I’m not here to preach about algorithms or strategies. No complex tutorials, no tips for “growing your following.” I’ve always believed in keeping things simple. So here it is, straight from the heart:
I use social media to raise awareness of my poetry and photography. That’s it.
I’m not chasing likes or trying to go viral. I don’t have a content calendar or a carefully crafted aesthetic. What I do have is a passion for my craft, and social media is the platform I use to share it with you. It’s as simple and raw as that.
Platforms like Instagram and TikTok are my canvas. They’re not perfect — they’re messy, sometimes chaotic, but that’s what makes them real. They let me share my work, let it breathe, and find its way into the lives of people who might never have found it otherwise.
And that’s the magic of it. It’s not about being polished or chasing numbers; it’s about creating a space for my poetry and photography to live and evolve in real-time, without the constraints of traditional publishing.
Sometimes, a post will be nothing more than a quick snapshot of a fleeting moment, paired with a line that feels just right. Other times, I’ll share a more personal reflection — a deeper dive into the thoughts behind the work. But each time, it’s about sharing the essence of what I do.
No bells, no whistles. Just me, my art, and the quiet hope that it resonates with someone out there.
So, how do I use social media? I use it to share what’s in my heart. To give my poems and photos a home beyond the walls of my studio and to create something real and unfiltered, just for you.
And if one of my words or images makes you pause, even for a second, then I know it’s all worth it.
That’s how I use social media. Simple, honest, and always from the heart.
Describe a random encounter with a stranger that stuck out positively to you.
Pull up a chair, grab a brew… this one still makes me smile in that quiet, “well… that escalated quickly” sort of way.
It started, like a lot of things did in those days, with a bit of mindless scrolling.
No expectation. Just me, half-paying attention to the world through a glowing rectangle, letting my thumb do most of the thinking. Twitter had a way of being like that — a digital high street where you can walk past a thousand things and not remember a single one five minutes later.
Except… this time, I stopped.
There she was.
A random woman, somewhere out there in the universe, holding a book on string theory like it was the most natural thing in the world. Not posed. Just… real. The kind of photo that doesn’t try too hard, and because of that, says more than it should.
Now, I knew a little about string theory. It’s one of those subjects that makes your brain feel like it’s trying to fold in on itself, and I love it.
I have to say there was something about the way she held that book — like she wasn’t intimidated by it. Like she was perfectly comfortable sitting in the middle of something vast and complicated and saying, “Yeah… I’ll give this a go.”
And that stuck with me.
So, in a moment of what I can only describe as reckless curiosity.
I replied.
Nothing clever. Nothing rehearsed. Just a comment about the book… and maybe a a flirtatious comment dressed up as a joke.
I expected nothing back.
Because that’s the unwritten rule of the internet, isn’t it? You shout into the void… and the void politely ignores you.
But this time… it didn’t.
She replied.
And here’s the thing — it wasn’t just a reply. It was one of those responses that had weight to it. Warmth. A little spark of humour. The kind that makes you sit up a bit straighter and think, “Alright… maybe there’s a conversation here.”
So we carried on.
One message turned into a few. A few turned into daily check-ins. Daily check-ins turned into conversations that somehow stretched from “how’s your day been?” to “what do you think happens to us when we’re gone?” without either of us really noticing the shift.
You know the kind.
The ones where hours pass like minutes. Where the world goes a bit quieter around the edges. Where you realise you’re looking forward to a notification more than you probably should.
And somewhere in all of that… this stranger stopped being a stranger.
She became part of the rhythm of my days.
Now, life doesn’t tend to do things in straight lines. It zigzags. It throws in the odd plot twist just to keep you on your toes. But every now and then, it gets something quietly, wonderfully right.
We met.
Properly met.
No screens. No buffering. No carefully typed responses you can edit three times before sending. Just two people, standing there, slightly awkward, slightly nervous… and somehow already knowing each other in a way that didn’t need much explaining.
And it worked.
Not in the fireworks and movie soundtrack kind of way.
In the real way.
The “cups of tea and comfortable silence” way. The “you stay, I’ll stay” way. The kind that builds slowly, steadily… like it’s got no intention of going anywhere.
And somewhere along the line — between the messages, the meetings, the ordinary days that didn’t feel ordinary anymore — that random woman on Twitter…
Became my wife.
Funny, isn’t it?
You can spend years looking for something. Trying to plan it. Trying to understand it.
And then one day… it just shows up.
Holding a book you don’t completely understand, on an app you weren’t really paying attention to, at a moment you almost scrolled past.
Goes to show…
Sometimes the best things in life don’t kick the door in.
They just appear quietly in your feed, tap you on the shoulder, and change everything.
Describe a decision you made in the past that helped you learn or grow.
I didn’t always take a step back. In fact, I was quite the opposite. I used to be quick to anger, quick to react, and even quicker to lash out without really thinking it through. The kind of person who would fire back in the moment, only to replay it all later and wonder if I’d made things worse, which I usually had.
