Course it is hard to know your true, pure potential with this thing – something so vast and scary as the potential of a writer and their writing. Their words will begin to somehow, someday mean absolutely everything to them; they will no longer really feel the necessary need to comply to any of the real, wrought-iron rules anymore, simply because… well, they are trying to break away from the mundanity of the normal and, oft-than-not, overutilised lines and sentences. I say scary but, really, it’s not that at all. I think somewhere in a truly great writer is the awaiting ability to understand and equally comprehend the fact that they are not only about the words and shapes they make on the page – they are about it all, the open-ended perspective that they may well be lucky enough to end up taking on life. In general, of course writers cannot be squared into one dotty group. Say, for instance, how the Cork people hate ‘The Dubs’ because “they are all the fucking same, all try-hard, D4 cyunts, either that or inner-city rebels with whiskey on their tongue. A tongue that tries too hard and, as a result, fails like cutthroat crazy.” Personally, I love the Dubs. Love what they stand for – a vast and wide-ended city with a million differing kinds of soft-hearted souls out there, all theatrical in their own nature, both nocturnal and otherwise. But hey, that’s just me – one writer among a billion of them try-hard, toffy-nosed, some-same-city cyunts! But the thing that I really love? The fact that pretty much every single one of us doesn’t have to pay the monstrous and repetitive expenses that most artists have to endlessly force themselves to part with in gaining the necessary equipment to be their particular sort of an artist. We all have a voice, a brain and a willingness to create our own story – be it on the page or right there in front of our wired eyes and in real life. Least this way we don’t need to pay a fortune on guitars and pianos and what-not to make sense of an instrument that, for me anyway, is too hard to comprehend mastering. But then, I love that too, the fact that I can’t even ever think about succeeding with something that some people can do with such ease it’s exhilarating to witness. Those fuckers, all of them, they ARE my poems, same poems I write with chewed-up and chomped Bic biros which will never, ever become too expensive a thing, even when down to your last dime. Fail and fetch it again, I say.