Tuesday, 29 December 2015


I got this body from junk food. Specifically - all butter shortbread and cold, fizzy, golden lager.

I walked to the corner shop earlier to gain access to (more) beer, and a man passed me. A belligerent, thick-necked sort of man with gelled grey-spike hair, and a sensible, expensive looking all-weather style leisure jacket. He looked me over: "And you're FAT!" he said. While staring me straight in the eye.

Previous versions of myself would have turned about-heel and spent at least an hour genuinely crying and then the next six weeks replaying the episode back to myself with witty/heroic/violent alternative endings. Instead I was simply quite sincerely concerned for the state of his mental health. How sad he sounded, spitting at strangers at the crossing near the Co-op.
I believe this is called growth. Or something.

But honestly, the body-positivity movement has worked wonders on my well-cultivated narcissism. And that is why I feel justified in posting selfies by way of introduction. I will call it an act of radical self love. And you will like it or dissolve like a berocca.

I used to think I was cursed because my face was asymmetrical. I thought everyone could see I was a genetic dead-end. A lemon. Something creepy to be avoided. It takes a lot of time to develop such convoluted channels of self-loathing. I've done quite a bit of reading since them days of angst. And lately I don't feel worthless.

I'm wearing my witches star a lot these days. I like the idea of magick as a mission of self-empowerment. Developing innate strengths. Concentrating on the realisation of desires. Achieving all manner of things - whilst dressed darkly and maintaining strong eyeliner game.

I try to write. I try to divine. Sentences materialise like tarot cards drawn from a shuffling deck. The job is to unpack, pick to pieces, forensically assess and then construct, pad out and simply also MAKE a story from what are only hangdog bones.

A little while ago I was talking to a journalist - not at all small fry. He said he gets asked a lot - not just by young, student types - how he "made it" as a writer. And he said a lot of them don't understand what he means when he says "the only way to be a writer is to be a writer". People assume he's being sarcastic (it is a bit corny) or that - Heaven forfend! - he's being in some way spiritual. Most querants probably guess he's being deliberately vague so as to protect the name and postcode of the contact who gave him the key to the jewel-bedazzled castle. But it's simpler then all that - leave that cynicism behind, it will do nothing for you except make your guts churn. In this day and age there's no excuses. If you want to publish, publish. If you want people to read it - show it to them. It's a tired cliche often trotted out that you can "fake it till you make it!" But this guy promises it takes even less then that. Make it. That's all.

So this is me. This is me making it. I've had different kinds of blogs over the years. And all are sources of shame which I have ended up deleting. But lately I am not ashamed.
I offer lines, sentences, paragraphs, vignettes, short stories, chapters, poems, jokes, lists, reviews, ritual incantations, essays, criticisms, scripts, songs, letters, chastisements, pathways and dreams.

I will not have a type, a theme, a proviso. I seek to actively avoid being predictable. I hope to put it all here. I set no goals. I do not promise to write everyday. It is a humble offering, therefore it will be easy to succeed. And exceed.

I sow a seed.

©Amy Leonard, 2016.