Hello my lovelies. Long time no see!
You might remember that in my previous post I said I was stopping blogging for a while because I needed to focus on trying to live a better life. Well, after that, I started out with the best of intentions but, in retrospect, it wasn’t right; I was trying too hard and I was attempting to fix the wrong things. Life hasn’t got any better, despite my efforts, and I’ve realised that I should have stuck with my writing because it’s my one constant in life; it’s what I do best and it’s the place where I am absolutely able to be myself.
As someone who is anti-social, anti-idiot, introverted, call it what you will, putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard is my salvation. It’s my way of getting things off my ever-growing and sagging chest. And, most importantly, when I’m writing, I really love the person that I am and I believe that the things I have to say are completely valid.
Today is World Book Day. And that got me thinking. Like a lot of relationships in my life, my connection with books hasn’t always been comfortable or beautiful. But books, unlike blokes, blood relations or barmy mates, are more reliable and less likely to smack me in the face, or shout at me, or tell me what a lump of shit I am. With a book I can choose to enter a world I like the look of. But it’s equally easy to leave if it’s not treating me well.
