I’m not going to write much today.

And the reason I’m not writing much here is that I’ve finally started writing something else. A book.

I’ve often said I wanted to write a book, but I’ve never started because I’ve been afraid.

Afraid I’m not good enough.

Afraid I don’t have any original ideas.

Afraid I’ll fail.

Afraid of rejection.

Afraid the one talent I have in life will be disproven and I won’t ever amount to anything and I won’t ever get over it – because if I don’t do it at least I still get to keep hold of having the POTENTIAL to do it, and that’s something and not nothing.

I’m often all talk and no trousers. And it’s always fear behind my lack of follow-through. When it comes to any sticking point, I crumble. I always have.

But just recently I’ve had a bit of a revelation.

I’ve suddenly realised I don’t actually need to write for other people.

I can just write for me.

I can just write because I enjoy balancing words and sentences, exploring feelings and people, shaping stories and making sense of them – because it makes me feel free and alive.

Nobody else ever has to see it.

Nobody else has to like it.

It doesn’t actually have to be any good.

It doesn’t even have to be whole.

All it really needs to be is something I like doing. Without pressure, without agenda, without barriers, for its own sake.

So join me.

Go out there and make crap art.

Throw terrible pots.

Write awful poetry.

Draw things wonky.

Colour over the lines.

Sing out of tune.

Dance badly.

Do mediocre photography.

Make up trite songs using the three chords you can remember on the guitar.

I set us all free from having to achieve anything from our creativity but our own joy.

Xxx