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?