Some days I feel as if I’m wrestling with the words, slamming them down onto the page like a grizzled cage fighter. Other times, I imagine I’m a soft-spoken poet teasing out sentences in a smoky Parisian cafe. And then there are the days, like today, when I’m just me, sitting here at the kitchen table with unbrushed hair and dirty cereal bowls in the sink wondering how on earth I can conjure an imagined world, a fully realised character, a fictional scene or conversation when I can’t even seem to hold the simple nuts and bolts of the day ahead within my grasp.

Ah writing, you strange and fickle friend…

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