The desire to write - where does it come from?

Ever wondered where the desire to write started? I do, all the time. What makes my brain germinate ideas, characters and events which take over my mind and force me to write for hours? How come my friend can't conjure a single imaginative comment or phrase for a leaving card? Yet, I have too many for the tiny space allocated to me.

If you've followed this blog for a while you'll know that my love of books grew from circumstance - where I chose to escape within the pages of fiction. The phase prior to that escapism was Lego. 
Seriously, as a young child I was a Lego kid - I could (and still can) make anything out of  a big tub of Lego: houses, cars, even a stand-up Santa Claus! The true beauty of Lego is the appliance of imagination, without it you just have a coloured brick of various size - with a thriving imagination those bricks can be anything. I believe my initial phase of creativity nurtured by tiny bricks was my starting block to writing.

Knowing how the brain works in creating dendrites, I believe the network of my brain was formed and forged with that early imaginative play. The problem with the brain is the old 'use it or lose it' regime - it has been pure chance that since childhood I have always nurtured the creative juices - whether it be painting, crafting or music. All of which have kept those dendrite beauties alive and strong... ever eager to do more. My love of books kicked in at the age of eight which bolstered the budding imagination and eventually I out grew the books I was reading to fire the need to produce my own stories.

In hindsight it appears such a simple realisation, but I wonder if my parents understood the true potential of their gift when purchasing my first box of Lego? I doubt it.  

I'm back!

Hello. Remember me?  I wouldn't be surprised if you'd forgotten! Given the month that I've just survived, I can assure you I am so glad to be back. January 2015 is going into my memory as the strangest, most stressful, time zapping month of my life, so far. It was a horrible month and now that I'm sitting safely in February, I can call it every name under the sun. But it taught me one thing - I have to write.

Without my normal writing pattern I feel ill. I feel mentally and physically unbalanced, I feel stressed, I have migraines, I don't sleep, I don't feel grounded - in short, I am not me! For so long I have had this amazing creative outlet which I take for granted and yet when it is decreased or diminished to the bare minimum I literally feel like another person. A stranger. Gone is the song in the morning, gone is the smile, even my laughter sounded different. A non-creative impostor has walked in my shoes.

January happened for a hundred and one different reasons; one or two were my fault, the thousand other faults belonged to other people - but having had a weekend of creative tasks and writing I can honestly say I've returned to me. My fingers simply wish to dance upon the keyboards and spy the line of characters spreading across the white page. I'm back, and if feels great.

So, my plans for this week - to polish a short story competition piece, to catch up on social media and to prepare my W.I.P for my full attention come Friday night onwards when I start my holiday. Boy, am I going to spend some serious time in my writing room.

In the interim, I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of Bella Osborne's debut novel It started at sunset cottage which is published on Thursday, as well as Jo Thomas' The Olive Branch.