My father left me everything: his library, his Christian Women Mirror magazines, his face and the memory of his disappointment the first time I told him I wanted to be a writer. I remember the evening well.
While my journalism career has taken a bit of a backseat, I would say my general writing career is still in a good place. I've been writing a lot in transit, on the bus, on the tram. Because I don’t have as much time to do so when I’m settled at home, between schoolwork and adulting tasks like having to prep my meals. But it’s okay because public transport here is conducive for that. I am not hindered by uncomfortable heat or guarded about being on my phone on an unsafe street.
This first year feels like a new child in school. New shoes. New uniforms. New everything. Everything she thought would win her new friends. But she gets to the playground and realises to her shock: all the cliques are already formed. All that she is left with is her ‘newness’. She has to get used to, and enjoy the smell of her new shoes.
You had tried to picture what Sylt life would be like, but it seemed so different from what you knew that you could not summon a proper mental image of the island, nor island life. Even the googled images did not help
