When I first started to write a lot of people recommended Natalie Goldberg’s book Writing Down the Bones. It’s a marvelous entry into writing that helps you free the writer within. Of late I think I have not only freed the writer within, but she wandered off and didn’t leave a note. The eternally effervescent Connie Stetson has described my arid condition as “blog clog.”
Now people say that writing is not easy and if it were everyone would be doing it. Well, as far as I can tell, everyone is doing it. Blogs abound, they spill out every time I check my email. People are writing about everything all the time, putting together interesting, funny and provocative collections of words. And I sit here struggling to find something to say. I set off down a story path and within a matter of 70 words or so, I become aware of an increasing pressure on my forehead. What is it? It’s the literary version of a dead end, up against a stonewall of the imagination, no way out, no thread to pick up, the string has run out. I go back to the start to see if I can find another path. Read more
I recently joined Facebook at the urging of two friends. I am quite bemused by this social network, and the comments people post: E wants to know if B is awake, M has changed his profile photo, B confirms he is awake but that it’s not the world’s business. I have ceased striving to find meaning.
Recently former colleagues from Chrysalis Artists/Records/ Music have found me on Facebook. There’s a 40th reunion in the planning stages. We are trying to meet up sometime this year before we are all too gaga to remember why.
I joined Chrysalis when Swinging London was in full swing, although how a shy girl from the industrial Midlands came to be part of a white-hot music scene is still a bit of a mystery to me. Read more