Internal Windows: A Reflection on my Creative Writing MA

 By Anna Walsh

I started writing poems as a creative outlet when my children were small, and I occasionally performed them at spoken word events in Leicester.  When I became Word! Poetry Slam Champion 2022, part of my prize was a paid gig at the Attenborough Centre. One of my neighbours who came to the gig is an English lecturer at the University of Leicester and she encouraged me to consider the Creative Writing MA. 

It was intense but fun to return to studying as a mature student and the first modules, on climate change and poetry, suited my experience and interests. The second-semester course on fiction was a steep learning curve, but I was keen to challenge myself and I developed a good writing routine with excellent support from tutors and classmates.  

My final MA dissertation, Internal Windows: 42 Micro Memoirs, is a collection of memories from childhood, adulthood and parenthood which vary widely in form. It was inspired by Beth Ann Fennelly’s Heating and Cooling: 52 Micro-Memoirs, which includes memoirs of a single sentence, others which are lists or short paragraphs with joke-like punchlines, and the titular "Heating and Cooling" which is a five-page personal essay.

I was excited to discover a new genre which suited my writing style, as I discussed in my reflective commentary:

"I experience life in fragments. Each shard is glittering, and compelling. The inputs of my surrounding environment; sounds light and smells, images, words and textures, shine unfiltered into my brain. This feature of my neurodiversity can be an asset for Creative Writing. I notice detail and am fully immersed in every experience. I find interest in the ordinary. As each location is all-consuming, moving from one room to another is like travelling between different worlds. The recent past quickly becomes a distant memory and the future is unimaginable. Life is a set of disconnected segments rather than a connected continuum. This works well for writing poetry, dense and intense around a single metaphor. Longer-form writing and narrative structure is much more challenging for me. I found that micro-memoirs suited my ability to craft short pieces which are complete in themselves." 

I had no shortage of material. It was just a case of collecting up the scattered post-it notes, the unnamed documents from the corners of my computer, the "notes to self" on my phone and some older memories from the depths of my brain.  I spent a lot of time on editing and applying my new learning to craft these pieces into effective stories in a wide variety of forms. 

Arranging the forty-two pieces in the most compelling order was an important but potentially overwhelming process. I followed my supervisor’s advice and printed them all out. I then infiltrated the Engineering block and enjoyed several hours rearranging my pages on their large, tiled landing with windows overlooking the park.

I am delighted that I will be returning to the University of Leicester in September to start my PhD as part of the EM-SLAM programme focussed on sustainability, storytelling and mental health.

Below, you can read three of the micro-memoirs from my MA Creative Writing Dissertation. 

Cheating death

I have written poems for one wedding and three funerals. My relatives message me memories and I connect them with rhyme. My dad says he’ll be sorry to miss the funeral poem I write for him, so we agree that he can have it in advance. I send him instalments, a verse for every birthday. He gets to cheat death by hearing his own eulogy and I will never have to say, "I wish I’d told him while I had the chance." 

Saturday mornings 

"Can we have icing sugar on our breakfast?," we shout towards the mounds of our sleeping parents. One of them mumbles a muffled syllable and neither of them moves. I will take that as approval. My brother is already on his way to the kitchen, jumping down the last two stairs. 

He places the pink box on the kitchen table, the cardboard flaps flipped up, and the inner packet open. We climb onto the wooden stools, dangle our legs and wait for several seconds in respect of the ritual. My brother hits the packet and a white cloud rises.  We lean right in and inhale the sweetness, coating our throats and noses with the soft powder particles.  

Once the magic has settled on the surfaces, we abandon the sticky kitchen to eat our sugar topped Weetabix in front of far too much TV. 

Years later I come across a newspaper article: a health study into the benefits of glucose for respiratory illnesses. It suggests inhalation therapy as a treatment, but they have yet to address how sugar might be inhaled. 

We are the pioneers who have the answer. Those Saturday mornings spent in research will not have been in vain. I message by brother to congratulate him.

The Tidsoptimist

Sorry I’m late I was thinking about my cheese plant.

Sorry I’m late I was working out the meaning of life.

