When I try to think of the past, specific dates can be difficult to focus on. I can remember the feeling of days; mainly summer and Christmas, the two highlights of a kid’s year. But I can’t remember any firsts; and the firsts are most important they say.

Kiss, drink, and fuck are set aside. What concerns me here is less general.

As far as I can remember, I’ve always had an aptitude for writing (slight as it may be). Not just writing; really everything to do with the English language. My favourite subject in primary, and the secondary, school was always English. It was the one class that could be relied upon to brighten me up, if only because I always found it so easy. The thoughts and ideas behind poems or novels were never invisible to me, and I could always express my own thoughts quite articulately.

But fiction always interested me more than poetry or discussion. The first short (but longer than some of what I write now) story I can remember producing was a miss mash of vaguely plagiarised ideas and extremely implausible circumstances. What you’d expect a kid to write.

Except I was encouraged. Praised even. And it was this, I think, that made the difference in my life. I had been praised for listening to a certain part of my brain; and so, instead of switching it off altogether or allowing it to change its focus onto something else (like painting, music or maths), I kept listening. Kept writing down what it told me to.

It is still underdeveloped though. That part of my mind. I know that it probably becomes more advanced with each story that I write, and with each book I read, but it’s the rest of my mind that’s holding it back.

I’ve spent too much time away from writing. I should be doing it every day, but it’s difficult to get going, so sometimes there could be weeks between sentences.

I have too many things sapping away at my time. But I guess the summer might be the time to catch up. Get some good habits. Build a strong work ethic.

I don’t write to be published. I’ve yet to even submit anything to a printed magazine or newspaper. But it seems that whether you write professionally, or just for personal satisfaction, you have to put in a lot of work to get any better at it. But if you really enjoy doing it, then it shouldn’t be work. It just might seem like it sometimes.

I’ve never written anything longer than three thousand words before, something I always attributed to lack of imagination. But now I think it may be just laziness. I’ll have to put more effort in from now on. Pretend it isn’t hard work until I get back into my groove.

I’m not a minimalist or unimaginative. I guess I’m just a lazy bastard.