A year of wringing hands (Part 2)

In part one I said that 'Missing the match in McDonald's', while exploring child abuse in the wake of the Jimmy Savile affair, drew on my experience of losing two daughters in a rancorous divorce. Here I want to draw your attention to a few of the other poems in A Limited Season that draw on my own story.

We need turn no further than page 14, to 'Declaration of war'. Notice how most (the middle four couplets) of this tiny poem, which is all one sentence, are a parenthetical aside. Strip down the poem's syntax and you get a very simple statement:

‘Can either of you tell me,’ 
the conciliator said, 

‘when you first noticed 
your marriage was failing?’

This came from several events combined into one painful memory, times when my ex and I came into contact with social workers, counsellors and doctors. Of course, none of them actually said what I wrote in the poem, except by omission. It was the proverbial elephant in the consulting room for a while. And the mortgage advice? Well, we had money troubles too, back then, which no doubt played a part in our break up. But then doesn't every cloud have a silver lining?

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And those money troubles once brought me to the edge of madness. (Or mental illness, as we are supposed to refer to it now.) I was twenty-four and I walked into a doctor's surgery to complain of sleeplessness and irritability. I had been working very long hours, I was burdened with debt, my first child was on the way. The doctor asked me in his kindest tone, 'What is the trouble?', and I broke down in tears. I can attest to the efficacy of antidepressants. I didn't go back to work for three months after that, and when I did, it was to hand in my resignation.

Cue the poem 'Maiden flight'. For it was as if I had stepped back from a precipice, from which I had surveyed the abyss. Out of it hope had risen, hard to see from within a rut, but easy when you're staring out into oblivion. It showed me there was freedom in going with the flow, following the currents wherever they lead. Oh, I just realised we're back at faith again. Funny that.

Anyway, the 'take home', as snake oil peddling management consultants call it, is this: antidepressants only address symptoms, the cure for living hell is a life better lived.

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One should start, perhaps, with a clear conscience. But I say it would be easier if you could start out carrying in your heart all the pain you caused others in your previous life, metaphorically of course. But just knowing that we start out tainted would make it so much less painful to be good. How much finer it would be to win love than to lose it, and to look at oneself and say 'this does not have to be as it is, I can change me'. There is something in original sin.

Each of the three images portrayed in 'A quantum perspective on splitting the nuclear family' is an real and painful memory. (However, the cat is allegorical. No moggies were drowned in the making of this poem!) 

The beach was in Hastings. We had gone there after the disintegration of my first marriage, my mother having lost her daughter-in-law and lost contact with her grandchildren. The sea was frozen along the shore. It was 1987. A year later, having lost touch with my family, I walked out on someone I loved leaving a note asking her to be gone by the time I returned. And all through everything, my father acted as though I were the perfect son - and how that burned!

And, yes, at times I drank to forget.

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The cat, of course, was the one Schrodinger imagined leaving in a box, a cat that theoretically would be both dead and alive until the box was opened. (The title did state it was a quantum perspective - pay attention!) Observant readers will have noted the reappearance of that cat later in A Limited Season. He crops up in my favourite poem in the book, 'Letting the cat out'.

Before I explain my fondness for that poem, let me tell you about the epigram (included on the blog but omitted from A Limited Season). At the weekends I live in a delightful village in Cheshire. A short distance from my village lies the Ellesmere Port Vauxhall car plant (the UK brand of General Motors). In 2012 the plant was threatened with closure, and for several months no one knew if it would survive. It was completely out of everyone in the UK's hands - the management, the unions, the politicians. Everyone waited for a decision from Detroit. And meanwhile - you guessed it! - the plant was both dead and alive. Here, pussy!

I'm almost as fond of that cat as I am of this poem. I'm always much happier that the cat survives.

As I said, 'Letting the cat out' is one of my favourite poems. It ticks several boxes for me. First, it is a sonnet, and I am a sucker for sonnets. You only have to count up the fourteen-liners in A Limited Season to know that: there are - wait for it - fourteen of them (and I'm not going to claim that was an accident!). Second, it is so visceral. Can't you just feel - and hear - that 'slurping birthing squelch' as the box is brought up? Third, it is full of unobtrusive rhymes (my favourite being 'we rubbed oil of cloves / under our noses'. Finally, just read it aloud - savour its texture, its rhythms, its melody! Okay, so I sound like a comedian laughing at his own joke, but if I can't love my poems, can I really expect you to?