Sorry I’m late but I genuinely believed that if I cycled fast enough, I could catch up with time. 

Linda Anderson, "Against Falling"

 

Linda Anderson is Emeritus Professor of English at Newcastle University where she founded the Newcastle Centre for the Literary Arts (2009) and the annual Newcastle Poetry Festival. She has written extensively about autobiography and feminist theory but more recently has published widely on Elizabeth Bishop, including the monograph, Elizabeth Bishop: Lines of Connection (Edinburgh University Press 2013), and has co-edited a collection of essays on poetry archives, The Contemporary Poetry Archive: Essays and Interventions (Edinburgh University Press, 2019), Originally from Scotland, she was an editor of Writing Women for many years, has worked to establish innovative poetry archives at Newcastle University, including the Bloodaxe Archive, and has published a poetry pamphlet, Greenhouse, with Mariscat Press, 2013. She is currently Chair of Bloodaxe Books. Her first poetry collection, The Station Before (2020) was shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney first collection prize.

About Against Falling, by Linda Anderson 

At the heart of Linda Anderson’s second collection is an exploration of time and of ageing. Time is pressing, urgent, in relation to both the individual and the planet. However, underneath, there is also something unfinished, whether that be in relation to memory’s ability to revise the past and take on different shapes and meanings, or in relation to writing itself which has a materiality which links it to the body of the writer. The collection contains an interrogation of the poet’s notebooks where chance and randomness have an important part to play, forging surprising links, and directing attention to the surrounding bloom of uncertainty, the ‘diaphanous, unwritten poem’ that lurks behind any finished poem. The fragility of the body also undermines certainty, and while much of the collection draws on visual imagery, derived particularly from the natural world, the loss of sight is folded into acts of careful observation, making seeing itself both more problematic and more precious.

You can read more about Against Falling on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two poems from the collection. 

From Against Falling

Near 

          1.Blanchland 

          For A.S.

Pause in this proximity, 

in the flare of beech trees 

alight with green, 

the canopy of birdsong. 

Now is what we live over and over.

 

Even in this place that feels ancient, 

where our memories come back to us, 

something new is forming, 

an indentation in the surface of things 

a shape making itself felt. 

Listen and it’s as if there’s a note 

almost too high to hear, the merest touch on the strings, 

and we don’t know if we’re imagining it, 

fence and blossom and light 

pierced by singing. 

It takes only this hair-crack in time, 

mid-stride, mid-sentence, 

a bated breath, 

for all the winged creatures suddenly 

to rise up and fly through us.

Dustman 

           (After the painting by Stanley Spencer) 

Everything depends on dust, 

the particles of everything. 

Look closer it tells us. Never 

despise the slightest thing. 

Time is a drift of heaven-knows-what, 

silted into memory. 

Coal-dust, vegetable-dust, 

bone-dust, crockery-dust. 

The dust he noted in the long bare studio, 

warmed by the radiant stove. 

Or the dustmen clattering the bins 

in the street, a paean of bells. 

Life evicts us from our homes, 

yet live we must. 

Fustily, he will resurrect it all. 

The miracle of cabbages 

and teapots and skin. 

Dust to dust 

crowded with yearning 

for how it begins.

Catherine Tudish, "A Thousand Souls: A Novel in Stories"

 

Catherine Tudish is the author of the novel American Cream and the story collection Tenney’s Landing. She has taught writing and literature at Harvard University, Dartmouth College, and the Bread Loaf School of English. She now lives in a village in central Vermont, where she teaches a community writing workshop at the local library.

About A Thousand Souls: A Novel in Stories, by Catherine Tudish
The fourteen stories of A Thousand Souls interweave the lives of three generations in the remote village of Neptune, Vermont, as they inevitably touch the outside world. Even as their loyalties and traditions are tested through times of loss, betrayal, and discovery, these characters embody an abiding connection to place. Sharply observed, wry, and deeply tender, these stories resonate with both the intricacy and cost of interconnection as the years pass, and ordinary lives take unexpected turns.

You can read more about A Thousand Souls on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read an excerpt from the title story. 

