“The post office in the forest was a capital little institution and flourished wonderfully, for many things passed through it. Poetry and pickles, music and gingerbread, invitations, scoldings and even puppies.” - Little Women

Doves to send stories, poetry, music, art, thoughts to the world. Anything to communicate the wonders and sorrows of life.

Welcome to The Dove Post.


I’m buzzing. It feels like there’s lightning in my belly. It makes me want to jump up, makes my toes curl, my breathing laboured. I want something really badly. Yet all this I feel whilst being completely still except for my fingers flying across the keyboard.

I looked at Claire’s page. I know I said I wouldn’t do it. But I just wanted to look. I’m not going to read the books. I’m not. But the glimpse just ignited something in me that I thought I had lost. Besides feeding my vice, those books fed my drive to be a lawyer. I wanted, yearned, longed for a lot of things in those books: the witty banter, the dynamic between friends and partners, the personalities of characters. It was exciting. It was new. It was something I never thought existed. I’d only seen glimpses of it but never in full and oh, how grand it is to see the whole thing. I’m talking about British culture. No other culture communicates with each other in such a way. It’s witty, light, funny, yet intellectual. I crave it badly. Yet I know I can’t have it. Look what A Level literature did to me. It was so exciting, so rich, so sinful. It’s too free for comfort. I feel like I could let go and that has alarms going off in my head.

While I knew that those books are something special, what I saw on Claire’s page confirmed it. What I saw lit my fuse again. She’s published her book. She’s en route to publishing the next. And oh, if I thought the book was something special, the publishing is something else. It’s art. It’s creation as is the creations I analyse in literature. Everything is intentional. Everything has meaning. Everything is composed purposefully, arranged and pieced together as poets construct poems. It’s made with intention, craft, skill, logic, emotion. If I were a character in a book I would’ve fallen to my knees. How I want, how I yearn, how I desire to create something as glorious. A work that is grand. The genius that Amy March talks about. That’s what I’m talking about. How do I- I can’t finished sentences when it comes to myself.

This is success. This is happiness. This is a person in their element. It’s not only seen through their work but what got them there. Claire talks about her life, her family, her friends, her education, her likes and dislikes. They’ve all led her there. I can’t change what I’ve been given. I won’t resent it. But I can’t lie and say that I don’t want to be in a similar position. So I try to pick at things and try to change things. I just try. But nothing turns up to anything. What do I do? Who do I talk to about this? I feel like I keep looking for something specific. I keep searching for that exactly right thing for someone to say. On YouTube people’s videos come close to what I’m looking for, some very close. But it never lands on the sweet spot. I can’t tell you what I’m looking for either. I’d get distracted with something that comes close to what I’m looking for and forget about it for a while but then it comes back. There’s something I’m trying to grasp but I can’t name it. It’s some shapeless, faceless thing. I just know that I’m searching. It’s like unfurling your hand and stretching it into the darkness. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I want to create it but I don’t know what shape it should take. I just want and it’s an empty thing. Not that the ambition is meaningless. I don’t even know what it is. It’s just airy, without form. I have the need to create without a medium through which to channel it.