feels in my mouth when I speak it aloud.

Tapered to a blade, guillotine sharp shaft, the slate is black-beetle shining,
groven from ground ancient and fettled, like armour. Like bone. 

Stiff and unfeeling, but! feeling and breathing. We snatch 

at the air. Twisting, awakening. Bright now, and breathing. 

Twists of grey-silver are shelter and music. High

as rooftops deeper than tree roots. 

Stone is music, tap tap

of chisel against rock. The world

is art. 

After lunch, Claire took us to a ruined chapel in Quimper. It was built in the twelfth century, and mostly destroyed in the French revolution, but somehow this entire window remains standing. It's so striking against the beautiful sky, and I imagine it would be even more so when filled with stars.

Isn't it just a thing of wonder?

Then we went to a little concert in a bar on the beach. I had a wonderful time, chatting and drinking and laughing, with people I hope are becoming new friends. I learnt some essential French - puis-je saluer votre chiot? (May I greet your puppy?)

Then we poked about on the beach itself, scrambling in the rockpools in search of crabs.

Life's a beach.

Back in time for a delicious dinner, with plenty of laughter, and now I'm sitting, gazing out at the grounds of this stunning house, once again struck by how astonishingly fortunate I am.

One thought to end on: when I was planning for this retreat, I thought I would try and work on a single story idea from the beginning of the retreat to the end. That absolutely hasn't worked out. The workshops are beyond inspiring, the house itself is an explosion of writing prompts, and I have so many ideas I hardly have the ability to put them all in words. I'm not going to let that worry me, though - I'm going to let the ideas flow freely, write and write and write, and when I am home again, I shall sift through every word, like a panner, hunting for gold. 

Too many projects, not enough time!

It's the first official day of the retreat, and I'm still awestruck with gratitude that I'm even here.

This morning I woke early for the first workshop, and after some much-needed coffee (several cups) we got to work. The theme today was Breton, the language of Brittany, where we're staying.

We looked at some of the local idioms and wrote a little based on them. It sparked a few ideas for me, and I wrote around five hundred words of a children's gothic tale, following a girl called Maudlin Damp. I've had her in my head for a long time, so it was gratifying to find somewhere to put her.

My problem right now- and in fact, my problem always - is that I have so many ideas and projects, and lack the focus and discipline to finish any one of them. That's what I really need to work on.

It's beautiful here, but beautiful is only a word. It has nothing to say to the pluming grees, the sound of birdsong, the sheer lovely wonder of this place. Already I can feel this becoming a memory. That's the kind of person I am. Never fully in the moment, but always committing things to how they will be remembered. Perhaps that is just being a writer.

I want to remember everything, though. From the old farmer's plough they turned into a coffee table, to the jars of shells littering every surface. Earlier I lay on the grass and wrote, half hoping that if I lay there long enough I would become a fixture of the place, built into the ground like bricks into mortar.

Anyway, I promised pictures, but today has been so busy that I don't have many. But here's the view from my window.

I'm going on an adventure!

I'm safely in France, after a long journey. Everything here is rich with character, ecstatic with beauty. I can't believe how fortunate I am to be here.

Tomorrow I will take photos and take you all on a virtual tour, but for now (as I almost fall asleep on my laptop) I will simply say this: I really do think I can be a writer.

It's funny, I have always wanted to be a writer, but I haven't always believed I would get there. It was only a few years ago that I began taking my most tender dream with anything approaching seriousness.

In 2013, I was kicked off my degree at the University of Exeter. Looking back now, although it was not done kindly, it was a cruel mercy, that freed me from a cycle of unhappiness and obligation. Anyway, at the time, it was impossible to see it that way. All I could see were my hopes in shreds, my future obliterated by my own failings. I spent a long time afterwards circling the drain, unsure whether to let myself sink.

It was writing that saved me. It has always been writing that saved me, in the deepest and worst depressions of my life.

And somewhere along the way, I've started to believe it might even become my career.

After months of illness, kept afloat by the promise and hope of this moment, I am here in this most wondrous place. I kept myself alive to get to this point, and right now, it really feels worth it.