I really do.

I love to write. I’ve done it since I was little. My brother and I would always be scribbling something down in notebooks when we were younger. It’s really sad that you kind of lose that creativity and imagination a lot of the time as you get older. I wouldn’t say that I had lost it as such, just that I don’t pick up my notebooks and pens half as often as I should. I very much go through phases of writing, and it tends to be when I’m emotionally unbalanced, which, fortunately, hasn’t happened for quite a while (open to interpretation) and so the writing seems to have dwindled somewhat. I don’t mean writing things like this blog, I’m rarely short of much to say for this, but I like to write stories, and I haven’t done it since arriving in Hong Kong.

I should write, even if it’s only me that ever gets to read it, because it is something that makes me very happy. Plus, I do have a couple of friends that ask after anything that I may have written recently and they’re honest enough to tell me how crappy it might be, which is welcome because everyone needs to be knocked off their high horse now and again.

I have a huge list of writers that have somehow influenced my own style –  that’s what being a literature student will do to you I guess. I can see my favourite writers in my own writing now and I like that. I’m never going to be a Fitzgerald or a Vonnegut but I’m glad they’ve influenced me enough to infiltrate my words.

So, partially inspired by my housemate, who is a very creative, do what you love and make no excuses kind of guy, I intend to be picking up my pen again on a much more regular basis.

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