On fake internet points and the pole taboo

A few weeks ago, I posted a picture of myself to imgur – and accidentally found myself in the middle of an unintentional analysis on social interactions on the internet

It started on the pole.

I nailed a new move at my pole dancing class. It’s one that I’ve always considered to be beautiful and strong, and I was super proud of it.


Being proud of it, I posted it to my imgur and to a pole dancing sub-reddit I poke my head into from time to time. I expected a few upvotes, maybe some comments. I’ve posted a pole picture before, you see. And it barely made waves.

Let me take this moment to say that I understand and acknowledge the implications of putting a photo of myself – particularly on the pole – on the internet. Comments such as “Well if you didn’t want xyz, then you shouldn’t have abc” will not be entertained. 

This time, my picture was viewed 66 916 times, earned 1435 upvotes (and 247 downvotes), 465 favourites (#notcreepy) and 115 comments, which you can read through here.

It’s no Ridiculously Photogenic Guy, but, it had enough traction to invite all sorts of odd humans.

If I were to do a proper analysis (I won’t), there were three distinct audience types – the Appreciator, the Shamer and the Creep – and three key themes – Stripper Jokes, Shaming, and Praise.

The very first comment (and the most popular comment) was a Stripper Joke. I joked back, because I fully embrace the fact that pole fitness has its roots in stripping (and I already have a prepared stock of responses because I get so very many stripper jokes at work and among friends). Heck, I did a burlesque class last year and performed in a very skimpy costume at our Christmas party. So yes, you can actually call me a stripper.

But of course, I’m human, so it wasn’t the praise that rattled in my head after posting..

I use this shamelessly poached phrase a lot in my daily life: “The internet is dark and full of terrors.” And so I 100% expected negative comments (but perhaps underestimated my low self-esteem).

So on to Shaming, which I’m almost certain is an Internet Sport. I’m guilty of Shaming other people, I will admit it. In my head, usually. Sometimes aloud, to very close friends. And then I feel like a horrid, horrid person. But I have never, in all my time on this earth, written a derogatory comment on a stranger’s picture. Never.

Another of the earliest Shaming comments was somebody “correcting” my title from Butterfly to *Chubberfly. Why yes, a comment about my weight. I have a mental problem with my weight. It is my body and I’m not happy with it, and that’s my right. But to have a stranger on the internet look at my “squidgy” (my fat rolls on my stomach) and oh-so-wittily call me a chubberfly… Well, that fucking sucked. Hard. Other great comments about my weight included “Strong pole”, “Thicker than a bowl of oatmeal” and the well-thought-out “So fat”. Nothing like people openly voicing your deepest insecurities, right?

I struggled with this: “What right do these people have to comment on my body? Who the fuck do they think they are? What assholes!” Those comments make me angry. But then I think of the countless times I’ve looked at women and thought “Jesus, she should *not* be wearing that.” And then I fell off my high horse.

But on to the Slut-Shaming, which is something I’ve had a lot to think about. We’ve already discussed the “Pole Dancing and its Stripper Origins” point – and so it should come as no surprise that because so very many people on this earth call women who partake in sex work (in this case, Strippers) slutty, the next logical step is that Because Pole Dancing Came From Stripping Pole Dancers Are Sluts.

(Side note: I follow a great stripper / pole dancerLux Atl – on Facebook & Instagram and she has a bunch of great thoughts on the Pole Dancing = Stripping topic, which may be worth a whole new post..)

“All this time I thought it was called the upside-down Ho”. And my absolute personal favourite “I bet your dad is proud too.” (You know what, I think he would be. I think he’d be proud that I’ve found something I love, and I 100% KNOW that he would have supported me and probably challenged me to a pole off. He saw the light side in everything.)

It’s something a few of the women in the studio have spoken about. A lot of them don’t tell co-workers or classmates that they go to pole dance classes because of the “stripper” association. The “slut” association.

Me? I couldn’t be more proud. I wear my bruises with pride, tell my co-workers about this new trick I nailed, and post pictures on my personal accounts. My CEO (who is one of my favourite people on this planet) shows my pictures to her friends. I even shared the imgur link with some of my co-workers, one of whom commented on the pic with “Hey, that’s my boss!”

I’ve often wondered about what potential employers / clients / employees think when they stalk my social profiles and see my pole pics. I’m not ashamed of my pole journey, clearly. Heck, I’d love to compete one day (if I can actually string together a combo).

