Writing. Or Lack Thereof.

So here’s the thing… for so long, I could just pick up a laptop, or sit at my computer and tap away. Stream of consciousness, random mumblings, funny, not so funny – anything really. Now, not so much. It’s an effort just to get started, and when, on the rare occasion, I do try – nothing. Just the big white bull staring me in the face, daring me to be as good as I once was.


I wonder what it is. Lack of practice? Lack of interest? The fear of what Sam might think if I write from the heart about the world around me or past experiences about things I‘ve done and places I’ve been and the people I’ve met and the experiences I’ve had with them? I hope not. I’d make for great reading. Maybe it’s fear of me. Maybe I’m too scared to try, because I might not live up to my own expectations. Like in that movie – if you don’t try, then no one can say it isn’t any good. If you don’t produce something, then it doesn’t have to become a real thing, with warts and bumps and bits that aren’t good…


Who knows?


If I’m honest, it might be all, or none, of those things.


Time will tell.

In the meantime, I think I've discovered tweetering...