I tend to write when I’m bored. Most of the time, whatever scenario I imagine begins and ends in my head; I simply don’t have the motivation to put pen to paper.
Other times, I scribble a few words on a piece of napkin and call it a day.
A somewhat more rare moment is when I take out my doodling notebook – yes, I have a notebook for doodling – and write in that. It began as a place for me to begin working on a long-term novel; that fizzled out (as expected), and as it stands right now, it is a mish-mash of disjointed ideas and letters.
Even more rarer still, I write on my blog. Blog diaries are rare for two reasons: one, my keyboard is complete and utter shit, and two, my blog is public – which means I can’t write anything too sensitive. A shame, because some of my best writing comes when I write about things and people close to me.
But sometimes, I wonder just how, exactly, I’ve managed to keep up appearances on this blog. It’s been running for a little more than two years now – a very long time in my book – and I even updated the front page yesterday. Oh my God it looks so professional.
My diary entries are written pretty much in a stream of consciousness style. That is, I don’t think about what I write. I just do. And I could care less, because after all, it’s my bloody diary.