But does the way oh-so-many people view pole dancing impact the way people may view me in a professional capacity? It shouldn’t, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it does. I just wouldn’t want to know for sure. Because those comments stick.

Only 20% of the comments were outright mean ones. I’ve devoted a whole post to 20%.

But the rest…?

Great job!

Looks good!

You have a beautiful body!


So strong!


And then of course, Tyron…

“The boobs look good.”


On fake internet points and the pole taboo

Blueprints and footprints

My therapist often spoke to me about “blueprints”. Psychological architectural plans, really. The things that had got me into her office in the first place, and the things that would continue to exist, that I would work on with her, and that I would need the tools to manage when I was out in the big, wide, world. She let me out into that world and reminded me that my anxiety would always be there, waiting to twist my arm and pin it behind me. Crippling me, effectively. But I had the tools to manage that if and when that arose.

I forgot my toolbox this week.

And it’s been a fairly solid reminder for me that my mental illnesses do really lurk around the corner, lying in wait, before promptly smacking me around the head and rummaging around in my handbag for valuables. And that I really can get up off the pavement, even if I’ve lost my bearings for a while, and stagger off and away towards the nearest streetlights.

This is not a blogpost about depression and anxiety though, this is just context.

We’re officially in December, and I feel as though this year swooped in and blew straight through me.

In January, life punched me in the face (oh okay and somebody punched me in the heart).

In March, I met Tyron. I can’t even begin to put into words how much he means to me, so I won’t try. Just that he’s currently skiing in Canada and when I think I couldn’t miss him anymore, I do. He’s having the adventure of a lifetime, and I’m so thrilled for him. And insanely jealous.

Meeting Tyron unlocked a few new things – like the courage to finally dye my hair red, the knowledge that my photography skills are nowhere near as bad as I thought – and took me to The Scar-Lit Box.

The studio is one of my favourite places, and I’m learning so much about myself – both mind and body. I’ve written before on how amazing it has been. I’ve learned how far my body can go (literally – I tumbled out of an invert and was diagnosed with a “grade two rhomboid strain”, which has kept me from inverting again for a few weeks) – and I’ve learned a lot about my confidence.

The good thing (yes there’s a good thing) about my injury is that it’s brought me back to focus on spins. We’ve also been doing a routine, and the part of my brain that says “oh my god I could never string all of that together” is gradually quieting. Yes, I think I can dance.

In fact, I also started a burlesque class at The Scar-Lit Box. It’s a six-week “term”, but it’s been incredibly liberating, and it has taught me to love my body and its curves. I used to love performing at school, and this has been quite similar – for an hour, I get to jump into another character. Sure, I’m still figuring out who she is, but she has a name at least.

It’s been quite a year.

There’s a lot of work stuff that I can’t go into, but man, has it been a learning curve. I’ve ended up crying in my CEO’s office twice in the last few weeks. Thankfully, she’s also somebody that I consider a friend, and she believes in her People. She reins me in and reminds me that I’m awesome – and that is something that I truly value.

Putting finger-to-key as made me feel better, for one. I’ve started keeping a journal again to achieve the same feeling.

So, what now?

People. Burlesque classes. Pole classes. Friends and mentors. Sunsets and love. Writing. Tools I carry around in my kit – one that is so vastly different from even a year ago.

Plank variation at The Scar-Lit Box.
Plank variation at The Scar-Lit Box.
Beginning of the butterfly at The Scar-Lit Box.
Beginning of the butterfly at The Scar-Lit Box.
Look ma, no hands. Before I properly injured my shoulder. Boo.
Look ma, no hands. Before I properly injured my shoulder. Boo.



Blueprints and footprints

An overdue post – and egg donation

Forgive me, WordPress, for I have sinned. It has been … Well, fuck … Over two months since my last blogpost.

I seem to have flatlined a little when it comes to actively taking the time to write creatively (in other words, anything that’s not for work). My CEO brought a beautiful journal back from the New York Public Library at the end of September, and I’ve not put a pen to it. I’ve had a few story ideas percolating in the back of my brain – which somehow won’t come out beyond plotting a few character points in a notebook.

That’s not to say that I’ve been sitting and staring at a wall. I’ve been slowly learning more about photography. I’ve started burlesque dance classes (there’s a part of my brain that hasn’t been tapped since school!) and I’m doing three pole classes a week (with a strained shoulder to prove it), all at The Scar-Lit Box. And I love it.

