“Writing is a struggle against silence.” Carlos Fuentes

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I’ve always found the hardest part of writing to be knowing where to start. This is particularly challenging because there’s no real beginning here; just the commencement of the musings from my own meandering mind. Do I write myself a little bio? I don’t really think I’m interesting enough to do that. Perhaps elsewhere…

Writing for me is a very therapeutic process. Whether its a list to organise my day’s chores, a facebook status ranting about the world’s most recent abomination or a short entry in a pregnancy journal – its a form of release that I don’t get from anything else. And I’ve been writing and feeling that feeling for as long as I can remember. I can actually recall with real lucidity, being of an extremely young age observing my mother write (probably a shopping list) and feeling overwhelming frustration that I didn’t yet know how to pen a sentence together. The same feeling I’d get when I’d observe her typing at a computer (back when the standard word processor was a black screen with flashing green text and a gigantic cursor) with such speed and purpose; “Why don’t I know how to use one of those fascinating keyboard thingies yet?”. When most other children were drawing potato people with their legs and arms coming out of their heads (don’t get me wrong, I did plenty of them too), I’d often sit at the dining room table with sheets of paper and doodle line upon line of illegible squiggles, finding that only made me feel more frustrated because both myself and everyone else around me knew that they ultimately meant nothing.

I’m not able to pinpoint when exactly it was that I could properly formulate a sentence on to paper but I know that once I’d learnt, there was no stopping me. I still have folders EXPLODING with short stories, poems, songs, wananabe-novels and diaries (pretty much every single one of them unfinished) from years and years ago. You can tell from my handwriting that over time began to develop into less crude and more decipherable text that I enjoyed the physicality of writing too. I still do. I found a fountain pen the other day that I was given for my 21st birthday and you’d think the ecstasy I felt from inserting an ink cartridge and writing my name a few times was akin to that of a recreational drug taker.

But its remarkably easy to lose touch with that passion, interest, relationship, hobby; whatever you want to call it. The same way friendships, seeds and pets need regular attention and nurturing; one’s yearning to write must be constantly worked on. Life just has a tendency of getting in the way. Life being: romances, children, jobs, heartbreaks, house moves, holidays and great vast expansive periods of nothingness. And it can do that for years at a time. This may actually be the first bit of writing I’ve focused time and energy on that wasn’t for job application purposes, a lengthy entry on my social media page or an email of complaint to an incompetent company since I bailed on my first year of university. And I think that is perhaps why I don’t quite know where to start.

I’m a little out of practice.

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I know I want to write a regular blog. I know I want more freedom to express myself than I get from voicing my opinion on facebook (plus I think I should do my best to hold on to the few friends I have left who have proven themselves immune to my occasional indignant outburst) but I can’t really say that there is a consistant theme to this blog. Today I could be venting about the trials and tribulations of young motherhood, tomorrow it could be outrage and disgust with our seriously out-of-touch Tory government. One day I could treat it as my own journal; cue an outpouring from the swirling vortex that it is my overactive brain (I apologise in advance for those days), the next entry could be an account of my never ending failure to cook rice quite right.

So if you don’t like sporadic spontaneity or a random mish-mash of talking points, move on amigo, this ain’t for you.

And if you do? Well bear with me. I’m still finding my feet. Or fingers, as it were.

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