How can a solo pursuit have turned into the most social thing I do? Well simply through being something I am passionate (stroke obsessional) about.
You try it, spend a day or even an hour with someone who is passionate about anything be it real ale, steam trains or rare orchids; whatever it is they won’t be able to stop themselves from shoehorning their little hobby into the conversation. Of course this can be very tedious for the non-believers in their lives, which in turn forces the obsessive to put on their anorak and head out into the world (or virtual equivalent) to find fellow enthusiasts with whom they can bond.
So why is writing my passion. Well, it allows me to join the random thoughts that pop into my head together – not necessarily into a coherent narrative; but still something bigger and stronger.
Writing is also I believe making me a more resilient person too; a gift pursuing anything creative can give anyone. Because for a passion you are willing to step out of the shadows and share what you believe in. Some might scoff but let them, because you if you speak about your solo pursuit, you can bet you will find someone out who is willing to share and make it a social thing.
Dear Mr Word-Press,
Can little Frankie be excused from blogging this week. While he has done this week’s post (well written a few rough notes on scraps of paper), he has not had the time to edit it properly!!! This is due to the time he has spent working on his University creative writing exam piece.
He faithfully promises that he will be back raring to blog next week. He will also remember to bring his gym kit with him, so that he does not have to run around in his Batman underpants with all the other kids laughing at him like last time.
Signed by little Frankie’s mum!!
Tayler climbed up on the zebra print sofa in the living room of his mum’s house, he was dressed up in his cowboy costume. Kneeling down he rested his elbows on the cushions and cupped his head in his hands as he looked out the rain spattered window. He looked out at the red and white balloons that had been attached to the posts in the front garden for his sixth birthday last Tuesday.
It was Sunday now the balloons had shrivelled up like his hands did if he spent too long in the bath, he watched as the strengthening wind dragged them along the ground on their strings. It made him think of Buzz the Doberman dog that belonged to Mr Riley who lived next door. Tayler sometimes went with Mr Riley to walk the dog round the Green, Mr Riley said that Buzz was dawdling when he had to pull at his lead to make him stop sniffing in the long grass. He was sure Mr Riley would laugh if he told him that Buzz was like an old balloon. Tayler liked hearing Mr Riley’s big mans’ laugh.
He had heard his Mum on the phone earlier, her voice had carried down the stairs as she shouted really loudly, she had used all the bad words that he knew you were not meant to say and he knew that she only shouted like that when she talked to his dad.
Tayler looked up at the clock it read half past eleven. Tayler knew how important it was to be able to tell the time, the judge had told them what time things were meant to happen on Sundays, and he knew as a lawman himself that you shouldn’t break the law.
Tayler was the sheriff now he had the costume on for his dad to see all he needed were the smoke signals of his dad’s exhaust.