Broken Postcard started as a place to unravel a mystery. It was a place where I could dive deep, write.. un-write and rewrite. It started as a place where a view would form and a story be told.

The name came from days spent in museums looking at paintings and wishing my way to the shop so I could buy a postcard and own a part of the day. Just a moment. The subtitle for the blog was ‘A Pause for Thought’. But life, as it does, creeped in and stole the thought.

What happened to those moments of thought? The moments in which we stop in wonder at the world and start a journey in which we discover more than ourselves, we find as aspect of life, our experiences in it as we take the few breaths we have in this world.

Enough of those things. Writing is not poetry. It’s gutting, it is hard, it makes you an enemy of yourself. Writing is a mind rubbing up against edges of thought, carving meaning from senses otherwise hidden in a bid to make sensible what remains otherwise hidden.

A friend once described me as a sophisticate. Was she glib? I don’t know. Another, when I complained that I had trouble being honest and was purposefully obscure when I wanted to hide looked at me in stark disbelief. “Just fucking write” she said. “Jesus that’s the one great thing about writing, it’s the only place you can be you… And you might be surprised how many people actually feel the same way”.

So here’s the deal. There’s no epic poetry. There’s some poetry sure… There are essays and there are reflections. Call bullshit when you see it. This is a place where thoughts collect. That’s what the postcards became when they turned into bookmarks and that’s what this is.