Call me Ishmael. Some years ago–never mind how long precisely –having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off–then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
Writing has always been my own form of going to sea. I once wrote novels, bad ones admittedly, but still a bit more than just a random thought here and there. I wrote short stories, and even got a few helpful comments from publishers. I tried my hand a poetry, but well, I was never really cut out to be Robert Frost.
I kept a journal for many years. The countless little tasks given by the odd book on writing and the countless ideas for that next Masterpiece. Then I found blogging. Here is the simple task of writing everyday-and there is not even the need for any kind of form or function. Just keep the fingers moving and let the pages flow.
I’ve no longer any great goals for my words, but I do still enjoy the act of writing. Standing at the cross roads, a always, looking this way and that.