The world is full of anaesthetising forces. Writing keeps me awake.
A few years ago I worked hard to build imagined spaces in hostile territory, to publish small things here and there, brief interventions before the undergrowth closed in again. Some of these are academic - a piece on Old English riddles in Neophilologus, and one in the Journal of Modern Literature on David Jones’s In Parenthesis.
Others are creative, mostly in speculative genres - for example, Of the Green Spires, the story of an alien plant taking over Oxford, and The Hidden Market, a little flash piece about memory. In How Pleasant the Red Bloom, words fight against each other more explicitly than usual, but I can sense the tendency elsewhere in my work. There’s some poetry out there, too, though I don’t think I ever quite found my voice in this form.
I wrote a novel, Amourette, and am in the process of seeking agent representation so that one day it can get published. I’m currently working on a number of other projects, all in early stages.
