Writing the sh*t out of stuff.

Little me drove myself down the Angus coastal route, through all the wee fishing villages, to the beautiful arts and crafts building that is Hospitalfields Arts in Arbroath. Armed with a notepad and pen, a swollen face, painkillers and lemsip, I psyched myself to pop my cherry in the great unknown: a creative writing workshop.

Irrational fears of walking into a roomfull of wafting wifies, intimidating literary types or pretentious bores were quickly put to bed as the women were just great to learn from and be with. Women of all ages, students, nhs workers, admin workers, school head teacher, a drugs and alcohol worker, very down to earth poets and a former features editor of Jackie magazine - this is DC Thompson country after all.

Assuring myself no wafting ladies were present, I went for it. I learned I could story tell, out loud and with gestures. I learned I can Haiku and walk outdoors and trigger off a world of poems. I learned I can write with someone else, and make them laugh, both loud and long. I learned I could craft a whole back story just by looking at an old picture. I realised I could capture and share a memory. I even wrote a love poem for Dave. Och, I know they might not have been good or of interest to anyone but me, but I learned I could do them, put pen to paper, and not be shy about sharing it. My repressed Aberdonian ancestors will be rolling in their graves.

There was sunshine all day and then a lovely drive home through rainbows and big splodgy rain. My wings have felt broken and sore banging against the ceiling at work, this day helped remind me how much I've detested writing other people's words for other people's interests. That doesn't work. The words should be my own.