Three-and-a-half years ago, I had a lot to get of my chest.  A series of bad events responsible for clouding my horizon.

I felt physically numb, but a whole gamut of emotions raced through my head, keeping me awake at night.

With the summer months stretched out in front of me, I did what I have always done in times of trouble, I reached for my keyboard and poured my heart out.

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

Maya Angelou

During the Nineties, I wrote a novel.   It was a crude attempt, nothing more than a comedic anecdote of my life to that point.  So I shelved it.

Three-and-a-half years ago, I decided to rewrite it but, embarrassed by its puerility, I shelved it again and started writing something else.

Writing to soothe your soul is a brilliant thing.  To freely express your emotions and make yourself feel better.  A quick fix.

Writing to master the craft is an addictive thing.  To freely express yourself, but there is no quick fix.  It takes time, courage, and an indestructible self-belief.