It’s a funny hobby, writing. It’s one that tends to consume most of us at some point in our lives, but too often it lays dormant, like an untapped Mt. Etna of potential. I’ve certainly let my writing habits slip all too easily from my grasp. Half-baked journals and article ideas provide bedding for discarded CDs and disused stationary in my chests of drawers. Stale attempts at starting up this very blog clutter up my hard-drive, like old furniture in the basement you never had the heart to throw away but will never find a use for again.
It sometimes surprises me that I’m a student of the arts, even if only at undergraduate level. After all, I’ve never been able to consistently read or write anything much over a period much longer than a month. I’m not exactly known for my determination and application so much as I am for my big mouth, along with my ability to articulate basic ideas without much substance to them as though they were as meaty as Usain Bolt’s thighs. Bluffing my way through school has been pretty exhilarating at times – writing a chunky piece of A-level coursework without so much as reading a chapter of a library book was a high point – but ultimately it’s been an all too empty endeavour. These days, whenever my essays are returned my reactions to my grades differ only between disappointment and bashful confusion. (‘I got a 70 for that!?’)
minus trash 