From A Thousand Souls

My name is Stewart Prime. I drive a rural mail route, which gives me a lot of time to think. Lately I’ve been thinking about how a tiny thing—a worn-out gear, say, or a word misspoken—can change a person’s life forever. It’s hardly a new topic with me. The turning point of my life came early, not long after my sixth birthday, when my mother and father and older brother Henry died in the collapse of a carnival Ferris wheel. They happened to be in the seat at the very top when things went wrong. Others were injured, but no one except my parents and my brother was killed. I was in the hospital at the time, recovering from a tonsillectomy. Henry had promised to win a prize for me at the pitching booth and bring it to my hospital room. I don’t know if he won a prize or not. They might have gone on the Ferris wheel before playing any of the games. 

*

For some time after the accident, I met my family in a dream. I would walk outside in the early morning to find my mother and father and brother waiting for me on the cool grass. The sun would be rising behind them, and in that gauzy light I could see they were angels with beautiful wings, like the angels in the church window. As I got closer to them, they would take off their wings and lay them gently on the ground.

“Why are you taking off your wings?” I would ask, fascinated by the pearly whiteness of the feathers.

“It’s the only way we can be with you, sweetheart,” my mother would say.

“We don’t mind,” Henry would add, casting a wistful glance behind him.

When my father smiled at me and opened his arms, I would know it was true. They had come back to me. I couldn’t help it, I cried for joy.

*

I must have been about nine when I understood, even while I was dreaming, that the angels were not real. My family was never coming back. 

Suyin Du Bois, "Eating Air"

 

Suyin Du Bois is a poet of mixed Chinese-Malaysian and Belgian heritage, living in London with her South African husband. Her poems have been published in Propel, Iamb, Stanzas, Bi+ Lines: An Anthology of Contemporary Bi+ Poets (Fourteen Publishing, 2023) and Malaysian Places and Spaces (Maya Press, 2024), amongst others. She is a member of the Southbank Centre’s New Poets Collective 2024/25. When not obsessing over word choice, Suyin spends her time building a profit-with-purpose start-up that seeks to ensure 24/7 access to nutritious, affordable food for NHS hospital staff. Eating Air is her debut pamphlet.

About Eating Air, by Suyin Du Bois
Steam rises from bowls of noodle soup, tender steaks are seared in butter, sand-roasted chestnuts are shared from a paper bag. Eating Air – the debut pamphlet from Suyin Du Bois – is a mouth-watering collection of poems about food, belonging and connection. 

Charting a journey across cuisines and continents, these poems carve into the author’s dual Chinese-Malaysian and Belgian heritage and food's enduring role in our cultural, familial and personal histories. 

From the low stools of Penang’s kopitiams to the bright lights of London's Chinatown, Eating Air is a love song to food and a poignant catalogue of its profound capacity to serve up memory, language, and longing.

You can read more about Eating Air on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two sample poems from the collection. 

From Eating Air

Ode to Kaya

 

Egg jam first on my young tongue: palm sugar 

sweet, coconut milk rich. Thick layers on charred 

toast, salted butter cubes between, melting in Penang 

sweat. My Goh Ee Poh stood for hours stirring you

in that double boiled heat. Exports to be swaddled, 

twisted into pink and green plastic bags, nestled

amongst swimming costumes and sundresses – rituals

to ward off mid-air leaks in the 14 hours from one home

to the other. Back in England your layers thinned, 

our knives more sparing after each spread. 

After Goh Ee Poh grew too frail, aunties and uncles 

gifted us store-bought surrogates. You were labelled Kaya.

Our cupboards filled with your empties, aides-mémoire

of indulgence repurposed to house fragrant rice, Chinese 

mushrooms, our longing for Nyonya flavours.

By the time pandan leaves arrive in Chinatown, I am grown 

up, have my own kitchen where I can stand for hours.

Goh Ee Poh has long since condensed

into photographs, so I sweeten my never-asked

regret, trace down someone else’s heirloom recipe.

You are needy, threaten lumps, failure, but I stir and stir

like her until my spoon draws the right depths of lineage.

