I have always wanted to write. Or I thought I did. When I was 17 I scribbled a story in a large black book my dad stole from work one summer. I don’t remember what it was about, but I do know that Victor Visser borrowed it to read and never gave it back!
That Christmas I asked for a typewriter, thinking that I had found my calling, and I bashed out a few teen angst inspired poems about solitude and rainy days before succumbing to rage and frustration and a realisation that the I could not type and would be spending all of my time correcting what I had bashed out.
I did very little after that with the exception of a Tolkien inspired epic poem which I worked on when I was in the Army just after I left school. I have no idea what happened to it but I still remember the opening even after 28 years:
“The swirling veils of morning mist
were swept aside as morning kissed
the sleeping lands that lay below
and waking winds began to blow.”
I think the rest was about a quest and an evil force and a ring and some wizards and…well you get the idea. Mostly thievery.
And that, as far as I recall was it. For a short while I thought Journalism was for me but I never did anything about it, I mostly just had an itch which I left unscratched.
Fast forward three decades, a wife, 2 kids, mortgage, career and a load of stuff in between I found myself inspired by a friend to look at WordPress just over a fortnight ago. Well, I will be honest, it has been rather fun and wholly addictive and after nearly 30 years I have managed to write some of the things I always wanted to but didn’t know I did.
I have no idea how one should write, I do not know whether full stops go before speech marks and the structure of a good story is beyond me. I do know though that I am loving doing it, even if it is a shambles.
Perhaps it was how easy it was to set up, maybe the joy of writing, perhaps it was the thrill of someone actually liking something I wrote or maybe just the joy of finishing something I meant to do so long ago but never got round to.
Whatever it is, my wife hopes I put that shelf up in the kitchen sooner than it took me to do this because I also assured her, in a very similar way, that ensuring she has somewhere to put the pans is something I want to do very much, if only I could find my spirit level.
Want to read more of my stuff that’s not about me but about Aliens and zombies and people and rude poems and life and stuff?