A year of wringing hands (Part 1)

I thought it would be fun to share some of the background to the poems in A Limited Season. Some people don't like to much explanation, preferring to engage with poems as self-contained worlds with voices of their own. This is generally the way I approach other people's poems, so I have sympathy with that view. But, of course, I am unable to look at my own poems ever in that way, and, in any case, I suspect knowing a little more about the background of some of my favourite poems (by other poets) would deepen my relationship with them.

Certainly my relationship with my own poems has many more dimensions than I can hope to explore in other people's work. So I will try to share some of this with you in the hope that it will enhance your enjoyment of my poems. (Hyperlinks in this post are to my Slush Poetry blog where some of the poems can be found.)

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We'll begin with the first poem in A Limited Season, 'Wellmeaning'. The epigraph shown on the blog version, but omitted from the published version, is a clue to its origin: 'Wellmeaning' was written as part of a year-long project for which I wrote poems inspired by news headlines. (I originally hoped to produce a collection from this, which would have been called A Year of Wringing Hands after a line in one of the early poems, but the resulting body of work was too uneven in style and quality.)

For 'Wellmeaning', the headline 'HIV test will be sold over the counter', taken from the free London paper METRO in July 2012, appealed strongly to me because of its connection, though the progression to AIDS, to terminal illness. My father was (and, at the time of writing, still is) suffering from a 'terminal' cancer of the oesophagus. I wanted to write about how, only eight months after his diagnosis (and over-pessimistic prognosis of a six month lifespan), those of us who love him seem to have come to terms already with his slow act of dying. That is, I was feeling more guilt than grief, and sought in poetry a catharsis.

Of course, the headline concerned HIV, not cancer, and I decided to fictionalize the poem with a protagonist infected with that disease, the research for which I found distressing, humbling and apposite in equal measure. I think I did it justice - do you agree?

I decided to omit two of the original stanzas from the version in A Limited Season (the third and fourth stanzas as shown on the blog), because they seemed on reflection to repeat points made better elsewhere. This kind of decision is always easier to make with old poems than with fresh ones. I hope I got it right. Another omission from the final version was the original epigraph. Removing it gave the poem a more personal feel, as though it were addressed to a person, not an anonymous 'case'. 'Wellmeaning' has proved to be very popular and deserves it place as the opening poem.

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In December 2012, I was bringing the news project to a close but was still drawn, because of my father's continuing illness, to headlines about cancer. On 7th December the METRO ran a story with the headline 'Cancer strikes more people but death rates are falling'. The story described how cancer sufferers are surviving longer, often indefinitely, and how medicine was turning away from trying to cure the illness, and instead managing its symptoms to prevent them worsening. In other words, patients were having to learn to love with the disease.

It struck me that patients are not the only people who suffer from their cancer - that their loved ones, particularly those who live with them and care for them on a daily basis - also have to deal with its ramifications. From this thought was born the poem 'Live with it'.

One immediately obvious change that was made between the blog version and the one in A Limited Season is the change from first person to third person. The protagonist is a woman; this is obvious in both versions. When I originally wrote 'Live with it' I had her telling us her story. But, of course, I wanted A Limited Season to work as a single collection with a recognizable voice - mine.

The poem remains sympathetic to the plight of this woman, who is feels helpless in the face of her friend's illness, while having to cope with her ill husband's impotence and rage. It would be a depressing message were she to be simply portrayed as a victim, but it is her love for them both that pains her, and it is for love that she will bear to go on living with it.

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The last poem I want to tell you about today is 'Missing the match in McDonald's'. This poem was already simmering when I came across a headline in the Telegraph: 'Child abuse allegation soar in wake of Savile scandal'. (Jimmy Savile was famous in the United Kingdom as a radio DJ turned TV presenter, and as a charity fundraiser. His fame was so great and his reputation for good deeds so unquestionable in life that the hundreds - yes, hundreds - of child victims of his decades of sex predation only felt able to come forward after his death. Savile is also the subject of another poem in A Limited Season, 'Pissing in the wind'.)

'Missing the match in McDonald's' is, of course, a sonnet. The first eight lines are largely autobiographical, and relate to a short period during which I had some strained access to my two daughters from my first marriage (I have now all but lost touch with them both. Though I frequently see the eldest one's picture appear on Facebook, I am afraid to click on it for fear of being ignored or rejected. I'd counsel you not to judge me a coward without knowing all the facts.) I had been observing Saturday dads for some time and considering writing about their plight, so the opportunity afforded by the Savile headline was a welcome one.

