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Eve Wellings.

she/her

Hi, I’m Eve (apparently the second Eve writing for rrramble!). I am living in North Norfolk with my

mum and brother after graduating from UEA with a degree in English Literature & Philosophy. I’m

the typical country-bumpkin type gal who has dreams of moving to the big city, where I hope to

work in publishing. I am currently working in a tearoom where I listen to Billie Holiday from daybreak

to dusk, am starting to write music reviews for a local publication, and volunteering for arts festivals.

I am looking forward to writing for rrramble and to join a team of many great writers!


What was the last book you didn’t manage to finish?

Outline by Rachel Cusk. I tried reading it after Deborah Levy’s The Cost of Living because I wanted to

read more autobiographical texts written by women. It just didn’t keep my attention. I found the

conversations about writing and love too stuffy and pompous. Not sure it’s worth me trying to read

it again.


Have you ever heard a song that feels like it HAD to be written about you? What was it and why?

Just because of my name, Eve, and all the associations that come with it (the seductress and the

general notion of femininity), I’m going to say ‘Sheela-Na-Gig’ by PJ Harvey. It’s a song that breaks

these toxic notions of womanhood. PJ Harvey is one of my icons and in this track, she is mega fierce

with her earthshattering howls and bluesy holler accompanied with the sharp, thunderous thrash of

electric guitar. I can play this song again and again and every time feel a little bit more powerful.


If you could have written one play/novel/poem/song, what would it be and why?

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. To start, it’s a masterpiece. I’ve never read a book

like it and likely never will. It’s part fantasy, part satire, with an all-so-Russian bleak and spiteful

humour. The incredulous and fantastical characters of the novel, from a theatre-obsessed devil, a

talking cat, witch and flying pig, often come back to me in times of revery. Apparently it took

Bulgakov more than 10 years to write it and I’d like nothing more than to have been in that man’s

head for those years.


If you could live inside one painting or sculpture, what would it be?

Before I knew it was a painting depicting two sex workers intimately kissing in a bed, I would gush at

Toulouse-Lautrec’s ‘In Bed the Kiss’. I wouldn’t want to be a sex worker in 19 th century Paris but what

I would like is to be in that space of bliss and complete non-disturbance. Just me and another person

enwrapped by streaks of pinks, blues, greens and whites; possessed by one another’s breaths and

bodies for a single moment in time.

Eve Wellings.
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