So a while back, I made a decision that, on the surface, didn’t look like much. I decided to read up on Wicca and Buddhism. Originally I wasn’t looking to convert, but simply to understand. To see if there was something in those pages that might quiet the noise a little.
What I found wasn’t some grand revelation or lightning bolt moment. It was quieter than that. Subtler.
A shift.
Through those readings, I started to understand the idea of letting go. Not in a careless way, but in a deliberate one.
The notion that not everything needs my reaction. Not every slight needs to be answered. Not every storm needs me to stand in the middle of it shouting back at the wind.
There’s a kind of peace in stepping aside and letting things unfold as they will.
It echoed something I’ve come to believe over time—that life is fragile, and perspective changes when you’ve seen enough of it to know how little control we really have.
So now, when something happens—when someone says something they shouldn’t, or life throws one of its usual curveballs—I try (not always successfully) to pause.
To breathe.
To remind myself that karma, or the universe, or whatever name you want to give it, has a way of balancing things out without my interference.
And in doing so, I’ve grown.
Not because I’ve stopped caring, but because I’ve learned where to place that care. Less in the chaos, more in the calm.
What place in the world do you never want to visit? Why?
There are plenty of places in this world I haven’t seen yet.
White sandy beaches, bustling cities, and quiet forests where the only sound is your own thoughts echoing back at you.
But if you asked me
“What place do you never want to visit?”
There’s only one answer that comes to mind.
And you can’t find it on any map.
It’s that dark place.
You know the one.
The place where the lights are on, but everything still feels dim. Where you can be surrounded by people, yet feel like the only person left on earth. Where your own mind becomes the loudest, cruellest voice in the room.
I’ve been there.
And I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.
I remember what it felt like…
Like being swallowed whole by something you couldn’t explain. Like trying to scream underwater – all noise, no sound. Like your own thoughts turning against you, convincing you that the world might be better off without you in it.
That’s the thing about it.
It doesn’t look dramatic from the outside. No thunder. No lightning. No warning signs flashing in neon.
Just… quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
There’s a line from one of my older scribbles, Gone, that still sticks with me:
“Swallowed by a darkness they can’t escape.”
And that’s exactly it.
It’s not a place you walk into.
It’s a place that closes in around you.
What makes it worse is how convincing it is.
It tells you things that feel like truth:
That you’re alone
That you’re a burden
That this feeling will never end
And when you’re in that headspace, those lies don’t sound like lies anymore.
They sound like facts.
But here’s the part that doesn’t get talked about enough.
That place lies.
It always lies.
Because I got out.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned since then, it’s this:
Feelings aren’t permanent, even the worst ones.
As much as that darkness insists it’s forever… it isn’t.
Do I ever want to go back there?
Not a fucking chance.
No return ticket. No sightseeing. No “just popping in for a visit.”
That place can stay exactly where it belongs
In the past.
But I will say this.
If you’re reading this, and you recognise that place…
If you’re there right now, or hovering somewhere close by…
You’re not the only one who’s been there.
Not even close.
And more importantly
You don’t have to stay there.
I’m still here.
Still scribbling, still fighting, still feeling.
And that, in itself, is proof that even the darkest places in the world…
Describe a positive thing a family member has done for you.
Father.
No… that word doesn’t sit right.
I suppose biological father or sperm donor is more accurate.
Because a father is something more than blood, more than just a surname, more than a man who happened to be there at the beginning.
A father stays.
You didn’t.
For years, I carried the anger of that.
The broken promises.
The empty chair.
The waiting.
God, the waiting.
That horrible ache of being a child watching the clock, listening for footsteps, for a knock at the door, for the sound of a car pulling up outside, convincing yourself this time he’ll come.
And then the slow, crushing realisation that once again, he wasn’t coming.
Again.
And again.
And again.
People talk about what family gives us.
Love. Support. Guidance. Strength.
Sometimes what family gives us is a wound.
And sometimes, if we survive it, that wound becomes wisdom.
The most positive thing my biological father ever did for me was teach me exactly how not to be a father.
That sounds harsh.
Maybe it is.
But it’s also the truth.
Because every time I hold my children close, I know what it means to be left standing in the cold.
Every time I answer the phone, turn up, keep my word, sit through the tears, the tantrums, the celebrations and the heartbreaks, I am doing so with the ghost of that lesson sitting on my shoulder.
I learned from the man who walked away what it means to stay.
I learned from neglect what presence looks like.
I learned from abandonment what love must feel like.
He taught me, without ever meaning to, that children remember everything.
They remember who came.
They remember who didn’t.
They remember who made them feel safe.
And they remember who made them question whether they mattered at all.
So I made a promise to myself long ago.
My children would never sit by a window waiting for me.
They would never have to invent excuses for my absence.
They would never lie to themselves to protect a heart too young to understand rejection.
I would be there.
Even on the hard days.
Especially on the hard days.
Because that’s what being a parent is.
It isn’t convenience.
