Yesterday I wrote about getting going again with Natalie Goldberg's Wild Mind (there's a link in that post). This poem flowed from a second piece of writing I did yesterday, which I've copied below the

Human isolation is terrible. We want to connect and figure out what it means to write. “How do you live? What do you think?” we ask the author. We all look for hints, stories, examples. I've just bought

Before we left Turkey, in June, I had a daily habit of typing for 10 minutes, once or twice a day. We went for the summer to China, intended to return in September: we left many things in boxes - toys,

I sit down at prose and rebell, stubborn, no desire for its syntax: the day's events go unrecorded, apart from a few numbers in my training log - 8km, thirty-eight minutes - and a blister. I think I really