I've been struggling to find words I feel are worth writing of late. Of course the first conclusion I jumped to was that I was done - nothing more of use would come of my writing. But then I thought of other women around my age, in particular the amazing poet who I once met leaving early as I was arriving late for a writing event. Why was she leaving? She said it was because there was nothing she could say. I tried to convince her otherwise, but I failed, and I was horrified that we missed out on her voice because of what I could only think was a crisis of confidence. Lately that same thing has been happening to me. I've attended events, feeling like I ought to go, like I'll enjoy it when I'm there, and then I've not enjoyed it. I've found myself unable to write anything I'd want anyone else to hear, ashamed of my awfulness. I found myself looking at my writing and thinking, who would care anyway? A lot of this I'm putting down to perimenopause - I'