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.
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.