One day I set out to write a story. It wasn't a very unusual day; by the very virtue of me having started a story it was in fact a rather common sort of day.
I often daydream about writing stories, it would be better if I daydreamt about the stories themselves.
Why should I write a story anyway? Here I am, fat, middle-aged (forty next year is middle-aged, whether people want to accept it or not - I have no real problem with it), in a low leveloffice job (comparable to a lance corporal in a very 'Jones the butcher' kind of way) and have I ever really done anything?
I've always been the one on the river's edge, too shy, too socially inept, too insecure to take the plunge. At best I've waded out into a shallow pool that had formed away from the raging torrent of life, but never further than the knees.
My nights are filled with TV and social media, never enough reading, little to no writing.
I'm a great starter, though. The apartment is littered with notebooks, purpose-bought for that one big story that was burning at the tips of my fingers. Sometimes I'd abondon that one and start another. Sometimes it would turn into a collection of sad, neglected ideas; this very book (started as a diary) contains several of those too.
There's a wonderful idea for a Doctor Who episode a few pages back. I really should pick that up again. In fact, now that I have a computer again, I may do just that.
On this day, which was like so many others, I opened a notebook, took out a black fine liner pen (Stabilo are my favourites, so if I ever make it big, please send me a box), looked at the empty page (A6 size on purpose, so the white expanse doesn't seem too threatening - plus I can tell myself I've filled two-and-a-half pages already) and just started to write...