So after a wee bit of a fit of can’t-be-arsed earlier in the month, I’ve now hit the ground running. Or at least stumbling in the right direction. Emails fired off to poetry nights and festivals, begging for gigs throughout the year – and threatening to turn up on their doorstep and sob if they don’t play ball.* Some of them have answered already, and none of them have threatened an injunction. So it’s all good.
See, I don’t do moping well. I get bored of that just as easily as I get bored of most things that largely involve sitting watching the world go by while not taking part. So although I have my moments, they’re usually followed by some concerted sock-pulling-up and a walk or bike ride out into some wild, open spaces to get a bit of perspective on my life. Either that or a visit to the pub. But seeing as it’s January – which is always no booze month in my strange little world – the open spaces are my only option. Whether that’s making thirty-one days drag on more than a cold, grey, miserable month would normally, I really can’t say. My time’s too full of displacement activity so I don’t dwell upon the desirability of a golden, hoppy ale in a cosy tavern, or a friendly inn.
What this all means is that I’m hoping to have news of a fistful of poetry gigs before too long. Which means that I’d best roll up my sleeves and get on with finishing the half-written, hastily scrawled drafts I’ve been working on. Expect some angry, anguished poems inspired by the hollow emptiness of life without alcohol. Or maybe something erring on the beatific now that I’m above such worldly cravings. Who can say?
1st February, you can’t come soon enough.
*I’m only joking about that, poetry gig organisers. Really. I don’t do stalking.