I’ve always written things down.
I started writing notes to myself in small diaries, barely larger than my smartphone is now, at the age of fourteen. They are quite consistently filled with the angst caused by being young and rejected by my first proper girlfriend.
I wrote stories in notebooks, and the year after I’d left university early to become a motorcycle disapatch rider I found myself with a broken bike and holed up writing my first novel in the bedsit I shared with my girlfriend. We played sonic the hedgehog, watched Twin Peaks and collected the tops from Captain Morgan Rum bottles on a bootlace which made a snake that Chaos the cat chased around the room. I re-read the novel years later and choked on its self- indulgence: a tale of angst-ridden friends with impossible dreams, two heroes (well, one anti-hero) battling over one girl, a murder and doors opening to new worlds. A psychologist would have had a field day, and perhaps it might have proved useful if I’d kept it to show mine. But disgusted, I burnt it. I regret that now. Even the worst of your ramblings has its worth.
I’ve kept journals since then, lately preferring the black moleskin favoured by Chatwin- summoning the power of an exceptional writer to inspire my own. And I think I’ve learned a thing or two since I sat in the bay window of my bedsit, trying to capture the essence of great themes and only ending in bathos and caricature. It’s the small things that count.
So here you’ll find small things mostly, because I’ve yet to find a narrative to link the world I experience. Has anyone I wonder? I suppose if there was one it would be the theme of this blog: that change is the only constant, but even that depends on how you view things.
I’m still writing after all.