When I turned on the radio, the news was of continuing rioting across the country. It had stretched overnight, across the South West, beyond Bristol to Plymouth.
‘In the last week of March the blackthorn flowered. Rosettes as white as snowburied fields burst from stems black with witchcraft, from between the thorns of fairy tale and folklore; thorns whose vicious stab cast Sleeping Beauty into a hundred year sleep.’
‘…capitalism can make you feel that unless you’re producing something brilliant, shiny and saleable, then you’re not an artist.’
Learning to embrace imperfection in life and writing
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