When I was a young child I would go straight to the little desk at my grandparents’ house and begin to “write” or so I’ve been told. I have no recollection of when it first began but apparently I would spend hours drawing and pretending to write until I learned to write for real! I don’t know what I wrote but there are probably some papers in a box somewhere at my parents’ house. [Edit: my aunt just reminded me of the time I created a menu for an Italian restaurant – I saw that a few years ago!] I have vague memories of doing this as I got older or maybe it’s that I’ve been told it so many times over the years that I’ve created the memories. I often wonder this about childhood memories particularly when I was really little – do I really remember? Or do I think I remember because people have told me stories about those moments? Something to ponder…
My aunt reminded me the other day that my grandma always said one day I would be a writer. Maybe that day is now. Blogs didn’t exist back in the day, so my grandma probably meant a different type of writing, but does it matter?
Blogging has helped me find my voice. It has allowed me to share my thoughts, opinions and feelings in a different way. I don’t have many followers but my voice has reached readers all over the world. I’ve received positive feedback about my posts and that’s encouraging. I’ve found that desire to share.
I don’t have a particular niche. I write about what I want, when I want. It doesn’t matter that it might not be everyone’s cup of tea but it’s my enormous steaming mug (Starbucks collector series of course) of Decaffeinated Earl Grey from M&S. And that’s all that matters.💜