You know, I honestly have no idea what I’m doing here.

I want to write. But I never seem to do it. I don’t know what I want to write. In the past, I’ve written essays, I’ve written stories, I’ve written the odd poem. I can make the English language sit up and beg. Sometimes. Or I can stare for hours at a blank job application, trying to think of a way to imply how amazing and fabulous and generally employable I am without boasting.

Or I can do what I usually do, and grab a book, dive in and hide myself for hours, for days, in someone else’s words.  It’s becoming an addiction.  But I’m sick of hiding.  I’m frightened of this.  I’m scared I won’t have anything to say.  I’m terrified the things I do say will be boring.  Or just badly written.  Or nobody will read them.  Or I’ll start this, as I have so many things, with the best intentions, and then just quietly forget about it.

It could happen.

Let’s find out.

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