Something that’s come up again rather a lot in the past few weeks, though, has been my egg donation journey. I wrote about it extensively on an older blog (link here if you’re interested). My last donation was August 2013, for context.

A few months back, my former agency Nurture got hold of me and asked if – seeing as I’d written so much and was so vocal about it – if I’d like to be interviewed for Expresso. I said sure, why not. I remain wildly passionate about it – in face, wildly passionate about creating your family in the way that is right for you.

It worked out being a fairly positive piece. It’s morning TV, after all.

Then, a few weeks ago, a journalist working on a commissioned piece for Checkpoint wanted an interview on a piece she was working on. I agreed again to be interviewed, but the angle on this piece turned out to be very different. I joked with the journalist that “bad news sells” – and after I saw the title of the piece (“Eggsploitation”), well. I was right.

Now, I’m not saying that all women have a positive egg donation experience. In fact, I’ve read horror stories. And, in fact, watched horror stories from right here in SA. But those stories are well, well, well in the minority here.

I stand by the fact that I had an immensely positive experience – all six times that I donated. And every time was different. And I believe a lot of that boiled down to research, knowing my rights, being responsible and having a reputable team at a reputable clinic behind me.

So, tips for potential egg donors? Research. Research until your brain wants to explode. Find a good agency. Nurture did an interview with me before I was even officially loaded onto their system, which was a great way to get to know them, too.

And then, really think about why you’re doing what you’re doing. Every woman will have a different set of reasons, but you need to find the ones that make it the right decision for you. And the compensation (which I believe is R7000 now) for your time and effort can be your reason. There’s honestly no shame in that, either. It was one of the main factors for me when I decided to donate the first time.

Can you handle the idea of your genetic material assisting with the creation of someone’s child? A child you’ll likely never, ever meet. A few women I spoke to couldn’t handle that thought at all. Personally, I always felt attached to my recipients and wonder often how they’re doing. Their children hardly cross my mind – except for one little girl who was born on my late father’s birthday.

Research some more. Ask questions. Ask anyone who will listen. Your agency. Your doctor. Your psychologist / social worker. The sisters at the clinic. If at any stage you’re not comfortable, speak out. There are risks attached to egg donation, and a good agency and clinic will make sure that you understand those risks, and will take steps to minimise them. Complications are, to my knowledge, extraordinarily rare. But the chance of a complication exists, and you need to understand what may go wrong and – this is important – learn to look after yourself and listen to your body.

Have people who will support you. I had a handful of friends who didn’t quite understand or agree with what I was doing – but they supported me all the same. They drove me to and from the clinic, they messaged me to check how I was doing. My brother would fill hot water bottles and feed me Energade when I was recovering.

Understand that this is going to be a deeply personal thing. That no matter how many articles you read, television programmes you watch, blogposts you skim through, your experience will not be the same as the next donor’s.

Donating my eggs was one of the things I look back on in my life with joy and pride. With a sense of knowing, truly, that I had done something good in the world.

If I was legally allowed to do it again, I would do it in a heartbeat.

You can watch me gushing here, if you would like to. Be kind.


An overdue post – and egg donation

A beginner’s spin on pole dancing*

Just over two months ago, I started pole dancing classes. It’s something I’d been wanting to do for ages and ages, but didn’t really know where to start and, honestly, was too nervous to try.

Enter, Emma. One of Tyron’s friends has been doing pole dancing for a while, and was super excited that I wanted to try it out. A few months down the line, she finally managed to get me to agree to an intro class in late June with the wonderful Genevieve Eyre at The Scar-Lit Box.

I almost didn’t go.

Tyron and I got stuck in traffic on the way from his place, and then struggled a little find it. By the time we found it, parked and were on our way to the studio, I was probably about 10 minutes late and almost in tears. I didn’t want to go if I was so late. I didn’t want to be that girl. What if there were other girls that would judge me? What if my instructor was cross? Tyron virtually pushed me into the studio that day.

I’m so glad he did.

I felt a little silly the first class. Okay, really silly. But Gen was warm and funny and encouraging, and so I signed up for a month’s trial at two classes a week. And then three. And I went from feeling silly to realising that I was silly – and that was okay.

