It’s been a really long time since I’ve written something just for me. Most of the words I have been writing in these last four years have been for others; sharing news, building businesses. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t lost the joy of it all.

But when there are moments of inspiration, a poem building inside me in the back of my head, I tuck away into the notes mode in my phone and I start to write. More often than not the words just flow when I’m not really thinking about them. And they live in my notes app forever. Occasionally, a rare few make the journey to Instagram where they wait with bated breath. But for what, I am not sure…

Writing is a cathartic exercise for me, and I’m not altogether too sure why I lost sight of it in the first place. Maybe because I tried to make it too regimented. When you’re writing six stories a day, or you’re trying to write the same six stories a week for two years, it feels like there’s very little room in your life for any new words to flow. I feel like I’ve just been writing variations of the same sentence for some time now.

(Suppose that’s all writing really is if you think about it too much).

I recently finished reading this Matthew McConaughey’s autobiography, Greenlights, where he said that there is freedom in structure, and in a sense I would never disagree with that beautiful Texan twang. There are many things I would do for that man. But there is also truth in the opposite too. Goals and artistic expression sit almost paradoxically, so where does one find balance?

So I’m writing again. For who, I’m not sure, but I want to make it clear from the outset to expect no structure. No promised weekly posts, no points to be proven. But in that, you’ll find some of my best written work. My tastiest recipes. My most scathing book reviews.

I’m not sure if you care enough to listen to me, but if you do, there might be a nugget of truth in here for you too.

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