The first story I ever wrote was about a young girl who was playing badminton out in the street and then got lost in a forest, only to be rescued by a helpful cat and a fairy. It was written in block capitals, because I couldn’t do joined-up writing yet.
In the thirty years since, my writing and I have gone through every relationship stage that humans may find themselves in: the honeymoons, the rough patches, the roommates phase, the breakups and the reunions. But it was only in the past few years that I realized that I had viewed that relationship as a one-way street. All too often, to paraphrase a famous saying, I would ask what my writing could do for me, and stop at that.
[the post continues on my substack]
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