I stopped writing. Well, creative writing. I write emails every day. Good emails. Thorough emails. Emails with thought and big words, possibly meaning, but that’s about it. And it’s been driving me insane. I used to produce a weekly email and managed to churn out hundreds of words a week and edit that many again. It was hard work but it made me laugh. My friends read my words. My friends helped me write those words. My parents read my words. It got a little serious from time to time, as events of the world asked us to take a stand. And I miss all of that. I’ve stopped reading too, perhaps because of the same reason. Actually that’s crap: I’ve been reading a heap but only words of others. Worst thing of all I’ve been fretting as to how I’m going to get back into words, back into writing. It seems to start something these days you need to buy into how you’re going to be relevant, how you’re going to be different, and how you’re going to succeed. And from that starting point you’re locked into some sort of contract with the Word Wizards and The Content Fairies and they’ll take your blood if you don’t return on your investment which really turns out to be their investment: their return on your engagement. So I’ve made a pact with myself to write about nothing. Well not nothing but it isn’t anything. I like that. It’s nice and simple. There’s no theme. I’m not hiding anything from you. It’s going to be whatever it wants to be. That’s why it’s beautiful and I’m sticking to it.

I have to go shave my beard now because it’s really starting to piss me off.