Twenty posts in and it still astounds me how hard it is for me to put my name to my writing and send it into the world. I’ve spent a lot of the last few months on my craft, working out what words best describe that voice that lurks at the back of my mind the voice that is the source of my questions and the spark for my writing. I’d like to think my writing is not just that voice but a combination of that and something more. The compulsion is what intrigues me. The compulsion to find a soap box and let go of the ideas knocking about in this not so old head. Time for me is like a sitcom that can only be enjoyed in context. Friends is one of my favourite shows of all time but 10 years earlier it would have made no sense and 10 years later it’s already losing relevance. Looking at my writing I have similar feeling each day that passes between an idea and the release of that idea on paper or a screen it becomes less relevant, less real. Until the idea like grapes left to long on the vine spoil and ferment leaving nothing but regret at a seasons work wasted for a few days laziness. Time is now, everything else is dreaming or remembering. There is no time in the future and all the time in the past has been used up. Go forth and kick ass, 20 posts in and I’m starting to feel it.

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