When you get an idea, if it’s potent enough, it infects you like a virus which rapidly mutates in order to evade capture, annihilation, the cessation of its existence. Conscious that there are no anti or prebiotics that can alleviate such a situation, wisdom tells you to succumb. As you inhale the froth that licks the sides of your quaint hot-chocolate glass flute and muse about the next year, a squinted eye fixed on the ticking hands of the clock, the cogs start to jar and jut into place, and your mind embraces the fermenting concept.
I’m still struggling to understand my subject, to understand how to analyse, write and express my ideas. Yet, while I regularly moan about it, clutch at my hair, have self-pitying crying sessions and crawl into my bed at 4 a.m after attempting to read enough to present something called an essay, I have learnt to also embrace the parts of my subject I enjoy. Perhaps I’m not yet a critic, but I am creative. What better way to remember what you love than by doing what you love.
So my fiendish hot chocolate friends have infected me with the idea of not only writing a play, but putting on a separate play next year as well as creating, presenting and producing (god willing) my own late-night niche poetry show. To combine Slam-Poetry with Spoken Word, seductive jazz music and international, obscure, marginalised, political, social and just beautiful global poetry. Sounds like a huge task, but that’s a part of English literature I love.
Hopefully the people who give me permission to do this and the training to learn how will also be quickly bitten by the creative compulsion mosquito which has expertly impregnated my brain with poetic-malaria compulsion.