100 days of sonnets: unlocking that maddening door

How did I get through 100 days of lockdown?

Writing a sonnet a day
disappearing for hours on end
emerging from my makeshift workspace
from time to time triumphant or despairing
often half present during meals
Oh beautiful and tolerant family

finding me elated or flattened depending on the muse
and her inconsistencies

but the almost mathematical architectural aspects of the sonnet
what a gift freely given
to process the daily news
refine my poetic practice
and explore the state of things
you know what I mean by things

If you want to be good at something
you have to practise it
it must enter your bloodstream

I remember writing my first ever sonnet
going slowly crazy up at all hours
I was working up in Nottingham
doing a poetry project in a school
and every night I’d come home to wrestle
with this impossible machine of words

how could say what I wanted to say
within the constraints of rhyme and metre?

finally understanding that it was not
what I wanted to say
but what the poem wanted to say

I had been writing free verse for a while
but I had not fully grasped that fundamental truth
until my first sonnet

that I must
let the poem lead the way

oh and the sestet
folding and unfolding around itself

or the mystery of the final couplet
how to unlock that maddening door

how to be true to the sonnet’s wishes

The lockdown lengthened
something new revealing itself
each day

you never stop learning

Months of being crazed and sleepless
or asleep but dreaming in pentameter
rhymes jostling in my chest

saved by the very beast that was consuming me
and finally this:

Sonnet 100
28th June

‘Covid-19 death toll passes 500,000 worldwide’ BBC News
‘Cannibal rats are among the grimmest consequences of
the upending of urban life’ The Guardian
‘Just because it’s over doesn’t mean it’s really over’ Katy Perry

My loves, this is my last. I tip my hat,
I scrawl a wild hurrah, I lightly trip
into the red beyond. Stiff upper lip,
relief, day of the dirt, day of the rats
who eat their own. The rising numbers crack
their own facade, the sonnet slowly sips
its morning tea and speaks: Let’s call it quits.
To hell with poetry. Bring on the maniacs.
There will be greater griefs. The leading man
is doing press-ups and he has no plan,
the virus finds its host, the wars go on,
the markets rise and fall, the earth is spent.
I hold the sonnet close: my faithful friend,
and hear it sigh. Damn, it says, we are not done.


Rejection, Women and Love: why keep going?

IMG_3957As we prepare for building work on our flat, we’ve been doing a giant clear-out which feels both cathartic and kind of terrifying. The trick is not to look at anything too carefully, especially written or printed matter, because you can disappear down that temporal rabbit hole for months …

But yesterday a whole pile of correspondence ambushed me; it was sandwiched between some of the kids’ old artwork and exercise books, most of which shouldn’t have been kept in the first place. But there is a time for holding on, and a time for letting go, and suddenly the letting go feels so GOOD …

That pile of paper I’d discovered about was actually mine. It consisted mostly of cover letters to and from publishers/film companies/agents – also reviews of past work. Decades of the stuff, right? I’ve been doing this for nearly half a century.

Reader, I went straight to the shredder and nearly broke the thing by stuffing too much in too quickly and jamming it, so desperate was I to shred my past. But before the machine ate each chunk of sorrows and kindnesses and near misses of which there were MANY, I couldn’t help but glance at each one and reader, I was SHOCKED.

I was one of those fortunate (or perhaps unfortunate) writers to whom success came very young. When I left university with a couple of notable – or at least noted – plays under my belt, I found myself in demand. This was the early 1980s: young women were all the rage – people were suddenly realising we might have something to offer after all, so long as there weren’t too many of us. Not much changes, does it?  I was taken on by a big agent and wrote several commissioned plays in the next few years.

It all sounds great, doesn’t it? But the fact was I didn’t really know what I was doing. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t really capable. I was twenty-one years old, there were no writing courses to speak of, no mentoring, no ACE schemes for emerging writers. I had my agent but my agent just wanted to get me as much work as possible. So, on I stumbled with my hit and miss, working for community theatre companies, repertory companies, coming up with ideas when they were demanded, fulfilling the brief.

