Diary: March ‘24

Poetry Prizes / Raffles / Rejections / Mariosa di Giorgio

“The bats arrived, attached to the coats of calves, gazelles; when I could, I plucked one off. And others, tamer, hung in the kitchen with their heads upside down; papa gave them wine, cigarettes.” —The Bats Arrived, Mariosa di Giorgio

¹I haven’t been to therapy for almost a year. Once I’m better physically, I will be going back. On my own, I’ve been able to do some internal work. Speaking of work, I’m doing lots of writing. I’ve submitted to four prizes—fingers crossed I can finally get a win. I always find it really strange that I can never seem to win anything. Even as a child, I would always lose at the tombola at school. At the last Natter night I attended, I finally won a raffle and got to take lots of books home. I was far more excited about that than my actual performance on the night. I miss reading to people. This is—again—something I will return to once I’m able. I’m doing poetry stuff where I can. As of this moment, I have entered into The Plough Prize, The London Magazine Prize, The Passionfruit Poetry Prize, and Manchester Micro Poetry Prize. I’ll likely enter more soon. I find it so cool that ²Roger McGough will be reading my work for The Plough Prize. Since entering prizes, I haven’t gotten anywhere with them. Let’s hope this year is not another run of that. Along with this, I’ve been submitting to everywhere I can. Mum said, “Stop looking for recognition. You’re brilliant,” but I just need one windfall. When you’ve lost as often I have, winning is your survival. There are so many narcissists in the poetry scene. They surround themselves with people who reinforce their ego—tell them they’re great and above the rest. Those kinds of people think everyone around them are mediocre when the only dullard stares them in the mirror every morning. I used to send ³Stewart every poem I ever wrote, but now he’s four-years dead, I send them to my parents. They try, but they don’t fully understand the world. Even fellow poets don’t seem to realise what I’m trying to do here. I binged Passenger on ITV and This Town on BBC One. Passenger is set in a fictional Northern town, so that’s always relatable. The carvery place they go to was filmed at a hotel right near me. They have a massive inflatable Santa on the roof every Christmas. This Town was a romp! I’ve had around fifteen rejections in the last month, but I have had some kind comments. Laurie at And Other Poems said she really enjoyed my writing style, particularly in one poem. Someone on Instagram said my writing is “immaculate”.

Angel <3

I sometimes have to remind myself of all I have achieved. I’ve been interviewed twice on BBC Radio Manchester, performed live a number of times, had my collection shortlisted for the Poetry Book Awards, and even more. The problem with being a writer is that it leaves you wanting more. It leaves you believing that every publication can be topped. Even if you win a prize, you’ll want to win them all and end up spiralling when you inevitably don’t. The poems I have submitted to prizes are strong, and even though I try to be realistic, the seeds of hope creep in. I’ve finally started tracking my submissions so I can see where I’m at. Navigating the writing scene is like swimming through a treacherous swamp. You can’t see who your enemies are until they gnaw at your ankles. There are too many balloons who need to be cut loose so they can deflate. For years I cared about my appearance. I would spend hours trying to get the perfect picture, but now, I really don’t care. We are more than how we look, and I certainly have more to offer than a pretty face or a toned body. I have a weight issue that needs tending to, but aside from that, I don’t think about my appearance at all. All I want is to be a great poet and see the success I have / am working so hard towards. I will be turning twenty-seven next month, and I am nowhere near where I thought I would be. Though, some of the prizes will announce the winners days shy of my birthday, so I hope it’s good news. I feel very strongly about one particular poem. In a way, I pity people like [redacted]. They don’t understand their own insignificance. While they believe in a world of mediocrity surrounding their brightly shining star, they—in reality—have fallen down a well and we’re all looking over them, watching sadly as they rebuild their walls.

My play will officially be performed in April. I found out that one of the cast members for another of the plays was in Waterloo Road back in the day. I’ve gone from watching WR sitting on the kitchen counter with a bacon sarnie to mixing with those same people. It’s madness! Even if I’m not well enough to attend, this could open doors for me. I never saw myself as a playwright, but here we are! I should be getting pictures from rehearsals in the next few days. When you come from a small town like Bolton, it can be suffocating. Anything outside it seems other-worldly. When I was a kid, we’d go on holidays, but it didn’t feel real. Bolton is like a glove you can’t remove.

1. I’ve decided to do a monthly edition of a diary where I mock up all what has happened—from the mundane to the extraordinary. Names will be reduced to [redacted] for privacy and legal purposes. If you enjoy this kind of thing, let me know below.

2. Of Mersey Sound fame.

3. Stewart was my boyfriend who passed in 2020.