9 October 2025
It’s been a while, an exceedingly long while since I wrote a blog. Time, social media, inclination, grief, energy, and a whole lot more besides meant it was the last thing on my mind, never mind reaching the To Do List.
My website was old and out of date. It took ages to load up a photograph. Instagram was quicker, didn’t require so many words. Then I signed up to do a Master of Arts postgraduate degree. Despite not being a graduate. And to my surprise, I was accepted. An MA in Creative Writing at the University of Hull. Starting January 2024 and finishing November 2026. Goodness knows what possessed me to think it was a good idea. A desire for a reason to write I suppose. I wanted to write but had no reason to. No deadlines, no evening class. I didn’t want to resurrect my magazine The Needlesmith, that would have been too big a project. Writing only happened in my head when dog walking or driving.
One evening, the Instagram algorithm passed an advert across my screen. It looked interesting, it tickled that latent writing interest, and I clicked. Then someone called me, and we chatted. Then I thought about it for a bit, talked it over with Mr B. Then she called me back – it’s all her fault, I’m sorry I can’t remember her name! The seed had been sown, and there was no stopping the giant beanstalk growing. Forms were completed. Evidence I could write produced, A reference sort and a wonderful one was provided by my dear tutor, whose evening classes I had attended for many years. Then one day, there I was, an enrolled student. Something I swore I would never be again. Previous experiences had not been positive ones. However, now I was about to be 54. It was something I wanted to do. A subject I was more than interested in. Maybe it would be different. It was. Very. I was neither the oldest nor the youngest. The most or the least experienced. It was very refreshing. That it was an online degree drew a line through a swathe of potential anxieties. Our first module tutor was a Kate. I discovered later that she was also a Katharine who also spells it Katharine. Good omens all the way.
It hasn’t been plain sailing by any means. Writing things for assessments is stressful. But they’re a hundred percent better than sitting in an exam (smelly, sweaty, sports) hall. Not having to face the tutor or teacher for feedback feels less personal, too. Having an active WhatsApp group is like a meeting for coffee in the Student Union. A regular Monday morning zoom meeting, especially now that we’re dissertation writing, keeps the spirits up, the motivation going, knowing that support is there.
Writing is often a solitary activity, just you, a pen, blank sheets of paper, and the words (or lack of) in your head. However, doing this degree I’ve discovered it’s also an extremely social activity. Giving and getting feedback from peers, meeting in various online ways, and then in person during a weekend summer school. Friends for life have been made. A tight-knit group has been forged. The sort of group that become beta readers for future novels that get thanked in the acknowledgements at the end of books. To be part of a gang who understand, who talk words, who appreciate the highs and lows, the ups, the downs is quite incredible. And like nothing I’ve experienced before.
I don’t think I’ve been the best student. Life, work, my patients, have sometimes got in the way of regular attendance. I fell off the attending lectures wagon during term time. But somehow, I’ve managed to pull out of the ether enough words to complete and, in fact, comfortably, pass all the set module assignments. Now, these last five months of the year see us drafting our dissertation. The final story. Twelve thousand words. 18 months ago, it felt the equivalent of climbing Everest. It looked to be a vast and terrifying challenge. Many of us didn’t expect to have reached this point. To have traversed the foothills of this MA. To begin the dissertation ascent. Now we’re here, more than halfway up, and 12,000 words don’t feel like enough words.
We have too much to say and not enough space to say it in. Some are writing from life. Two using diaries written by family as their starting point. One heartbreaking and thought-provoking in turn, one becoming a Who Dunnit as the hunt for a missing child begins. One weaving personal memory with local and natural history, plaiting together strands to create a vibrant essay. Yet another whose fascination with historical facts is writing a time-travelling mystery novel.
Me? I’m writing a slightly-futuristic-time-travel-climate-change-awareness-save-the-bees-love-story! And I want to share so many more words than 12,000, just three chapters, really. I’m being encouraged by writing chums and my supervisor to write the book. I really want to. I’d also like to finish the novel I started aeons ago, and its sequel I have a pile of notes for. Just now, the desire to write is strong indeed.
And so, to return to the beginning of this Wittering, I’m returning to blogging. I’m not committing to writing daily, weekly, or monthly, just when I feel like it. Plans and I don’t do well. No promises made. But just to be able to say more than the 2200 characters allowed by Instagram. To house my words on a website that is mine and doesn’t belong to a multi-international company that could, can, has, will, pull the plug, or fold without a moment’s notice, feels rather satisfying. If no one finds this or reads it, I know it’s there and the words are no longer in my head so there’s space for some more.
More anon
Kx