It isn’t occasional appearances when it suits.
It is sacrifice.
It is consistency.
It is love in action.
And strangely enough, for all the hurt he caused, that lesson became one of the greatest gifts of my life.
Not because the pain was a gift.
Pain never is.
But because from that pain, I built something better.
A life rooted in presence.
A family built on promises kept.
A home where nobody wonders if they are loved.
So yes, if I’m asked what positive thing a family member has done for me, my answer remains the same.
My biological father taught me how not to be a father.
Give me a table and a menu and I’ll probably spend more time people-watching than eating anyway. What I’m really after is a feeling — that quiet hum of life happening around you, the sense that you’ve stumbled into somewhere honest.
That’s why I’d pick a little café called Stacked, or the weekly market in Totnes.
Stacked is a quaint family owned cafe at the bottom of town. Where like in “Cheers” everybody knows your name, and your always guaranteed a warm welcome, before heading up the high street to the market square.
The Totnes Market has been running for centuries, (since 1206) and you can feel every bit of that history in the air — traders who’ve been there for decades, music drifting between stalls, and that wonderful unpredictability of never quite knowing what you’ll find.
It’s not polished. It’s not curated. It just is.
A coffee in hand, something delicious in a paper tray, and the low murmur of conversations you’re not quite part of — that’s my kind of dining.
So no, not a restaurant.
Just a place with a bit of soul, where the food is almost beside the point.
I’ve been asked this question a few times over the years, and I’ll be honest—it used to come with grand plans.
You know the sort… Big goals. Bigger dreams. A vague idea that somewhere along the line everything neatly falls into place.
But life, as I’ve learned (often the hard way), doesn’t really do “neat.”
It does messy. It does unexpected. It does “well, that wasn’t in the brochure.”
And yet… here we are.
So, ten years from now?
If I’m lucky—retired.
Not in the flashy, lottery-win, sipping-something-expensive-on-a-yacht sense. More in the “I’ve earned a bit of peace and quiet” sense.
The kind of retirement where the alarm clock becomes optional. Where time slows down just enough to notice things again.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve come to understand, it’s this:
Life isn’t about filling every minute… It’s about feeling the minutes you’ve got.
I imagine something simple
A shed. (There’s always a shed, isn’t there?)
A chair that’s seen better days. A notebook that’s half full of scribbles that may or may not make sense. A cup of something warm within arm’s reach.
Maybe I’ll still be writing—because let’s face it, once you start using words to make sense of your head, it’s hard to stop. It’s been part of me for over 20 years now, a way to process the noise and turn it into something resembling meaning.
Maybe I’ll still be taking photos of birds that refuse to sit still long enough for a decent shot.
Maybe I’ll just sit there… and do absolutely nothing.
And for once, not feel guilty about it.
There’s a deeper part to it though
Retirement, for me, isn’t just about stopping work.
It’s about arriving at a place where:
The chaos has quietened
The edges have softened
And I’ve made peace with the things I can’t change
Because life has a funny way of reminding you it’s fragile. You don’t get to negotiate with it when your time’s up—you just have to make the most of what’s in front of you while it’s there.
So if I make it ten years down the line…
I don’t just want to be retired.
I want to be content.
And if I’m honest…
If people ask me that question in ten years’ time—
“Where do you see yourself now?”
I hope the answer is something like:
“Right here. Still writing. Still breathing. Still finding small bits of magic in ordinary days.”
Because at the end of it all, that’s probably enough.
What are 5 everyday things that bring you happiness?
Pull up a chair, grab a brew, and let’s have a little natter about something simple. Not grand gestures, not lottery wins, not “one day when I’ve made it” dreams…
Just the everyday bits.
Because, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt while scribbling my way through life, it’s this: happiness rarely kicks the door in… it usually just taps politely and waits to be noticed.
There’s something quietly magical about the ordinary things in life. The grand moments are lovely, of course, but it’s the little, everyday fragments that often keep us grounded and smiling.
For me, happiness is often found in five simple places.
First, the early morning quiet. Before the world fully wakes, there’s a stillness that feels almost sacred. A hot brew in hand, the house calm, and a few moments where thoughts can settle before the day begins.
Second, nature’s small performances. A bird perched on the fence, the rustle of leaves, the changing sky. I’ve always found comfort in watching the natural world carry on with such effortless grace,
Third, writing. Sometimes it’s poetry, sometimes it’s just scribbles and scattered thoughts, but putting words to feeling has long been a source of peace and joy. There’s a kind of healing in giving emotions a voice.
Fourth, family laughter. The sound of Mrs Bob laughing in another room, the gentle chaos of family life, shared memories, silly moments—those are the things that stay with us longest.
And finally, a good photographcaptured by chance. That one unexpected image where the light lands just right, and suddenly an ordinary moment becomes something worth keeping forever.
Happiness, I’ve found, rarely arrives with fanfare. More often, it slips quietly into the day, hidden in the everyday things we might otherwise overlook.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 