Today I wrote some words. One thousand three hundred and forty-six of them to be precise, which is quite a lot when the only thing you’ve written in weeks is a poem about being scared.

A few weeks ago I had a chat with someone I respect about something I have written, and I got some constructive feedback. I forgot when going into this that I take criticism about as well as I take a frying pan to the face, and it hit me extra hard because I couldn’t even say “you’re wrong my work is fine” because I agreed with every damn word.

I treated myself to a bit of a spiral, had three consecutive diseases, and applied for a load of jobs I would rather eat my own socks than attend.

So…that was the rest of my autumn in a nut shell.

And now it’s winter (I think?) and I am sat in a lovely caravan in someone else’s garden with an incredibly effective little heater going, and I am finally getting myself back on track.

I’m not doing goals at the moment – I’m not putting any pressure on myself at all. I am simply showing up and seeing what happens. And today what happened was that I took a weird dream about someone I used to know and I turned it into a few pages of prose that may or may not ever see the light of day.

A start is a start no matter what day of the week, or which month of the year. A start doesn’t have to wait until January and it definitely doesn’t need to wait until you have all the answers – I have precisely none of the answers right now, and am sort of relying on finding them as I go. I’m just out here writing my stories and feeding my soul, and proving to myself that I am the one who shows up even when I’m completely convinced that I’m doing it all wrong.

I’m not going into 2026 with no clue and a blank page. I’m heading for the new year with my brain in the game and my nails very well maintained because having wet nail polish is apparently the key to getting me to sit still and type!