Gift or Curse?

I am, therefore I write.

No, you’re not suffering from delusions; no I have not inverted my phrase by accident.  Since I penned my first words I have always written for the amusement of others.  Be it on cards to family or in journals and diaries, a creative bent has gripped me with each flurry of the ‘stilo’.  I recall with fondness my first full length story, aged eight: the fully illustrated ‘Mittens the Kitten’.  It’s more than likely in a large cardboard box in my parents’ loft, which is where my other creations were until recently unearthed to make way for loft insulation.

The plain and simple thing is, I cannot help myself.  No matter how hard I try to avoid it, I cannot NOT write.  A recent week’s holiday was a perfect example.  I left the technology at home, but foolishly travelled with a notebook and pen.  Although I did not work on my main project, I was tempted to write something inane that will never see the light of day.  BUT...my writer’s brain was satisfied; the muscle had been flexed even on holiday.

When I do manage to tear myself away from writing (my brain breathing a huge sigh of relief no doubt) I am attacked by my other vice – reading.  Of late this has been more fact than fiction, as I munch my way through volumes of historical content for research purposes.  So hungry have I been for this addictive stimuli, my Yuletide gift list contains no less than eight such livres.  Chomp...Chomp...CHOMP!

I know I am not suffering alone, but it does one good every now and again to admit to these things.  Having purged myself I can now toddle off and...write.