Well, I've finally gone and done it.
One might imagine that as a writer the last thing I need to do is to give myself MORE writing to do. That is, however, erroneous.
The more a writer writes the more a writer writes.
Let me explain.
Many of the greatest writers have talked about procrastination, the feeling that anything is preferable to actually sitting down and writing. F. Scott Fitzgerald struggled to convince his wife that staring out the window for hours was writing. Douglas Adams said he loved the sound deadlines made as they whizzed by.
Indeed from my own experience there is no surer sign that I am not writing than an emptied dishwasher, a clean floor, a tidy bookshelf or a good honest weekly shop at Tesco. A full fridge and freezer is testament that no words have left my head and made it to the page that day. Conversely a slovenly front room, dirt trodden into the hallway and an empty biscuit tin mean that I am off, away in my flight of fancy machine from which I need to be shot down, if I'm to rejoin the rest of you people in what we loosely describe as society.
And there's the rub, the more I write the more I will write. Ergo a blog is a natural facilitator of the process, a loosening of the muscles if you will, a warm up.
So I hope you will bear with the self-indulgence and let me continue to search for the right words by laying down some wrong ones before the main event.
Reading: Faithful by Stuart O'Nan and Stephen KingListening to: Mozart, The Magic Flute