I lift a heap of you into my mouth, tongue 

your clotted grainy sweetness.

 

Cut Scenes

Dad fusses with his leather school bag / before sitting down to breakfast / by the coal-fired stove / in a 1920s maison de ville I’ve visited from the pavement / my grand-père / who I know from Agfa Billy snaps of walking holidays in the Ardennes / Sunday best studio portraits / has sizzled him a small steak / in a lump of butter / crisped at the edges / deep juicy red in the centre / fried bread on the side / the best way he knows / to sustain his son / on the bundled walk across the tram tracks to school / to protect him / against its respected priests / the wooden blackboard erasers they aim at boys’ heads

 

Dad orders steak in a restaurant / blue / walking to the table / by the excuse-me method of cooking / one part joke / three parts recipe / waiters don’t always get it / my held breath / a kind of grace / I watch for his knife to deliver / deep juicy red / not pink / worse grey / how else / can he see his father again / only when I know / it won’t be sent back / I slice my own / reveal / the fibres that make us 

Professional Writing and Publishing on Creative Writing at Leicester

Over the years, we've published numerous articles on professional writing, publishing and other aspects of "employability" in relation to Creative Writing. So we thought it might be a good idea to bring some of these together. 

We embed professional writing skills at all levels (undergraduate and postgraduate) in our Creative Writing courses at Leicester. We believe it's a fundamental (and also fascinatingly varied) part of the subject. 

Below, you can find links to many of the features we've run on aspects of the professional writing world over the last few years. Some of these are general, some written by students and graduates, some by professionals beyond the university. Just click on the links to read more. 

Books by Students on Creative Writing at Leicester

Resources and Opportunities in the Media 

Some Useful Online Resources for Creative Writers 

The MA in Creative Writing: What You Can Expect

How Creative Writing Skills Can Make You A Better Copywriter, by Kristina Adams 

What Ghostwriting Taught Me, by Charis Buckingham

Five Years of Publishing Beyond the Mainstream: On Setting Up and Running Renard Press, by Will Dady

Pitch Perfect: Make Money from Your Writing, by Simon Elson

The Author as Promoter: A How-to Guide, by Charlie Hill

On Running a Literary Festival, by Charlie Hill

Reflecting: The Lessons I've Learned as a Writer, by Jenny Kane

Small Press Publishing: The Dos and Don'ts, by Isabelle Kenyon

In Conversation with Literary Journals, ed. Isabelle Kenyon and Charley Barnes

Our Future Storytellers: A Creative and Critical Writing Course, by Amirah Mohiddin

Writing for Games: Theory & Practice, by Hannah Nicklin

Multiple Middles: Storytelling in Games, by Hannah Nicklin

So You Want to Self-Publish? by Alicia Saccoh

Is An Internship for You? by Lisa Smalley

My Work Experience at Shoestring Press, by Sonia Tailor 

On Applications and Employability, by Jonathan Taylor

Creative and Critical Digressions: On the Creative Writing PhD, by Paul Taylor-McCartney

Red Flags and Green Flags in Publishing, by Anna Vaught

Do Too Many Cooks Spoil the Draft? Some Reflections On Amateur Hour's Second Zine and Group Feedback, by Nina Walker

Work Experience, Copywriting and Journalism, by India Wentworth

The Civil Service Fast Stream: Career Opportunities, by Gregory Wilson

Milena Williamson, "Milk & Moon-water"

 

Milena Williamson, photo by Stephanie Sy-Quia

Milena Williamson is from Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. She has an MA and PhD in poetry, both from the Seamus Heaney Centre at Queen’s University Belfast. Her debut pamphlet, Charm for Catching a Train, was published with Green Bottle Press in 2022. Her debut collection, Into the Night that Flies So Fast, was published with Dedalus Press in 2024. In 2021, she received the Society of Authors’ Eric Gregory Award. In 2022, she received a support for the individual artists programme grant from the Arts Council of Northern Ireland for work that became Milk & Moon-water.

About Milk & Moon-water

A Sudden Stitch. Unfruitful Land. A Fever. 

