The patron saint of lost causes worked wonders for my writer's block.
I needed a few hours alone; to gather my intentions and put pen to paper. When your art becomes your profession it's easy to fall out of love. Mundane editorial puts food on the table but it also steals the very last of my words. Every single day I sit at my desk and type. Clickety clack with a Poet at my feet and a little boy close by. It's rare for me to handwrite my stories but I always come back to the pen when I seek inspiration.
St Jude sits lonesome on a corner of Bourke Street; the Redfern end. With its white-washed exterior and timber-framed cafe windows, it lures the locals who linger on the step, chatting about the sun and the blossoms and the new baby next door.
I was the out-of-towner with a rare hour of solitude. I found a seat by the window, ordered coffee and brunch and began to scrawl a who we are across a new white notebook. Within twenty minutes the blue cup was empty, the page covered in ink. As it should be.
Luisa turned up soon after and between sips of coffee and excitable exclamations she took shots of cafe details....and portraits of a writer who can't wait to share her project with the world.
The ever-lovely Mandy, who regularly meanders the streets of Surrey Hills, recommended St Jude. Thank you!