Reminded myself today how much I love writing. It’s funny, I write something every day (hello) but I feel like I haven’t written anything in ages. Turning this blog into a journal has been great in many ways, but it’s definitely caused me to write fewer things of... substance? Not sure.

The inspiration was Brian Eno’s A Year with Swollen Appendices—a year’s worth of journal entries, and a good chunk of essays at the back. Still a good idea, I think, I just haven’t written any of the essays. The journal has given me ideas for the essays though... I’ve just got to sit down and write them. Easy, right? More pressure than writing one every day, somehow.

What should I be writing about? It could be anything, really. I’ve got a few decades of life under my belt at this point, which means I’ve got a lifetime of stories to tell. Growing up. England. Moving 3,000 miles. Moving 3,000 miles again. Design. Mental health. Computing. Art. Love (that is, my love; my wonderful love). Any of it. All of it, maybe.

Writing changed my life, and my writing practice is still pretty nascent. There’s more writing to write; more life to change. Time to stop phoning it in and write the stuff that I really want to write. I thought that I had to be a Writer™, but I think that I just have to write.