All was going well and then, as my thirties approached, along came motherhood. All-consuming, and no internet to go to for advice or understanding, no network of writing mothers to share the difficulties … just a great big void and a lot of sleepless nights. I managed – being a mother has its own rewards as well as its punishments – I carried on writing – oh yes  I did, but sporadically and in the spaces between four children.

And in between those children I won a coveted palace at The National Film School (I had never wanted to write for film but I was flattered into taking the place) a purgatorial experience on the whole, but a good stepping stone to getting noticed; I spent years in development hell … as I noted a few days ago from the aforementioned pile of correspondence. (One memorable BBC producer who was particularly keen on a storyline that involved a friendship between women regretfully passed on it in the end because they’d done a drama about a friendship between two women a few years before.)

My agent must have been so exasperated with me: Those letters! I didn’t understand about networking, keeping up connection or even recognising a compliment. I didn’t know the difference between a sadistic rejection (and there were a few of those on the pile) and a helping hand held out or a message of support. As soon as someone didn’t give me an outright ‘yes’, I just backed off and never went back, even though – it was clear from my agent’s correspondence – my agent was encouraging me to do so.

This was forty years ago. Where were my role models? Where was my support network of other young women? My recollection is that although women were welcomed, the men in power didn’t want too many of them, so there was an intense feeling of competition. I do know that my self- esteem was rubbish or I would have made that appointment to go in and have a chat when it was offered, or gone for a script session at the BBC when a producer suggested it, or sent another version to the same producer when I’d written it, or sent the next piece of work to the person who’d asked to see it, or answered my agent when they suggested a meeting.

I didn’t. I just sat in my kitchen feeding my babies feeling tired and hopeless and like a failure.

As I reread those letters, trying to understand myself, I remembered the research about women and writing; that one of the reasons more poems by men are published is because they’re persistent. They believe in their work so if an editor sends it back, they try again, usually immediately. And again and again. Whereas women more often just go and hide.

But the key thing here, right, is that I never gave up on the writer in me. Even when I was up to my neck in motherhood, even when I had porridge in my hair and was sleepless and slightly mad, I knew the writer was still inside me. Even when I had what I now refer to as a creative breakdown and stopped writing altogether, I knew I’d get back to it. Writing was always there because I couldn’t live without it.

Reading those documents yesterday was a masterclass in process, delusion and persistence. I fully understood my own, self-made, shonky creative trajectory for the first time. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that sometimes things take a long time to sink in. Decades, even.

If you’re twenty-five, say, or thirty, or forty or older, and writing for the first time – or you’ve been at it for years, wondering why nobody is recognising your genius, or thinking that you’re not being noticed because you’re shit, probably neither of those things are true. Probably you need ‘tincture of time’ as my doctor uncle puts it. ‘Tincture of decades’ even. Probably the most important thing you can do for yourself is to stay in your process, keep loving the work – the actual graft of it – and not think about what anyone else makes of it.

Learning to write well, sustainably, with focus and depth and freshness is no quick fix. You might be lucky at the beginning, but luck alone will not sustain or nourish you as an artist.

Writing is a calling, a vocation, a condition.

As Marge Piercy put it in ‘For the young who want to’

‘Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved’

I’ve carried that poem in my heart for decades. I thought, when I was young, that she meant that you have to choose between your work and your lovers, but now I understand it differently. It seems obvious to me now that she means you have to love DOING the work more than you love the attention and admiration of your readership.

Only patience, attention, passion, humility, self-respect, honesty and a ‘a great deal of hard work’ as Elizabeth Bishop put it, will give you a lifetime of doing what you love.

And the great thing is, it’s never too late! Do the work. Love the work and if you love the work you’re doing, that is what will sustain you.

PS The above letter was shredded. I took a photo of it for my daughter first.

