Love is a drug and so is writing. It always has been. For a while I tried to deny it and life got in the way. But the truth is every opportunity I get the words just tumble out. Like a stream of consciousness. Sometimes when words come to me they are just right. Often, just to check, I speak them out loud. They roll around the mouth and float off the tongue and if they fly I know they are OK. I don't know if it's just me but when the words are on the paper they have their own colour and shape. When I get them right they find their own voice. It is then I find it hard to believe they were ever mine at all.
From letters to e-mails, poems and songs all my life I have felt the urge to put pen to paper. Thoughts into words. A request to my secretary a note for the shops.
Why do I do it? I don't know. I can't stop and I don't really want to.
Words define me.
A formal psychology report. Or the verse in a card.
It has to bear my stamp. Every one is different, clever or funny, straight from the heart. Sometimes it feels like a kind of magic and it does have power. The word can be mighty and sometimes it can make you its slave. Pouring over each separate letter honing even the shortest phrase.
It's a teeny bit obsessional.
Even the smallest request is played with and made to sing. One way or the other the urge to write something original will take over. It doesn't make me clever. It doesn't mean the words are good, meaningful or profound. But for good or ill I guess it makes me a writer. I hope I always will be. Writers block is yet to pay a long visit and I hope I can keep that blind panic at bay. The dying of the word would be a death too far. I have my voice. I have no real control over who might listen but I will continue to speak and the words will roll. I hope people find them entertaining and informative.