Everything has to start somewhere, right? Except obviously there's not such thing as a beginning, you're missing the back story, the context, but, like any good writer, I promise to show rather than tell, so this blog isn't going to begin with a vast vomit of self-congratulatory and revelatory expositional dialogue.
Tonight I'm heading to a poetry reading, I do that a lot. I'm busy trying to build a reputation for myself in the wilds of west wales. Not that a reputation out here in the sticks is probably going to do me much good, but its better than nothing!
The trouble I'm currently facing is what to perform. I've spent years writing my work, honing my voice, but I'm right at the beginning of my journey as a public performer. I don't yet know what goes down best with an audience.
A lot of my work is, like my life, pretty angsty. But short, and sweet. I decided I was just going to pick the things that I like best and run with that.
Of course instead I ended up writing a entirely new poem using a strangely random but utterly strict rhythmic system. (Going 8,7,8 8,7,8 8,8,6,5,8,8,6,5,8,7,8 ad infinitum) Because obviously I don't like me very much!
Well today I don't like me very much. A lovely friendship with much lovely potential ended last night and I'm vaguely sad about it. But only vaguely, which is why I don't like myself very much; I ought to feel terrible! But more on that another day!