My hope for this blog is that it will make me do some writing. I toyed with the idea of setting up a home page where I describe myself as Naomi Marklew: writer. ('Poet' sounds far too pretentious, particularly when poems are yet to be written.)
I am not yet that bold. Hence, the 'potential' bit of this blog's title. Also, having had a bash at academia, and now in the throes of stay-at-home motherhood, I am not entirely sure how to describe myself these days. Dr Mummy? Perhaps, but only when wearing my three-year-old's plastic stethoscope.
I had more confidence in my writing 'career' as much younger person. At primary school I wrote a story about a bear called Harold, which I was then invited to read to the reception class. (The teacher took over after about one and a half excruciating sentences.) As a teenager I kept notebooks of my ideas for novels. I hope/dread that some of these will come to light next time I move house - more mortifying than an angst-ridden diary, I expect. My undergraduate English degree produced some essays in which some rather astonishing claims are made about canonical writers, with seemingly unshakable confidence. Taking a module on poetry writing for my MA got me writing and giving readings alongside some enthusiastic (and very talented) classmates at small student events in Durham. This was a highlight of my creative writing career. A PhD in poetry later, I can confirm that my confidence was extremely susceptible to shaking. Almost seven years on, I am still recovering from my PhD viva.
After the birth of my first child, and entering a whole new period of existential crisis, I thought about trying to write poetry again. Not much happened, and I soon got a bit busy having a second baby. But I recently came across a small attempt from that time of early motherhood, more a passing thought than a poem, which (rather feebly) documents my decision to explore my own poetic potential.
Find a book to write it down.
Find the smallest book, the most unnoticeable.
Write it quick, before you change your mind.
Already it’s passing, the moment of belief.
Cross out, falter, stop…
Find a place to hide it again.
