I’ve always wanted to be a writer. When I was a child, I did write. All the time. When most other kids were watching TV or playing football or French-plaiting each other’s hair, I spent my evenings writing stories, poems and plays until one of my parents made me go to bed, and then I would get my torch out and read until the small hours. (My eyesight is rubbish, in case you were wondering.)
But at some point, and for some reason, I stopped. I can’t remember whether I lost interest, became too self-conscious or got too busy, but by the time I was in my teens I was no longer dreaming up elaborate works of fiction. Instead, I was more preoccupied with taming my frizzy hair and worrying about whether I was a bit fat. And so, the stories petered out.
Of course, I didn’t stop writing altogether. I have a BA in English literature and three years’ worth of essays to prove it. I’ve also spent the last couple of years in a job which involved a fair amount of writing, not that any of it was particularly creative. But recently, the urge to start again has been getting stronger and stronger.
To tell you the truth, I have time on my hands. I am currently “between jobs” (such a diplomatic euphemism) and temporarily living with my parents while I look for a new one. Over the last few weeks I’ve been keeping myself amused by reading blogs and wondering whether or not to start my own, as a way of easing myself back into writing and rediscovering the creativity I lost somewhere along the way.
So this is it… My first toe in the water. I have no idea what I will end up writing about. Probably just bits and pieces of my life, to begin with. Maybe one day I’ll write a poem or a short story and be brave enough to post it. Who knows?
PS – writing a first blog post is much harder than it looks. But then, I suppose that’s true of most things.