I looked at “real” pole dancers and said “Well, holy shit, there’s no way I’ll ever do that. What the fuck do you mean upside down?” Gen and the other more advanced students would do a move and it looked effortless. I would do it and look like a drunk baby giraffe – limbs everywhere. But I’ve learned to laugh at myself, take the bruises (you should see my feet and right arm right now) and try again and again and again.

I’m a bit of a perfectionist. It leads to me getting frustrated with myself if I can’t do a move. Usually, when I try to push myself too hard and can’t really see progress, I end up in tears. (This is why I don’t run much anymore.) Honestly, I was scared that was going to put me off. But the best thing about pole? If there’s one thing you can’t do, there’s at least three other things you’ve picked up already.

No, you’re not likely going to come into your first class and be able to climb and invert and nail every spin. But every day, every spin, you get a little better. And then you build. And suddenly you’ve gone from drunk baby giraffe to sober baby giraffe.

And suddenly, you’re upside down.

I love the studio I train in. It’s a small studio – only six poles. We talk about everything. We laugh about everything. I’ve got a few girls I have regular classes with who I went to sushi with last night. These are girls I don’t know from a bar of soap. Me. Having dinner with girls I see maybe once or twice a week. Who knew.

I’ve had a few discussions with Gen about this as we leave class. I’m not good with people, I’m really not. They scare me, and tire me, and I feel permanently judged and anxious. And this is me on medication. But to be excited – really excited – to go into a space that puts you in a position that is an odd mix of feeling both vulnerable and empowered? That’s something I wasn’t sure I would find. The girls the space attracts are usually alternative, open and – for the most part – largely crazy. Above all? Deeply supportive. We take all our little steps together, roll our eyes when one of our most hated spins or strength exercises turns up. and when one of us nails a move, the others cheer us on. It’s wonderful.

I’m still a total noob. We had a cocktail evening last night and some of the girls performed and I was blown away. And deeply jealous. But…

Every week, I get stronger. I couldn’t climb at all when I started – now I’m at the top. I felt like I couldn’t wear hot pants for my first few weeks. Now I feel weird in gym shorts. I couldn’t do a simple spin without feeling a little out of control. Without a doubt, pole has been one of the most liberating and empowering things I’ve ever done. And, above all, it’s addictive.

Now I’m the one upside down… and looking ahead.

scar-lit box

If you’re in Cape Town and would like to give it a go, you can visit The Scar-Lit Box’s Facebook page. I highly recommend it.

*See what I did there with the title, huh?

A beginner’s spin on pole dancing*

On writing in the Twitter era

Something that has come up recently in a number of conversations I’ve had (oh, okay, I’ve brought it up more often than not) is about art. (And when I say art, I mean all forms: Music, dance, photography, game design, fine art, acting and then… Writing.)

This conversation mostly starts off with me moaning about my sheer lack of visibly artistic talent – and how I’m so jealous of the fact that a person can look at a great photo or watch a wonderful dancer or listen to a talented guitarist and go “Wow, that person is amazing!”

Same goes for theatre, game design, film – you’re presented with an incredible story and can leave a room after two hours and feel as though your life has been altered.

Writing – of any kind, be it a journalist or a poet – is art. Much like opera or pole dancing or stand-up comedy. The biggest hurdle, however, is unlike all of those things, your intended audience member needs to put in a lot more effort to get the “Wow” factor out. They can’t just take a glance at it.

(Is it obvious that I’m jealous of people with visual artistic skills? Yes?)

All art is a two-way street. Just, with writing and reading, that street feels a little longer. That’s not to say that other art forms are “easy” – actors and dancers and musicians rehearse for dozens and dozens of hours, while I’m slamming this out while cooking dinner before my pole dancing class, and photographers don’t just snap the first thing that wafts past their iPhone lens (or at least, not all the time).

Tyron made a valid point. We’re bombarded with so much content all the time that it becomes a Next Next Next Next exercise. Have you seen this music video? Did you see that cute story about the dog? What about the 18-second teaser clip from The Hunger Games just showing Jennifer Lawrence’s hair blowing in the wind? The FOMO is strong. Next next next.

So where does writing – and the art and appreciation of it – fit in?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that people have stopped reading. Not in the slightest. There are thousands of people who self-publish books on Amazon each year. Millions of bloggers, journalists, novelists, poets, self-help writers. Each with their voice, their creativity, elbowing to be next in line. My questions are why and who. How often.

