worded.

I've been without a dedicated writing space for some time. There's a room to the front of the house that is all but ready for me; it's almost square, two metres wide by two metres-ish long. Painted white (a blank page cubed, if you will), it's in need of a floor and rendered unusable by ten years of accrued junk piled high around its walls.

In the meantime I scratch out corners and surfaces for myself throughout the rest of the house. On the bed, in the living room (only one corner does the job), in the back room.

The piece I read at Tales of the Decongested (Foyles, 27th June) is online here.

Enjoy. Perhaps. If it's your thing.

Otherwise don't.

Call me me over sensitive - actually don't, I'm rather sensitive - but as an adoptive parent there's a whole raft of terminology, thoughtless phrases and terms of reference which imply a second-bestness in the relationship I have with my children.

"Real mum and dad"
...referring of course to the birth parents.

"Where are you adopting from?"

Or so it goes in my recent dreams.

I stand before an audience of varying sizes and moods, naked for some reason known only to myself and the event organisers who have so far failed to save my embarassment.

I have a three page story in my hand which I'm expected to read. It opens with "And I am just as suddenly here" but since this is such an incorrect opening I can't work out just how to say it. However I say it will be wrong but I can't settle on which wrong way. My lower jaw begins to work up and down, vague sounds emanating, but nothing that reflects what's on the page.

The act of imagining worlds and characters can be intensely satisfying but the act of committing them to paper is so often fraught with frustration. By the time I have fully imagined a circumstance or character the words I can muster seem sparse and the inspiration is beginning to drift away. In my mind, whole novels and societies feel complete, but they are only half thought through and the words to make them still buried in dictionaries.