Writing. Writing. Writing.
Merlin, I love writing.
When I was seven-or-so I sat on a bus and told a cousin that I wanted to be a writer. Writing. That was fun. Being an author would be magical and amazing and the best damn job of all time.
My cousin responded that well, I wasn’t going to be very rich then. Not unless I was a very, very good writer.
Me: “well, I don’t care if I don’t make lots and lots of money“.
(And yes, I’ll admit it, seven-or-so me was a little bit prideful so yes, there was a bit of “I think I can be a very, very good writer” behind that too).
I’m 21-or-so now (more closer to 22 but let’s stick with 21, shall we) and no, I’m not a damn author. I write, though. I write essays for my University degree. I write for my internship. I write, but not in the way seven-or-so old me would have wanted.
The writing I find myself doing now is technical. Science-y. Is structured and unmessy. Is lacking in imagination. It fits in the mould of factual writing. It ticks the boxes to show yes, I grasp the concept. It has introductions and methods and results and discussions and is carefully, carefully referenced and it’s oh, so very interesting and oh, so very, very…
disappointing to the seven-or-so old girl
stuck within me.
So this blog is going to be for that girl and it’s going to be messy. It’s going to be the things I see and hear on my daily commute. The stories that flip through my mind. The tales carefully constructed by my dreams, only to shatter with the rising sun.
Yes, this blog will be messy.
There will be a lack of structure. No plan. And… there will be limited editing. You see I’ve tried this whole blog shenanigans before and found myself stuck. Stuck reading and rereading. Stuck trying to make sure the blog had a voice people would want to listen to.
This time – enough of that – I’m writing for me.
(You’re welcome to join the ride, of course.)