I've done a bit of writing lately - but not of the creative kind. I've written work emails, text messages, job applications, sympathy and birthday cards and out of office replies - numbers, letters and full stops.
Some have said that if you really want to write, you will make the time. I'm afraid I think.
I'm not sure why I want to write - I suppose it's a way for me to make a mark. My question mark on the notebook of time? In waking life I don't have much to say - but writing gives me time to consider, and sometimes it is the hot-flash pen of emotion that hurts nothing but the page. I can say what I want, how I feel and no one need know or be affected.
A part of me, committed to the memory of page. I'm not very good at thinking up the fictional, I tend to think real life has enough drama and pain of its own. I am in awe of those that can conjure people and places, and it is a skill I wish I had.
I wish I could reach people with my arrangement of words; with my simple song of carefully collected words, strung together in pleasing alignment. It's just time, and letters, and words - but put together can be special - they tell stories and reveal truths.