Somewhere along the line, I lost my confidence. Consumed with the knowledge that my creative voice is just one in a tempest of other, better voices. And my inner voice has drowned out my creative voice – and I’m not sure of who or why I write.

Who do you write for, then? Yourself? An audience? Yourself with an audience in mind? And how, in a world where we consume content in 140-character chunks, can you convince yourself that you’re actually any good? That anyone will take a look at your writing and go “Huh. Wow” in an environment where everyone with a Facebook account is technically a writer. And does it actually matter if you are any good?

(I wonder if Dickens ever went through this. Or if he was just existing in an immensely open market and didn’t need to worry about measuring up to his competitors. I mean, he’s a literal fucking legend, but still.)

I’m rambling, but it isn’t all in vain. I’m starting some fiction writing on the side, because I can feel my creativity drifting away, abused and neglected and at this point, only dusted off when it’s needed for a client. And then it’s not “Wow” but “When” and “More” and “Next”.

Somewhere along the line, my art is being melted down for coin that’s not my own. And the small voice that I have disappears into the plethora of tweets and Facebook posts and Next More More.


On writing in the Twitter era

Upside down and Inside Out

Tyron joked about my blogging occurring at monthly intervals around our “monthiversary”, which is kinda true. But let’s try and change that, shall we?

I have three (!) posts planned, two of which have been fermenting in the back of my brain for a while, with one of those still feeling a little fresh for my liking (nothing serious, I promise! Everything’s good. Really, really good!

And this is one I didn’t know I needed to write until I saw yet another post about Bing Bong from Inside Out… (Spoilers after the cheerful pink guy. Obviously)

bing bongNow, for the record, I have nothing against Bing Bong. Truly, I don’t. If you exist on the Internet, you’ll know he’s become one of the world’s new favourite things. And don’t get me wrong, his eventual, ultimate sacrifice was thoroughly gut-wrenching.

BUT that was not the moment that stands out in mind. Not even close to.

There were two things for me. Firstly – and though it’s only a tiny section of the film – it’s the scene in which the console slowly turns black. That blackness – that moment of depression where you literally cannot feel anything because you’re so tired of all the emotions banging around in your head – was so beautifully captured. That feeling that no, there’s absolutely nothing going on. Just blackness. Until something else – in this case, Sadness – steps up.

And for me, the moment that shattered my heart so strongly? The scene in which Riley stands in front of her parents and says something along the lines of I’m sorry. I tried. I can’t be your happy girl. She let go, allowed Sadness to embrace her, and with that acceptance, began to find her Joy again.

(I originally started this post on 30 June, then Tyron came over and I went up to Joburg for work and life has just been fairly manic. I’ve lost the original thought of this thread, but I love the topic.)

I spent a huge chunk of my life – my “tweens”, my teenage years, my varsity years, and definitely the last few years trying. Student with top marks. Took part in sports. Offer my help to everyone. Look after people. Spending so much time trying to make everyone feel better about themselves.

Amanda Palmer wrote about The Art of Asking. I’ve not even got to that point yet – asking for help when I need it. Heck, I’m struggling with the art of accepting.

I went to Winchester Mansions here in Sea Point over the weekend to do a media review. It’s a beautiful hotel, one of my favourites, and Lesley and Katherine from Dei Gratia are some of the best PR people in Cape Town.

I decided to treat myself to a spa package. Exfoliation, aromatherapy bath, massage, facial. It was pricey, but I wanted to treat myself after a harsh few weeks.

I got out to discover that it had been comped. I didn’t have to pay a cent. So I bought some expensive face cream, and got choked up on my way back to my room.

Turns out Lesley and Katherine had organised it to be comped for me. Sometimes people surprise you.

Tyron’s mom fusses over me. Tyron (fairly) graciously got up at 4.30am to take me to the airport on Tuesday. Tanja, my amazing CEO, paid for a glorious dinner on Tuesday night.

I feel Guilt with all of these. But less so than I used to.

Slowly, the Joy is taking over.

Joy. Fear. Sadness. Disgust. Anger.

It’s better than the blackness.

In other good news, my psychiatrist has reduced my antidepressant slightly to counter some physical side-effects.

Six months ago, I could never have dreamed that I’d be here.

I always tell people that the Universe will eventually Come Right. Even if it doesn’t do so in the way you expected.

It seems that is actually kinda true. Although there’s a large portion of me still waiting for the Very Wrong.

Baby steps.



