Where it all began: Some context (please read this first)

Years ago I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease. I was part of the way through a doctorate in creative writing and had written the more significant part of a novel. The prognosis was not clear, but it all looked quite bleak. The disease brought some physical symptoms that left me worried about work - and the existential worry about dying in five years left me unable to really engage with the novel. I couldn’t think through the arc of the story and the slow nature of writing it. If I couldn’t write, I couldn’t get paid my scholarship. I turned to my supervisor, a writer that I respect greatly, and asked if she thought I could switch to poetry. I could write them in pockets and leave behind something if I died.

I never expected to finish the doctorate. But I lived, got much better, live with an unknown.

I hate my work. It’s a really cliché of a hang-up. It’s felt debilitating in its own way and isn’t wonderful, but I still need to do something with it. I have decided to upload it here and just let that be enough for now.

I hope you find something in some part of it.