What am I doing here?

An existential and organisation question for writers, makers, therapists - everyone?

This is a newsletter for my paid supporters with a preview for all my subscribers. If you enjoy my writing please consider upgrading your subscription for £4/month or £40/year. You can cancel at any time though I always appreciate your commitment over time, as I offer mine to you. I offer a blend of creative reflection and contemplation, solace, mindful travel inspiration, rune and card readings, and occasional very short fiction. My most recent book is Weathering on geology and therapy. My first book Grounded is an illustrated guide to nature connectedness. I also have a new multi-disciplinary art chapbook called CONDUIT available now in hardcopy and digital version. Thank you for your continued support.

COMING UP SUMMER 2026

ARVON Short Course/Residential - Lumb Bank, Yorkshire, 17-20th August

In August, my friend and fellow rock botherer Alyson Hallett and I will be running a 4-day residential on writing rocks - prose and poetry - for the inimitable writing centre, Arvon at Lumb Bank. Last time I heard over half of the places were sold and there were perhaps 5 places remaining. If you would be interested in joining us for a writing intensive then please do look at the info on the link and book a place. I would love to meet you there and write together.

Writers who write about nature, often and inevitably write about the seasons and cycles of life, observing them as they change, even as those changes are out of kilter in a climate changing world. They write about species, charismatic and overlooked. And so, it occurred to me recently, what do people who write about rocks, write about? Afterall, the changes that a rock undertakes are not as noticeable against human time frames, and there is no particular seasonality to a rock. It doesn’t come into leaf (though I suppose moss on a rock may thicken) or hibernate or go into spate. Strange too, to wonder about rock writers as if they are a group I know nothing about, as if I wasn’t one of them.

What do I write about then when I write about rocks? The answer is a paradox: I both do, and I don’t. I am in some ways writing about rocks all the time, and also never writing about rocks. Not that many of my Substack posts are about rocks, and I’ve never written an ode to a rock (have I?). But I have definitely written one book about rock. Another with rocks in mind (and on the back cover!). Most recently, my zine/chapbook Conduit and my first zine, Great Geological Controversies were about rocks. I have also written a couple of articles about the benefits of knowing a bit of geology while out walking. But my editorial portfolio is mostly not about rocks, directly. I create workshops and fieldtrips that centre rocks. I help other academics and artists think about their own work with rocks. Recently, I helped musician Laura Misch work on her latest album, Lithic – mainly in the thinking that went into it, but also some of the lyrics. There are probably more things that I have missed off the list. But am I a writer that writes about rocks? I would still perhaps err on the side of I’m not sure. What I am sure about is that I write about relationships, I write about what I hear, I write about states of being.

I like to work within a healthy dose of mystery, but I also like to know what’s what. Perhaps you do too? I like to have a regular check in with myself about what my work is about, which is essentially asking what am I doing here?* Sure, it helps make writing a bio easier, but it’s more than that. It’s about making sure I am not running on with an exhausted idea that I’ve lost the plot with, or that what I’m doing still matches what I want to be doing, or that the trifling idea I am labouring over might have some bigger, broader, point that I can identify as potentially useful, or better still, connective.