Sometimes I think I am a whacking great coward. I haven’t done the scary things – sent poems to be published, read them aloud, re-established a reading group, for ages.
In fact the last thing I made I was proud of was a string of bunting made of doilies, and thats hardly something to publish in a slim volume and force eventually onto my children.
Incredibly safe, flush in my comfort zone.
I am resolving now to step out, as it were, into the chilly air of unfamiliarity.
Wish to come? I’d like a companion, and someone to clap no matter what they think.
But first, back to this crafting.