Upside down and Inside Out

Battling writer’s block

So I got these Skype messages this morning*.

“also been a month since your last blog entry
just saying”

Yeah, I know. But seriously. Fucking writer’s block. I tried and failed to write last week. I even tweeted about it.

And there it is again. The blankness. The blinking fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. (Top tip: Don’t stare at the cursor. After a while it starts mocking you.)

So I Googled things like “How to beat writer’s block” and got all sorts of insane advice, but it all kinda distilled into “Just fucking write” after a while. (One of the pieces of advice from this blog was to “Curse like a sailor”. I don’t think the author meant “swear in your post”, but I’m feeling it, and it’s too late now!)

The lovely @cathhayden on Twitter told me to do the least writerly thing I could think of – she suggested dance. And seeing as I started writing this blog post yesterday* and I’m still not where I want to be, I got up, and I danced.

And I had some thoughts while springing up and down to Bad Influence by Pink like a teenage idiot. 1) I’m a terrible dancer. No, seriously. 2) We spend way too much time not playing. And by “playing” I mean behaving like an absolute fucking idiot (obviously not always a viable option), or creating something (writing something, drawing something, saying something) completely and totally spontaneous, unpolished and – this is where it kinda hit home – unstructured.

Our generation is constantly surrounded by information. 24/7. We’re bombarded by Facebook posts, tweets, Instagram snapshots, “You’ll never guess what happened next!” Upworthy headlines, thought-leader blog posts, “17 things to do before you’re 30” lists, imgur links of cats falling off tables, YouTube adverts and 400-words-or-it’s-too-long news articles.

So much. So much information and, most of the time, we don’t know how to interpret it. But that’s perhaps a rant for the next blog post.

My point is, we’re consuming so much content that is structured, strategised that it’s hard for me to start on a whim. Let’s be honest, it’s 2015 now – very few people post the first thing that pops into their head anymore. We curate our social media lives to show off our Best Sides. Nobody wants to share a video of themselves dancing around their bedroom like an idiot. Believe me, I tried.

I filmed myself and everything for this post, then decided I didn’t like the way my ass looked jiggling around to Pink in my pj pants and then almost changed them to film myself being an idiot but then remembered that to do so would be to disrupt the spontaneity and the naturalness of the whole concept.

So I’m not posting it. Hypocritical, yes, but nobody wants to see that ass jiggle.

I mentioned earlier that we’re surrounded by “16 things to do while brushing your teeth” and “47 ways to piss off your neighbour” and “0.3 yoga poses you can do at home” lists. There are so many of them because people loved them. Heck, people still love them. But now they’re everywhere. Structured. Ordered little lists. Whether or not the actual writing was structured and they simply stopped writing when they got bored and slapped a number on it… Well.

Content – any form, really, but in this context, let’s keep to written content – is pretty much always planned. Written with an audience in mind. Carefully curated from a list of potential topics. Part of a larger Strategy. This is my day job. I am the Media. I know what we do.

Creativity is caged, somewhat, if this is the parameter we must all operate in to be Relevant. To Engage Target Audiences and – gasp! – Make Revenue. (I’m lucky in that at my company, we have freedom to write what we like, for the most part).

And then I started doing a mental content strategy for my blog and got to the whole part about what brand you want to portray… And I panicked. I want to be “real”, I thought. Authentic. But what does that mean? Okay, fine. It’s pretty much a shitty marketing word applied to juice or clothing.

So if you’re working within a brand, you define what the brand is. That’s hard if you’re writing for yourself. Cause you kinda have to ask WHO AM I? And that’s not an easy question to answer on the best of days. And all of this self-definition and attempts at scheduling my writing and Planning a Strategy ground my creativity to a halt.

And so, I write. Free-write, really. I fend off the writer’s block by waffling on about crap and somehow – through not really giving a shit – I’ve ended up at a post length running at just over 800 words.

Sorry. Not sorry.

You won’t get a video, but you will get a potato still of me bouncing around my bedroom.


So, stop, drop, and play a little.

Dance around your bedroom to empowering pop music. Free-write. Scribble terrible opening lines to poetry, or doodle in the corner of your notebook. Grab the person you love and do something silly or – better yet – allow yourself to be grabbed.

Especially if it’s 10 o’clock at night and you’re checking work emails. Because that, as I was told last night after being physically hoisted away from my computer, is not fun.

Quieten the voices in your head and just… Create.


Battling writer’s block