Taking your Clothes off in the Gym of the Imagination

Ali Wright, Old Red Lion, The Noises

(Photo is Amy McAllister as Luna and was taken by Ali Wright)


I wrote a play
The Noisesmy first in decades – it’s been an adventure from first inception to actual production at The Old Red Lion
last time I wrote a play I wasn’t a poet & I was younger

now I’m all for challenge & risk because life is short & what’s the point of boring predictable art?


now I’m thinking more deeply about narrative,

white space

the explosive ruinous creative subjectivity of art

Why we do it
who we do it for


I teach poetry & many of our discussions revolve around

what the poem is
what the poet ‘means’
(which they often don’t know, which is fine)
how the poem is received

part of my job is to open up the possibility that once a poem is out there on the page a poet can let it go
it belongs then to the reader
& the reader’s perception is the reader’s perception

how brilliant, I always say – as one reader disagrees with another about a poem  – to have different views in the room

some love the poem, some hate it, some are indifferent
some connect with it, some don’t

some want it to be more direct, some want it to be  more opaque
some are happy with multiple levels of interpretation & ambiguity & some find that harder to tolerate

& what a boring world it would be if we all agreed


for The Noises the most contentious debates have come from the deliberate choices we as a team made to allow space & different views:

what are the terrible events happening outside the house? Are they real or just in Luna’s mind?

what is happening in the family, exactly?

(& without wanting to give spoilers) How much of the ending is in the mind of Luna the dog & how much is real?

what ACTUALLY happened & what didn’t? (well a dog talked to you for a start)


Audiences have variously

– embraced the ambiguity

– enjoyed filling in the spaces themselves

– been delighted to be left with questions

– found the openness confusing or distracting

Some like to have meanings & events pinned down & fully explained
Some don’t

Some have been so caught up with the character, voice & fate of Luna none of those concerns have been relevant

Some have concentrated on the ethical & political questions the play poses – the animal in all of us & how that manifests


as a playwright friend wrote to me after seeing The Noises:
You poets are never knowingly ‘on the nose’


to borrow a phrase the dog Luna in The Noises

A poem is one thing. But a play, a play is something else

poets might feel as if the poem is out of their control once it’s on the page – but ha ha ha
the playwright will scoff at the poet’s fears
because the poet has the luxury of delivering their work fully formed to an audience

but the play is live & temporary & therefore unstable
the play is performed in space & time & then it’s gone

the poem exists until the page itself disintegrates
& even then it may exist fully in the mind of its reader


the poem has a uniquely private relationship with its reader

the play is a collective experience


the play is a concrete thing composed of people & objects & three dimensions – not just words

the poem is a ‘machine made of words’ & words only


the play is a collaborative creation, born of many mothers
of whom the playwright is only one
the play does not exist until it is fully realised on the stage

You may spend years (as I did) growing the script, but the making-rollercoaster really happens in the last breathless downhill twenty seconds of its life when the script is birthed by its multiple mothers as your rickety little car bumps & jolts down the hill
gaining momentum by the minute

you can never have total control because danger is the essence of the journey

Is this metaphor too much?


I set out on a fundamentally insane mission: to write a play that’s a hybrid poetry/theatre piece from the point of view of a talking dog

& I knew I was chancing it but what is art if not a giant risk?

the result of this mission carries in its bones all the joys, challenges & complications of both art forms

Tamar Saphra (director & daughter) courageously picked up this mad piece of my imagination & ran with it all the way to the Old Red Lion Theatre


Now forget about the birth metaphor & think about a fitness metaphor because this really is

like taking all your clothes off  & saying to the jury

Here I am
I’ve been working out for years to get my body in shape just for you.
Love me!

& some people take a good three hundred & sixty degree look at you & don’t take into account all those years of bench presses & sit-ups & sweat & they judge you even when you don’t ask them to

but hey I’ve never had such a mind-bending life-enhancing artistic journey in my whole life


don’t do this if you don’t want to take your metaphorical clothes off in front of a bunch of strangers without so much as an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini to hide behind

but if you’re willing to work out indefinitely
embrace the thrills & feel alive then go for it


it’s a glorious terror

& as for me

I’m going back to the gym of the imagination as soon as I possibly can


just got to get some sleep first