I met a man at the Alternative Press Fair on Saturday. He was part of a poetry collective selling independently printed books and tip toed over almost seconds after I had picked up his own volume.
As a communicator, he was awkward.
He made little eye contact, spoke in pause-heavy half-sentences and seemed tense, defeated.
I bought his book, partly because I appreciate DIY print, partly because I felt an empathic pang for a writer who felt guilty about trying to make their work a source of self sustaining income.
His poems are elegant, humorous and neat, a warming example of the way that the shaky, socially clumsy selves we present to the world can conceal some of the most bright, beautiful and imaginative hearts.