Being the descendent of a famous poet has its drawbacks – the greatest of which is, I believe, the inhibiting impact it has on one’s own urges to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). Nevertheless, I have written poems over the years and, more recently a number of ‘monologues’ (some more fictional than others).

My outputs to date are far from Victorian in style – though maybe they have an element of ‘in memoriam’

Writing comes easily… actually words come easily (a point often made by those I teach) but exactly what form my attempts at creative writing should take can be elusive.

The brief biography of my father (written in the aftermath of his murder in 2005) sits on a shelf gathering dust. Did I write it for his grandchildren (the stated aim), or for me (as a form of therapy), or for a wider audience? And if the latter, what audience? Is it a potential radio play? A dramatic monologue? A prose poem? A novella? Maybe it will become clear or maybe the dust will just settle.

“The past is like a trunk in the loft, crammed with scraps, some valuable,
but many entirely useless. Although I’d prefer to keep it closed,
the slightest breeze throws it open, and, before I know it, all the contents
have flown everywhere. I put them back. One by one.
The memories, the bad and the good.
Yet the trunk always snaps open again when I least expect it.”
From: Honour by Elif Shafak

Meanwhile, I am cautiously sharing some of my outputs – always happy to receive feedback!

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