I’m poking my head out from behind my screen to say – to anyone who is interested – I’m still here. Still writing. Still completely sane for a certain number of hours most days, completely off the rails the rest of the time.
I am probably half way through the first draft of my ocean-themed, sea-sprayed, water-logged novel (which means I’m only running about twelve months behind schedule) but, in the process of dredging things from the ocean floor and peering into the blurred blue/green horizon, I’ve rediscovered my love of poetry.
So anywhere from midnight, through to the witching hours, I invariably find myself hunched over the keyboard, bathed in a strange mix of lighting – the beige from the salt lamp and a sort of extra-terrestrial green from Wi-Fi gadgets – tapping out phrases and words that sing with impetuous desire.
Just one more switch with which I flail myself
unflinching/flailing/flinching/falling
Karenlee Thompson 