I was good at creative writing as a child, love to craft stories of imagination. All through to the end of year 10, fiction was my favourite form of writing.

Final years of school was analysis and essays; critiques and opinions, arguments and assertion…or perhaps the other way round.

Fiction only existed in its ability to be ripped apart. Not built. Not constructed.

I keep meaning to return. I’m 50 now and still haven’t made it.

My writing is mostly reports, briefing papers, dodgy blogging. Creative outlets remain clogged. How did I write what I used to write?

Do I need a starting sentence, a topic, a thought? I am not good at beginning on an empty page.

I do not make time to sit, to write.

I am easily distracted, shiny things, anything.

Perhaps I need structure. I tend to live in the structure of others…it is still that I define myself, find myself, see myself in the company that I like to keep. Where I am, who I’m with, the things around; that is where I seek definition.

I internalise too many things and find it hard to engage with the world, to open up. Too much time alone, yet at times not enough.

So many contradictions in who I am. How I see myself now can be at odds with how I saw myself yesterday and how I will see myself tomorrow.

Moments I am bursting with ideas, others naught but self absorption. The balance is too often out.

All the things, all the time, all the places.