the beginning

I think I could write a book just made of titles.  Sometimes I note down a title and then I sit back and think yes, that's all I had to say on that.

slave to love

Sometimes I think you can love the craft of writing too much. And then feel too obligated to get it right. Feel tongue-tied in its presence, star-struck, weakened by love. And so you beg every word, and can't breathe for gratitude when it is given, and you know you are not worthy of writing a whole book, not here at the feet of your love, not with such mere awkward prose and desperate need as you have to offer.

far away and closer

All day I have been shuffling words. They clack clack against my fingerbones.

Until finally I throw them all up and inbetween the long wild rising and the fall I find what I've been looking for.

Silence.



I shall go down to a beach in my mind. I shall become half invisible behind the high sharp grasses at the edge of New Zealand. And when I have dragged drowned things from the dark waters, and when the stars are all buried in the hills, and when I am a story right through me, then I'll know how to shape that heart-stopping, breath-holding moment of silence into words that lie gently in my hands, surrendered and ready for dissection.