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I need to write. My mind is such that its output comes really quickly, like massive data dumps, that often don’t entirely make sense. So writing is perfect as a means of communication for me. I can go in massively quick bursts on a keyboard, then take time to read over, edit, make it sensible. I’m useless in the flesh, unless you’ve got a similar type of mind, in which case we probably get on like a house on fire, and have really loud, non-stop conversations about absolutely everything that go on for hours and leave onlookers confused and occasionally hostile. (If that’s you, then I love you and we need to catch up soon. Message me.)
I have not written much for public consumption, except dabbling in a few listicles. It’s only recently that I’ve been conceited enough to think of my vast output of what I was repeatedly told were the most coherent and well written reports to ever grace a Safeguarding as proof that I can actually write, and if I can write 10,000 words on the Manchester runway disaster in 1985 for fun, then I can start blogging again, and I can start showing people the fiction and non fiction that I write, and I can start evolving myself a good writing voice.
I always enjoyed writing, but it’s not something career advisors had high on their recommendation lists for me. I got the idea about 7 years old that being a forensic scientist would be a cool thing to do and just repeated that. Of course that never happened. I’m now 40 and have finally decided that what I want to do is tattoo people and write stuff. I’m tattooing people, so now it’s time to start writing again.
There will be writing. Some sermons, some listicles, some fiction, some non-fiction, some anything, as long as at least once a fortnight I put something on my blog that counts as writing.
Thanks to Simon, who writes, for telling me I was a writer in a tone that suggested it was the most obvious thing in the world.
[It is in fact the twenty-eighth most obvious thing in the world.]