Matt Padwick
The best stories are between the lines in dusty diaries or on scraps of paper, scribbled while I'm rushing to be somewhere I shouldn't be going to.
Or when sitting quietly in a room by myself attempting to empty my mind.
Either way, it's when I am not trying.
A few years ago I climbed into the attic of our rented bungalow armed with some recycled timber and built a desk in front of the gable window overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. This is where I watch the weather, read, maybe switch on the computer, open a new document - cursor flashing - and enjoy whatever happens next... which maybe a poor poem, or a three-day frenzy.
Or when sitting quietly in a room by myself attempting to empty my mind.
Either way, it's when I am not trying.
A few years ago I climbed into the attic of our rented bungalow armed with some recycled timber and built a desk in front of the gable window overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. This is where I watch the weather, read, maybe switch on the computer, open a new document - cursor flashing - and enjoy whatever happens next... which maybe a poor poem, or a three-day frenzy.
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