The satisfaction of seeing that Freshly Pressed message above my blog posts gives me somewhat of a little glimmer. The writing of it however scares me shitless. I’m not sure of what exactly as the likes on these posts suggest these posts are hardly going far and wide.
Stop the press! She’s going to tell all on her fabulous trip to Prague (I kid you not, expect a Euro gush on my next post).
It’s down to that moment when you re-read your prose, and there it is, that line that makes you flinch and then lures you into clicking that delete button. I’ve always been the same, all the poems scrawled when I was younger are scrapped, my beautiful travel book is only a few pages inked and it’s taken me over 2 years post uni to even consider picking up a pen.
So what’s changed? As you may have noticed I’ve a tendency to post when I’m relatively happy, I’d only come across as tragic when talking of my dreary misgivings through the perspective of a perfectly ordinary product of the cushty material sphere I’ve lodged myself in, so, instead I talk only of my escape through books and getaways.
My point is, I’m adding writing back to this list, starting now, this very post, bland as I’m sure I’ll find it tomorrow is marking the day I started writing again, for me.