But the headline sent the poem off in a darker direction, for I imagined the fathers of small children acutely aware of latent suspicions. With a witch hunt under way for sex fiends in positions of trust, every man entrusted with the care of a child was suddenly a suspected paedophile. Will he be undressing them? Will he be bathing them? Will he be touching them? It all reminded me of the way innocent Asian men carrying backpacks were scrutinized after the terror attacks on London.

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I hope you have enjoyed these glimpses under into my engine compartment. Within reason I am happy to answer questions, or I'd really like to know what you think of my poems and other writing. Just leave a message below. Peace to all!

My faith in poetry

When I was in my early twenties I began searching for greater meaning to life. My wife, who had yet to turn into a witch, was expecting our first child, and it was the wonder of this above all else that convinced me there had to be more to life than was presented to the senses. And it was the birth of the child, my daughter Heather, and the heavy societal expectation she would be baptised, that delivered me into the hands of the Church of England.

I tried to be a Christian, I really did. I got up on Sunday mornings and attended mass, shook hands with other worshippers, wishing them the peace of the Lord with my sincerest smile, knelt for wafers and cloying wine, went to tea parties, invited all my friends and family to my confirmation. Jesus, I even tried bell ringing. I turned a blind eye while my parish priest got his bishop to sanction his marriage to a divorcee. (I was later, after my divorce from The Wicked One, denied the right to remarry in the Church of England.) And all the while I tried to persuade myself that, if I just persevered, I would come to believe there was a god.

My poem "The great key" tries to capture that burning schizoid desire to believe in things my senses told me were utterly false, to persevere with patterns of behaviour and speech that felt, even at the time, dishonest and debasing. Ironically my behaviour became more devout and evangelical the stronger my doubts grew. And if "schizoid" seems strong, let me tell you a year after I first walked into a church I was on medication for anxiety and depression, so it's not a million miles off the mark.

(Incidentally "The great key" is based on a true story. I recently decided to visit the parish church in the village I have lived in for sixteen years. I had never been inside it, but when I went I found the door locked.)

My recovery from Christianity was effected not by medicine, but by philosophy. Plato's Symposium was my starting point, but I was subsequently counselled by Spinoza, Descartes, Kant, Locke, Hume, Nietzsche  Marx, Mill, Sartre, Russell, Dennett. And Voltaire, oh Voltaire. I learned that there are no right answers, or at least there is no one right answer (but no unanswerable questions either), I learned to appreciate the rich and unfathomable complexity of the world, and I also learned to tolerate, even to embrace, ambiguity.

One day I read an article in New Scientist about the beneficial effects of Buddhist mindfulness meditation, which it claimed induced neurological changes that made practitioners happier and more focused. I didn't know how to meditate, but I live quite close to the headquarters of the Buddhist Society in London, so I decided to go to one of their courses to learn more. By the second week of the course I was so fascinated by Buddhism itself that I completely lost sight of my original aim, and by the end of the course was willing to call myself a Buddhist.

• I do not believe there is a god, nor that there being one would explain anything.
• I do not believe in an afterlife, nor do I feel any need to believe in one.
• If there is a heaven or a hell, I believe this is it.
• I believe we are reborn every moment we live, that everything that happens happens now.
• I feel no need to explain how this world came to be, nor how it will end.
• I believe that what we do is more important than what we believe.

This is not an exhaustive statement of my beliefs, but just enough, I hope, to explain how my predisposition to religion and immersion in philosophy and science perfectly readied me to accept the Buddhist view. For all of these "beliefs" are compatible with, if not fundamental to, Buddhism. I say "beliefs", but the it would be more accurate to say I considered them as propositions and found them to be either true, or at least helpful as heuristics, useful ways of dealing with the world. I put my faith in them in the same way as I put my faith in my senses.

And of course this new faith has found its way into my poems, too. A poem like "Waiting for the R Train", for instance, which deals with the real-life horror of facing imminent death, illustrates how it is the burdens our past regrets and hopes for an imagined future that prevent us living fully in the present. No one ever experiences their own death, of course, in the present, but only ever through anticipation. "Maiden flight" explores the same idea in a different way, its subject once again death but this time suicide, and once again we experience the liberation from casting off attachment - to mistakes from the past and to shattered hopes for the future. It's not quite nirvana, but doesn't suck.

In fairness to Christians let's remember that Jesus' parable of the birds said much the same thing.

Peace to all beings!

