I spend hours with my face buried in everything from the great classics by Solzhenitsyn and Faulkner to various introductions to mythology and Jungian archetypes. I’m all over the place at the moment (not literally, but literarily). I then write passionately about the world and my experiences of it (spending many hours chiselling my brickwork to feed the greedy beast that is perfectionism).

And I bloody love it.

It’s so easy to get carried away with it though (the “just sitting” aspect of life) instead of physically venturing out in the world. I’ve traversed the bottommost seabed long enough to accumulate a plethora of potential writing material. And I do believe writing is living. But that doesn’t mean I should live out the entirety of the rest of my life between the pages. The surface is only a swim away. And there’s a whole wide world up there. Most of which I haven’t begun to explore yet.