Living in chronic poverty, disabled and in a fiery gloom, I’d written to the Smiths’ lead singer. His reply stopped me from giving up on my dreams
A dreary August morning, 1984. Ant, my brother, bursts into my tiny room and throws down some letters – the post is my lifeline. I pick up one envelope, with strange, spiky block capitals; intriguing handwriting I don’t recognise. I open it, gingerly. It’s a postcard of Morrissey and Sandy Shaw. My heart flutters 10 beats. And I’m shaking as I turn it over to read: “You write delightfully, a priceless gift … Be well, be happy. Love Morrissey XXX”
These words leap at me, embrace me, sing into my senses like the blessing of angels. I spend some time staring at it, holding it, stroking it. Eventually I manage, with some effort, to keep it in my bra, close to my trembling heart, and the once dull day flowers into creativity: a few poems, a new song, and an 11-page letter to my best friend, Kate.
Continue reading... Reported by guardian.co.uk 2 days ago.
A dreary August morning, 1984. Ant, my brother, bursts into my tiny room and throws down some letters – the post is my lifeline. I pick up one envelope, with strange, spiky block capitals; intriguing handwriting I don’t recognise. I open it, gingerly. It’s a postcard of Morrissey and Sandy Shaw. My heart flutters 10 beats. And I’m shaking as I turn it over to read: “You write delightfully, a priceless gift … Be well, be happy. Love Morrissey XXX”
These words leap at me, embrace me, sing into my senses like the blessing of angels. I spend some time staring at it, holding it, stroking it. Eventually I manage, with some effort, to keep it in my bra, close to my trembling heart, and the once dull day flowers into creativity: a few poems, a new song, and an 11-page letter to my best friend, Kate.
Continue reading... Reported by guardian.co.uk 2 days ago.