(c) 2013 Andy Hickmott

The season for mushrooms

At the end of 2011 my father Archie was diagnosed with oesophageal cancer. He had put off visiting his doctor, suffering weeks of difficulty swallowing, until at last he was unable to swallow water. Even then he waited until he was severely dehydrated and suffering excruciating headaches. By then the cancer had taken a hold; a tumour had spread three quarters of the way around Archie's oesophagus. His doctors told him he might get another six months. Archie said he hoped for a year.

The doctors could do little more than patch him up. They inserted a stent to open his oesophagus so that he could swallow. They put him in touch with the Macmillan Trust, who allotted him a visiting nurse for palliative care. Eighteen months later he is still alive and, even if "well" is not the right word, mentally vigorous and independently mobile. Yesterday was Archie's birthday: he is eighty-eight years old, but let's have none of that "he's had a good innings" bullshit, he's no more desire to die than you or I have, and he's as much right to hold on to life, even if he smoked heavily until he was fifty and was overweight most of his life. Before he became ill he weighed over two hundred pounds, now he's down to a hundred and thirty.

Archie isn't "battling with cancer", he lets his doctors get on with that. What Archie is battling with is pain. He refuses to take higher doses of morphine because he fears it will dull his mind, and that is all he has. He endures frequent avalanches of pain. I don't think he dwells on dying, just treats it as a fact of life (as it is for us all) and tries to grab what he can of life between spasms.

He refers to his tumour as a mushroom.

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Archie isn't the only one who's had to come to terms with his terminal illness. My aunt, whom he has shared a house with since my mother died, has had to become his carer. But she is not in great health herself: before he fell ill, Archie used to take care of her. She has been very kind and has done all that anyone could have asked of her. My sister has been a rock, too, making sure that all Archie's affairs are properly in order to his liking. What little money Archie has accumulated in his life will go to my brother, who has advanced multiple sclerosis. If Archie could give his life to restore my brother's health, I'm sure he would.

But Archie's protracted enactment of the dying process has affected us all very deeply in other ways. We have been through mourning for a man who is still very much alive. I remember the shock I felt at first when my sister phone with the news of his illness. (I live two hundred miles away, so can only visit occasionally.) I walked downstairs, feeling numb, trying to make sense of the meaningless facts. I sat on a piano stool, closed my eyes, and, because I am a Buddhist, tried to think of Archie, my suffering father, in terms of loving kindness, and to think about the impermanence of all things, which gave his dying some proper context. It helped, but I think the passing of time has had as much to do with my acceptance of what is happening.

During those first grieving months I also channeled my feelings into my poetry, and several of the poems in my first collection, A Limited Season, arise from my dealing with my father's illness. The two that were most directly influenced were "Deadly Nightshade" (previously unpublished, but discussed below) and "Steak and mushroom pie", which was featured in the April 2013 edition of Popshot (the "Imagination Issue"). Another poem that was affected by my grieving for my still living father was "After disconnection", which, although it makes no direct references to Archie, I am unable to read without visualizing my childhood home.

Here is the first of the six stanzas of "Deadly Nightshade":

A mushroom lodged in the damp

stump of your throat. It smelled

like the inside of an old shoe

and now your breath smells of brie,

or athlete’s foot. It grew fat

and got greedy; the more you fed it,

the less it left for you. You shrivelled

as your pipeline silted up.


You can see how Archie's tumor humour became a central motif in the poem, one that is carried through the other five stanzas, and is revisited in "Steak and mushroom pie". The motif will occur in another poem, which must remain under wraps, for one of the consequences, for a poet at any rate, of witnessing the drawn out death of a loved one is that there is more than enough time to work on a worthy elegy.

What is to become of Slush Poetry?

I have announced that Slush Poetry as we know it will come to an end at the end of this year. However, that is not altogether accurate. What will be brought to an end is the series of news-related poems that have been appearing on the Slush Poet blog, and its curtailment is not a recent decision but the fulfillment of a scheme conceived late last year.

What has been known until now as 'Slush Poetry' was always planned to be a one year (or, more strictly, a year and two days) project to chronicle what I hoped would be a remarkable year, 2012, a year in which there would be a Royal Jubilee and the London Olympics at a time of great economic, political and environmental turmoil. That is, something to write about. Its aim was to capture the zeitgeist of the year, rather than attempt any historical record, and it was always going to reflect my own views and interests. In fact, it is probably more a portrait of me at that point in my life than it is an objective record of anything else going on.

