I stand in the corner of the room with my mum, polystyrene cups in hand, and five minutes late. When we got here we situated ourselves in the corner, hoping to ignore the loud and enthusiastic chatter between parents, children, and tutors. But other than participating there’s not much to do but watch, so I do; listening as people talk openly about their writing, or … Continue reading Selling Myself
I grew up in pink suburbia but my mother is from the countryside. Not the countryside that is on tourism brochures, with yodelling and smiling cows. Her countryside lies on prehistoric, run-down mountains, on a soil that burps up granite rocks and breaks tractors. It’s always the coldest part of the country. People don’t move there because they want to, but because they’ve tried everything else. There’s a church on every tenth hill. Continue reading “Listen to the Bones in the Hills”
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