I had to DNF my second book of the year. The first book was Trumpet by Jackie Kay. That was during a period where I was struggling to read anything at all, and I just picked up Trumpet too many times, and could not get into it. The second was All the Men I Never Married by Kim Moore. I like to flick through physical poetry books, and read a poem at random. There were too many poems in the book that were written about subjects that were triggering. Eventually I didn't want to go near the book. I was taken aback because I thought, perhaps, that I was getting ‘better’. That is complete bullshit. I know I am still struggling. Why would I think that? I am basically operating on a shove all of those memories to the back of my mind and don't dwell on them basis. I did fill in a form for counselling from a charity. There is a 2 month wait to hear back. Then there may well be a wait to be paired with someone. I am trying not to put the eggs all in one basket and hoping this will sort everything out. Life can be put on hold in the meantime! It cannot. I have been reading a collection of poetry by Wendy Cope called If I Don't Know. I was never too in love with this book, apart from the one poem The Teacher’s Tale. I didn't find the other poems very appealing. But that has subsequently changed. I am always surprised at time and how it alters perception. Give something time and it can be seen in an entirely different light. It’s like plants. You have to wait for them to grow and to bloom. I'm one of those impatient people. An impatient plant grower who expects overnight results. I was going through my Google Drive. As I wrote in last week’s blog, where I lost a poem, I have been going through the archives of my writing. Not being in the same mindset that I had been in, my writing looks, for better or worse, different. It certainly makes me wonder why I parked some of that writing because I thought it was not getting across what I wanted it to. It puzzles me how with time something isn't so bad after all. I get feelings of the old imposter syndrome with my writing. That's why I previously stopped bothering at all with it. I thought: everyone else can write far better than me and so they can crack on with achieving things in their writing careers. Don't let me get in the way. Why am I so self-effacing? I like how after reading some of Wendy Cope’s poetry, I couldn't sleep and I ended up writing 3 book reviews, an opening sentence and this blog post. Poetry is so inspiring. I am also reading at the moment a non-fiction book called Snowflake by Lucy Nichol.
That’s all for this week. Thanks for reading.
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