I want to go through my notebooks sometimes slashing line breaks and impaling full stops all over the place. Deleting, embellishing, cleaning up. With the old cliqued witch Virginia Woolf at my shoulder, smouldering away in her Victorian clobber. Vanishing if I dared turn my face from my writing habit.
It's different now though there is Twitter, and an Arab spring that no matter what the summer brings has unleashed feelings and thoughts that violence cant bottle up again.
I wish I could write pulp or proper academic standard literature, consistently. I am moving away from just aiming to rock the tiny minds of people with instrumental poetry about lost babies. I will always to do that but I also want to share the other stories.
Amazing stories, in stunning dramatic settings, with compelling people and triumph over severe adversity. Now I am in a position to build, to invest, to grow I can separate the language I use from what happened whilst admitting how much of an influenced it had in forming my ideas about words.