When my mother finds a snail in her flowerbed she tosses it over the fence into the road. Snail murder by flight - think landing and cars and hot tarmac. Ow. (So far, she hasn’t landed her missile on one of the children reluctantly journeying towards the school at the bottom of the hill. I suspect the snail would be relieved - no crunch on landing - but the child less so.) Some, so I hear, keep scissors or secateurs close and dissect trespassing slugs before consigning their corpses to the compost. (Read that sentence aloud. Alliterative satisfaction.) My historical perspective on the slimy invaders in my veg patch has been one of turning a blind eye and then scattering a few hopeful slug pellets, while feeling mildly guilty for causing pain, suffering and untimely death to innocent gastropods. They don't seem to have died, though, they have flourished in my garden, and never before has a lettuce survived. Gastropod gastronomy - come one, come all. This year, it is different....
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.