I’m not a writer, never claimed to be. I’m a sloppy coordinator of words, reliant on an excessive use of adjectives to help express an opinion. A particular deficiency that is often criticised by readers with a better understanding of the English language. Without predictive text, all of my protracted assertions would be laden with spelling errors, with many glaring omissions that completely undercut the points I am trying to make. My writing style, if I have one, could be described as legible, perhaps even laboured. At worst, it can be contradictory and chaotic. Moreover I find that most of my protracted ramblings veer off on bizarre tangents that yield no discernable logic and contribute no associative relevance to the topic in discussion. In all honesty, I couldn’t tell the difference between a noun and a verb without first looking it up. Writing doesn’t come easy to me. Oftentimes it can be frustratingly difficult to write anything.

From an early age I had a very strained relationship with the written word. During my formative years teachers would provide one-to-one tutalage, separating me from my friends for most of the lesson, in an attempt to get me up to speed with the rest of the class. Being a remedial student made it difficult not to feel isolated, even though most of my friends were very encouraging and the teachers, to their credit did help me to improve both my reading and writing, without me feeling patronised. One of my earliest stories was a 14 page dossier about the epicness of “The Power Rangers” . No doubt it was convoluted, nonsensical and littered with with spelling errors, but was compelling nonsense that I relished scrawling.

Since then I have maintained a healthy interest in both reading and writing, even if I’m not afforded the same liberties I was before I became a father. Blogging has been my primary creative influence, facilitating a myriad of abstract thoughts that readers aren’t entirely appalled by. This site has always been a place of liberating catharsis. Somewhere I can express myself free from the encroaching confinement of my mind. It has a modest audience, one that I engage with on a very limited basis. Purely because of negligence and laziness on my part. I should be more active than I am. There’s no excuse really. Despite contributing to my site for a number of years, publishing articles with infrequent regularity, writing hasn’t got any easier. Deciphering and constructing sentences from the muddled assembly of thoughts that rattle around in the recesses of my head, is like trying to piece together a puzzle without the picture on the box. It’s a malady I’ve struggled with since I was a kid. Trying to focus the collective sinuses of my brain into a coherent semblance of communicable language requires such concentration, that at times can feel frustrating! It’s a pervasive challenge that cripples me creatively and emotionally. And yet I keep doing it.

This isn’t a job for me, it’s a hobby. And yet writing, blogging, venting, whatever you want to call my eccentric musings is the only hobby I’ve been able to consistently sustain. As tough as it can be and as hopeless as I imagine my writing is sometimes (most of the time), there are those few fleeting moments of pure satisfaction. That something you’ve written, perhaps just a sentence, conveys this profound sense of accomplishment. It’s these rare moments of clarity that enables me to improve. Well, at least I hope it does. To strive beyond being just a passionate amateur, with aspirations of one day having anything I’ve written worthy enough to be published. Even if I’m the only one that knows about it.