When, in my early thirties, I first started running, I thought it was horribly masochistic drudgery. But, as I’d been urged to, I kept trying in short, regular bursts. Gradually another experience began to emerge. My body started to feel stronger and, after the first ten minutes or so, there was a feeling of lightness and momentum, invincibility even.

In my twenties I realised I wanted to be a poet, probably the least practical of all writing careers. But I didn’t really think of it as a career. ‘I write poems’ I’d admit, if pressed, as if it was something I did as a secret sideline, and not the lodestar of everything…

It’s not quite harvest time yet, but summer is a time when, for many of us, day job work slows down or pauses, or we travel beyond our usual everyday environment, and we might have a little more time and brain space to contemplate our creative work—its repetitions, resonances and directions.

In my own work, and in my teaching and mentoring, I’m constantly preoccupied by the tension between safety and exploration…

In March, in the week my book Pretenders was published, I took part in a joint online launch event with two other poets. Afterwards, friends from far away and overseas messaged me to tell me how much they’d enjoyed the launch. When I went to bed, though, my tired mind wouldn’t settle or sleep but raced on without me, pounding its feet around some unlit circuit. My muscles were achy and tight.

Online learning platforms and technologies have made poetry workshops accessible for many of my students who have, for example, mobility issues, or mental health problems, or caring responsibilities for older relatives or young children. This is a hugely positive thing—but with some caveats.

When I was growing up the idea of being a writer – and even more so a poet – was very much a fantasy. My dad, being practical, suggested journalism instead. ‘I can just imagine it,’ one of my university friends used to say. ‘You as a poet, living in garret, wearing a shawl and lots of hair grips.’

Letting your own words speak on the page often seems like the least important thing in a long list of priorities. How can we find, or make, time to write—especially if we have demanding day jobs, or caring responsibilities, or both?