On writing: I write gems directly onto the page. I set them out on the table and ready my polish. But the glamour rubs onto my palms, and they are stones once more.
I pick up the pebbles from the discards. I whittle and chisel away, and they crack into pieces. It powders my hands.
And when I’ve thrown away my rag and kicked at the sand, my toe hits a rock and I fall back in pain. When I look up, I see a great, ugly slab. I can hear pounding inside, the throbbing of mismatched letters and spaces. Fragmented ideas and gestures. They shake and clatter, too weak to break the crust. Too young, unexperienced. So I take out a shovel and with a yell I smash it open. The pieces jump out. Now my work begins.