I have been amazed and delighted by the following the blog and my related Twitter feeds have attracted, and I am very grateful to everyone who has visited the site, commented on poems, corresponded, retweeted or engaged in any way with the project. I even feel I have made some friends, albeit ones I will probably never meet. It really is quite humbling.

I have been pondering two things: what to do with the current collection, and what to do next. Now I have decided.

The current collection will end when I post the last poem on New Year's Day. No promises, but it will probably have an Hawaiian theme because I will want to capture humanity's last moment in 2012. (For the same reason, the collection began in Samoa, which was first across the date line in January.) After that, is it too much to hope that I might find a publisher for all or part of it? I will be trying to. It even has a new title: The Year of Wringing Hands.

As for what to do next, the Slush Poet will go on but on a different blog site. The new site will (if all goes to plan) present a series of images combining photography with poetry, surface beauty with lingering thoughts. Imagine seeing a poem hung in a gallery surrounded by white space, that's where I'm heading to. And this new space now has a name: Ma Pottery [sic].

So wish me well and come along for the experience. I can't do this without my friends.

Slush.

Beating up on the Buddha

I was saddened recently to learn that 'Buddha' could be a term of abuse. One can not imagine British newspapers using ‘Jesus Christ’ or ‘the prophet Muhammad’ in a derogatory sense, but, over the Easter weekend, at least 500 news stories appeared in the press or online using the term 'little Buddhas' to depict spoilt children, whose character flaws include laziness, hedonism and an inability to concentrate at school.

As a Buddhist my first reaction was sorrow that so many prominent voices could be attached to such ignorant minds. The very essence of Buddhist teaching — Buddhism 101, if you will — concerns training the mind to concentrate effectively on what is important. This Buddhist practice of mindfulness is empirically proven to improve concentration. As taught by the Buddha some 2,600 years ago, it would seem to be of great value in addressing some of the very flaws the so-called 'little Buddhas' are said to exhibit.

If such ignorance among journalists is saddening, a similar level of ignorance among scientists - scientists who purport to be experts in the origins of religious experience and thought, no less - is quite shocking, particularly disappointing to my rational mind.

S. Jay Olshansky, writing in New Scientist (7 April 2012), professed that the wellspring of all religions is a quest for immortality. He (the ‘S’ is short for Stuart) goes on to laud a new book by a fellow scientist, Stephen Cave, which asserts, in true reductionist style, that all societies rely on one of four narratives to assuage their fearful knowledge of their own mortality. Among these 'narratives' are plans ‘B... resurrection’ and ‘C... the soul’. Since plans ‘A’ and ‘D’ are not applicable to religion, and given the reviewer’s own expressed views and professed expertise, one must deduce that one or both of plans ‘B’ and ‘C’ are supposed by Olshansky and Cave to apply to Buddhist societies, which have existed for over half of man’s recorded history, and to Buddhists of today whom number some half a billion people (and ought therefore to be a touchstone for any credible theory).

I am well aware that such assumptions are commonplace, though most people who hold them would realize that that is all they are: assumptions. Let us restate them baldly: the quest for immortality, the desire to be reborn, the possession of a soul.

Now let us look at what the Buddha actually taught. The ultimate goal of Buddhist practice is nirvana (nibbana in Pali), which is a condition in which one ceases to be ‘reborn’, by which the Buddhist means that one's previous actions no longer control (or 'condition') one's life. Buddhist philosophy is emphatic that there is no soul, no permanent ‘self’ that experiences life and could live on after the death of one’s body. In fact, Buddhism insists that nothing can be permanent (impermanence in Buddhist philosophy is one of the three signs of existence, and therefore applies to all conditioned things). Buddhists aim to achieve peace in this life, not any other, by following a sensible ‘middle path’ between extremes, and by concentrating on what really matters.

Perhaps Buddhism is misunderstood because it does not seek to evangelise. Compassion and tolerance are central to the teaching, for the simple reason that hatred and intolerance are harmful to oneself. Perhaps it's because I'm quite new to the religion that I still care a little what other people think. I hope that this explanation improves people’s knowledge and understanding, and is helpful to them to this extent.


(c) 2012 Andy Hickmott

Where have all the mile markers gone?

I’ve heard it said writing a novel is like running a marathon. Like hell is it. My first novel took a little over nine months to write. (I could have said 'gestate', but too many metaphors spoil the broth. It was in any case stillborn, at best a sloppy mess that I immediately set upon, working its twisted limbs to fashion a marginally improved version.) But at no point during its writing, or rewriting, did my novel ever lead me into that dark, despondent place that marathon runners must pass through in the middle of a race.

