As I type this post, there are oxeye daisies, nasturtiums, sweet william, roses, mexican daisies and sunflowers growing in my garden. The hydrangea has turned on its lights again, the dog rose we planted last year to climb up a trellis is satisfyingly rambling. Since my last post, I’ve been up and back to London many times to visit family and friends, and I’ve taken part in two readings, at Teignmouth Poetry Festival, to read a poem that was highly commended in this year’s open poetry competition, and in Margate for the launch of 14 magazine.
Away from the garden, a couple of poetry competition entries amounted to nothing; on Submittable, a few submissions have changed their status from ‘Received’ to ‘In-Progress’ (what excitement!); one poem has been longlisted for a magazine; one poem accepted for another (after being rejected seven times!); an absolutely delightful personal rejection letter from a big magazine, nine months after my submission – I’m a sucker for a charming rejection letter, especially one with added encouragement, these small moments of affirmation are so welcome. There is an awful lot of waiting to hear going on about all sorts of things, not only writing. And the international and national news, of course, that’s never far from my sight and sound. Somehow, in the middle of this, we writers sit at our desks, close our doors, real and imagined, sip our beverages, turn up to the empty page. Some days the garden is awash with rain, sometimes you notice a flower you never knew was there.
Josephine Corcoran 