I have discovered that I am actually a squirrel. Not as energetic, or grey (yet), but definitely a squirrel. I first notice this in autumn, when the creatures can be seen forgetting their safety, lingering on roads, digging in the hedgerows, foraging and storing for winter. At the same time, every landowner for miles begins to take down unwanted trees and create huge piles of wood. I carve spoons and, working with green wood, I have developed a radar for potential utensils hidden in felled branches. I scan back and forth across my path for anything that could come in handy once submitted to axe and knife. This is, surely, a Good Thing. It is good to plan, to collect, to forage. To see potential everywhere. I forget that I already have wood ready to be carved at home, that carting home yet another log will then become a job to be done that weighs on me and needs my attention. As I stand at the foot of a huge pile of brushwood and branches, many of them tantalisingly bent in just the ri...
Most days, stories, images and ideas run through my mind. I find myself forming narratives as I walk, or cycle, or simply pause in stillness and imbibe the wonder of the world. I want to learn to capture the words, to riff on the themes I ponder. So now, instead of thinking about writing, I will write. Excuse the errors, the detours, the rookie mistakes. This is Riffing in Writing.