I am fascinated by the nature of my own skin. This curiosity in my own body falls suddenly, as if it’s a shock that I am made up of cells and water and I’m not really sure what else. This is where my own ignorance falls down, cocooning myself in my books and my poetry… Read More some achingly pretentious Creative Writing, and a life update
There are many, many book reviews of The Good Immigrant out there. And many, many, of them are already better than mine, as I half-arse my way into finding the precise word to convey my curiously complex emotions. This is something different, because if I’m quite honest a couple of the essays in this book made me upset… Read More Responding to ‘The Good Immigrant’
I’ve been digging through my laptop files, uncovering snippets of writing that I felt an urge to create but have lain dormant since. Here, take my heart. (also people need to stop judging the act of writing. as my English teacher says, you lose nothing from creating.) There is something of the young boy about… Read More Glimpses from 2017
W.H. Auden is great for heartbreak. Pathetic, I know – I am too acutely aware of my own cynicism, my own failures. I should have listened to the Love Through the Ages AQA poetry anthology more. True love doesn’t exist, but boys who really know how to fuck up do. And that’s enough insight into my personal life, because I’m… Read More crying? W.H. Auden.
That was one hell of a year. I read more than 17 books this year, but these 17 life lessons (learnt at the tender age of 17, dancing queen) were difficult to scrimp together. I’m not a reflective person, on the whole; whenever something bad happens, I think ‘oh fuck’, don’t bother to evaluate my… Read More 17 Lessons, 17 Books: Farewell to 2017
I love receiving parcels in the post. You know in Mr Bean’s Christmas when he sends Christmas cards to himself? It has the same effect as that. No-one else buys things for me, so when I hear parcels being dumped at the top of our drive and legging it there before it rains the postman knocking at… Read More Dream Loot Crate: Vaguely Literary
Most of you probably think that I’m a recluse who lives surrounded by books and only ventures out for the occasional art gallery exhibition and theatre production, and in that sense, you’re very right. But I’m a person! I’m alive! I go to school! I have friends! Genuinely! You also probably don’t know that I… Read More Magazine