My love of writing.
I love my imagination, that wonderful tool. It touches words and thoughts with its magic fingers and parades them before me, each one with its own character and personality. It gently steers me, like a puff of wind in the sails of a ship, from one idea to the next, not one the same as another. I love how it paints a landscape for me with its skilful brushes, showing me, in my mind’s eye, a world outside of any I have known.
I love my notebook, small enough to tuck away in a carry bag, under a pillow, or in a drawer, waiting for inspiration to strike. Its frosted cover feels grainy under my fingertips, hiding the bright, cheerful spotty page underneath. I love the pages with their perforated edges, so easy to tear out if needs be, the blue lined sheets, fresh and clean, ready to receive the words that give them their meaning.
I love my pens, my thoughts, route to the outside word: my parker pens, with practical blue ink, my small coloured pens, their bright, vivid ink echoing the life and vitality of my dancing thoughts, the crazy, feathery pen that tickles my hand and races across the page like a demented duck.
I love my netbook, so small and light, so easy to carry anywhere, for writing whenever and wherever inspiration strikes. Its black lid, chequered with lines is so familiar to my fingertips; so many times they have slid across it as I lift the lid. I love the feel of the keys, so easy to push down, so much faster than writing with a pencil. I listen to them click and tap, as I type away, keeping pace with my flying thoughts.
I love my writing, so uniquely me. No matter how much someone wants to, they can never write the same as I do. I love the way that my writing is my thoughts on paper, that when I write, I breathe life into the world created in my imagination. When I have finished my writing, I know I can keep it forever, show it to people, and introduce them to the companions and landscapes of my inner world, which only sees light through my writing.
What do you love about writing?