I was hoping that this was going to be a somewhat more positive post: an almost idyllic one, in fact, showcasing a moment of creative bravery.
But it’s not, quite.
I had a really fun few hours the other day. We’d noticed our campsite was having an open mic night – poems, songs, stories – and I thought I might write something to join in.
As if on cue, Arthur started to come up with some really lovely ideas. And I used them to write a coherent (if sketchy around the edges) story about sea monsters and shadow makers and bravery that he loved.
And then along came the evening, with families gathered fireside, a jovial and self-assured host whose self-penned short story made me think of Neil Gaiman and an awesome performance poet whose words (as they often do in that medium) spoke directly to my soul.
I hung back with my story. I actually had visions, just momentary ones, of kids sat around my feet whilst I told my tale, a tale that was a long way from perfectly polished, but was a good story nonetheless.
But it was not to be.
In the end I never felt enough like a writer to step forwards, never felt confident enough to claim my place on even a relatively humble stage.
It made me realise that I am still a long way off the headspace I need to own if ‘writer’ is going to be a mantle I will embrace fully.
This is at the very crux of my mission to find a publisher: and with any luck by the end of the summer I will be somewhat further on the journey to seeing it accomplished.