Missing

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A delight on waking and reaching for the iPad to find a new post from Richard Gwyn.  He’s been reading his  poetry in Delhi. I like the mix of personal and exotic.  I like where the blog leads, to new books, old books,   other writer’s blogs. It even inspires new blog spots   At Christmas he wrote of killing his darlings , having kicked a book to touch. Then it seemed unimaginable, now, barely four months on, I am so close myself.

So this morning, early and quiet, Sunny boy and most , it seems, still sleep,  I follow George Szirtes as recommended who in turn leads me to Stephen Foster and the sense of loss overwhelms all over again.

I met Stephen Foster on my first ever writing course in Norwich and was helplessly in love- with writing, with his encouragement, with those on the course.

I had it in mind to be a writer. A period a way from home, a period of solitude, had freed inner voices that I interpreted as an urge to write.  Stephen encouraged me. For at least a year I sent stuff and he commented, so gently letting me down, never once a put down.

A virtual affair continued after life convinced he must still be blowing in the wind.

 

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