In Milk & Moon-water, Milena Williamson uncovers 11 Old English metrical charms – ancient incantations spoken to ward off harm – creatively translating them into magical and medicinal spells for the modern reader. 

Alongside each reimagining is an original charm poem, a remixed and new telling of an old text. Covering the climate crisis, illness, ageing and fertility, this collection of charms ranges from the incantatory to the unhinged, and re-engages with the ancient practice of looking to the land and the body for answers to life’s new and persisting questions.

You can read more about Milk & Moon-water on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two sample poems from the collection. 

From Milk & Moon-water

Charm for Unfruitful Land (Remixed)

The good news is the wolves have returned to Europe.

   The bad news is people are killing wolves again. I own no

underwear from this island. There is no purely wild place left

   on this island. I buy wildflower seeds from the dark web.

I walk on the earth while there is still time and sprinkle seeds

   on riverbanks, lawns and graveyards. The smoke pours

across borders and becomes the sky. It’s time to buy an air filter

   and give it a name. I am stuck inside a well and Europe

is the silver bucket framed against the sky. We are living

   in the overlap. We can create clouds from seawater.

We drilled into Antarctica to find the most transparent ice.

   This ice is compressed by other ice so it’s dark down there,

dark enough to see neutrinos belly-flop into light.

 

Journey Charm (Remixed)

With eight lanes on the upper

and six lanes on the lower,

the busiest bridge in the world

is a sonnet. Love, we are suspended

in steel between the river and the sky.

Manhattan and a flood warning

is a good backdrop for listing everything

that has spilled on the GW Bridge –

gas and manure and watermelon

and frozen chicken. Upper or lower?

A man once landed a plane here

and survived. Now there’s a woman

on the median selling fresh oranges.

We see the signs. The lanes divide.

Apryl Skies, "Elements & Angels"

Apryl Skies is a California native, an award-winning author, filmmaker, and founder of Edgar & Lenore's Publishing House. Skies’ writing is highly aesthetic, lyrical and provocative. She now resides among the ancient saguaros, colourful street art and opulent monsoon skies of Tucson AZ.

About Elements & Angels, by Apryl Skies
Elements & Angels is a wildly imaginative collection of poetry by award-winning author, Apryl Skies. Like snapshots capturing memories, past lives, Skies draws a full spectrum of emotion from each sacred moment, moulding them into cinematic poems, dramatic recollections and gritty vignettes. Skies navigates her way through an uncertain world recognizing the magic of the mundane. These poems are time capsules and the messages within overflow with thought-provoking metaphor. Long-awaited and epic in scale this collection reads like a survivor anthem.

From Elements & Angels

Poems inspired by Los Angeles

LosT Angeles

City to cinders
Buried beneath soot and ash
Paradise wounded

Fire at the Midnight Matinee

The entire southern California coast
bursts into flame

Radioactive egos tread water
exploding into a sea of cinder

centerfolds and cardboard cut-outs 
with their manufactured smiles, 
flailing arms, and yoga mats
rush toward a painted 
Hollywood horizon 
scraping the gum from their heels.

Ushers rip perforated tickets,
viewers take their seats
awaiting the next Black Dahlia

Mouths agape
full of popcorn
and imitation butter.

Poems inspired by Tucson

Tucson Landscape

Mai tai sunset sky
Over desert horizon
Coyote and moon


Oracle Starlings

Starlings in flight 
their peculiar formations 
mingle with the ghosts
above the cemetery on Oracle Road

a choreographed birdsong,
a dance with the dead
at twilight

here on Oracle road
the sun sinks
beneath the Tucson landscape
into the shadows of ancient Saguaros

where no one is less alive 
than the living

115 Degrees Fahrenheit 

I tickle Mexico 
to return to you
across desert horizons 
of saguaros and mesquite
miles rippled with heat
trundling onto this tired highway, 
my bridge back home …

And I could not love you more
as I lean heavy into your indifference,
once my soft place to land
now a shattered citadel 
of infinite distances

And those raw truths 
that continue to burn and consume
our existence, and each of these
haunting stars above
revealing all our unremarkable postures

How very foolish we are 
to think any one of us 
worthy of crown.