Everything in life is writable about

If there was one thing I didn’t want to do again, it was blog.  Been there, done that, I thought, remembering back to the livejournal days, the blogspot days, even the early days of twitter.  And I certainly didn’t want to be a pale imitation of all those mummy-bloggers out there, the Gin O’Clocks and SelfishMothers, or Peter and Jane.

But… for too long I’ve been pretending that writing isn’t the thing I’ve been missing; that finding an audience for the things I want to say doesn’t matter to me. I know that writing comes as naturally to me as breathing, and even that when I’m writing, I’m satisfied in a way that even the best things in my life (my daughters, my lovely home, a successful career, a wardrobe full of brightly coloured clothes) haven’t managed to entirely penetrate.  After a period of more than a little bit of emotional and practical turmoil, I realise, it’s up to me to be truthful with myself.  Time to really make myself happy. Time to commit to this writing thing.

My therapist (because somehow in the mess that was 2016, thanks to my amazing employers, very tolerant manager, and an excellent benefits scheme, I ended up seeing a psychotherapist) asked me, “Do you think that if you write more, you will live more?” Yes – yes I do.

So here we are, a place to write about life.  That’s not to say that I won’t be doing other writing, the plan is to definitely definitely write something more substantial.  But here is my space for all the bits that don’t fit in to the stories I’ll be writing.  Names will be changed to protect the innocent. My daughters I’ve granted the pseudonyms of Rosa and Persie, they are seven and two and a half, respectively.  Their dad will feature, too, I’m sure.  As for me, well, you probably know me already, if you’re reading this.  I hope you enjoy it.

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