I quit running marathons because I realized I was never going to run a faster one. I started a novel partly because I suddenly had so much time on my hands.

I ran my first marathon in 2004, in New York City, finishing in a fairly respectable (and bitterly disappointing) 3:48. I failed to finish my second (Blackpool), and literally limped in after nearly five hours in my third (London). I had fractured my shin. After two long years of rehabilitation I finally finished the London Marathon in my best time: 3:40. Three years of pain and frustration to shave off eight precious minutes.

So when I compare writing to running a marathon, you can be sure I'm not basing my comparison on Wikipedia.

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People who haven't run a marathon seem to talk a lot about something called 'the wall'. I can only speculate about what that is, perhaps it's based on tales of athletes dropping out in the latter stages of the race because of some apparently catastrophic failure. Many physiological factors can lead to that. For example, depletion of glycogen, stress fractures, or plain old cramp. Been there, done that. But some runners keep going through those troubles, so I doubt they are the real causes of failure. That is something much, much worse.

And it's something that afflicts writers as much as marathon runners.

It's the aforementioned 'dark, despondent place' that occupies the space between mile markers thirteen and twenty. Between 'great, I'm half way there', and 'God, where have all the mile markers gone?' Runners give up the will to finish the race just seconds after they give up the will to live.

And writers? Where is this vale of despondency for them?

I only know where it came along my writer's journey. As I said, I finished the first draft of my masterpiece completely unafflicted by existential torment. (Deep breath.) I saw that it needed rewriting, so I rewrote it. I could still see room for improvement, so I wrote it again. And again, just for the sheer bloody-mindedness of it. And I beheld my masterpiece, and I loved it so much I could have written it a Sapphic ode.

And I bagged it up and sent it with a covering letter and a kiss for luck to, well, to literary agent Lucy Luck as it happens. It was too good an omen to ignore.

I was disappointed when Ms Luck did not sign me up by return post. But not deterred. Not yet.

I wasted no time getting started on my next novel, a work of such brilliance that it put even its illustrious predecessor in the shade. As before, I immersed myself in research and plotting and drafting, night after night, agonising page after agonising page.

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Press fast forward and witness me standing over my doormat staring fearfully at the ominous dead thing laying there. I knew what it contained. Just like all the others (and since I had long since lost count, let's accept for the fakery of precision that it was the thirtieth in its line) it would contain a standard letter, wishing me luck without the scantest sign that my beloved had even been read.

This was about the time I sank into that trough, when I was tested and found myself

wanting.

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I stopped working on my follow up novel. (There was nothing to follow up.) Suddenly the next novel seemed impossible to complete. Every conceivable excuse presented itself unbidden, in the same way that minor aches and tiredness make marathon runners reappraise the gentle uphill stretch ahead. 'No way! That must be one in ten and it goes on for over a mile!'

And like Paula Radcliffe at her nadir, I sat at the roadside with my head in my hands.

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But this is not a story about giving up. Nor is it about going on when all common sense says the way is blocked, your supplies depleted, the mission futile. If I'd quit back then, this story wouldn't be written at all.

And here I am, writing.

Somewhere along the way I outran that long, cold shadow, though I can't say precisely when. I think there was one key factor in my redemption, and that is that I kept going in whatever way I could. (That's how you finish a marathon; it isn't rocket science!) I decided to beef up my skills. I'd already read just about every self-help manual I knew about, so I went out looking for guidance, for someone to take me apart and reassemble me as a writer. I applied for MAs in creative writing, and got rejected. So I signed up for an undergrad course with the Open University. I got interested once again in poetry, and became the Slush Poet. I threw myself into a writers' group, joined the Poetry Society, started performing poetry, started tweeting, got out there.

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Yesterday I went to an open evening at City University in London, where Jonathan Myerson runs what is perhaps the best MA in the UK for novelists. We spoke about the prospect of my joining the course. Unlike the last time we met, I really felt that I belonged there, like I had earned a seat at the table. I even considered applying to be part of this year's intake, but I decided against it: there are things I want to finish first. My OU course, a year of Slush Poetry, my Spring reboot. I can do all this. I am beyond the dark, despondent place now. The wind is behind me, the finishing line in sight and it's all downhill from here.

And then a weird thing happened on the way home. I had an idea for a great new novel.

(c) 2012 Andy Hickmott