A few people have recently commented that I should write. Not just the blog, but a “proper” chunk of writing - a book - a novel. I don’t know. Quite apart from my occasionally glaring lack of punctuation skills (as evidenced by the opening sentences of this paragraph), I’m really not sure I’m made of stern enough stuff to be a “real” writer.
When the mood strikes me, words flow in a manner one might imagine Hemingway experienced. Those moods are rare. Also, I suspect that there’s only so much introspection the world might be able to withstand before collapsing in a narcoleptically induced stupor.
“Being a writer” is a tremendously romantic notion though - this evening I half watched “How to Lose Friends and Alienate People” (the semi-autobiographical story of Toby Young), and the scenes panning out from his working at a laptop to the rooftops of the New York suburbs were compelling. The cold reality of course is that life can never be mine - or at least not with a young family, and more commitments than I can direct a many pointed stick at.
Perhaps writing will remain a dream for me - one that I put away, and only indulge from time to time while writing about my day.