Like many other book lovers, I would often consider writing a book of my own. Flashes of inspiration would hit me and then flitter off almost as soon as they arrived.
This time, however, the thought did not come in the form of inspiration for a story but in the desire to write. Sat at my desk at work I realised how much I missed moulding and shaping sentences, letting my imagination run wild and the satisfaction of capturing feelings within pages.
This feeling built within me until I returned home and I started to plan the story I would delight to tell. My fingers flying over the keyboard I found a part of myself that I’d long buried beneath the guise of adulthood.
I’m not so proud to think that my writing is currently sufficient enough to publish, far from it, but I do feel satisfaction in knowing that I am moving forward and learning the craft I love so well.
I wonder the reasons that others write? What sets your pulse racing? What causes you to pour out your mind onto a page?