So I guess I’ve always secretly wanted to be a writer.
A proper writer.
And just so you know, a proper writer is someone who can hold your heart, or your breathing thingies, or your funny bones or your gooey, grey brain in their hand and squeeze just the right amount at just the right time to make the emotion pop right out.
And they write books.
With loads of sentences that string together in long lines. Until the end.
I’ve always been writing, scribbling and jotting, but only for me, and maybe for a couple of other people. But only if I pretty much know they already kind of like me, and might also like the words that I line up. So I stated this blog, thinking that maybe one day someone would read this, and maybe someone else would tell me they’ve read it, and maybe some other person would say they liked how some of the words sounded propped up together.
So that happened.
And something even more than those magical three things happened right after that: someone told me they liked some of the parts of the blog so much that they thought some of the pieces and bits that I go on (and on) about could be a book. And they would like to make that book.
Well I have and I did and now a bit of an annoying thing has happened. I’ve run out of words. Lost the plot.
I hope the plot comes back tomorrow.
Ever lost the plot when you got what you wanted?