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 Of late this has been more fact than fiction, as I munch my way through volumes of historical content for research purposes.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.