On the need to write, to write.

Words excite me. Really, they do.

The prospect of writing something good tantalises me like the prospect of having good sex. My pupils enlarge; my breathing gets shallower; my hands get all balmy.

But as much as I love to write, I haven’t been writing lately. Probably because I’ve been finding that there’s hardly anything to write about. I’m a strong believer in the saying “if you’ve got nothing to say, don’t.” And if you’re got nothing to write about…

The thing is, not writing tends to become quite a bit of a habit. The less you write, the less you’ll feel like writing; and the more you write, the more you’ll feel like writing.

It’s a little bit of a catch-22: though I want to avoid bad writing as much as possible (and having nothing to write almost definitely leads to bad writing if it is forced), it has been said that bad writing inevitably precedes good writing.

I suppose that’s the reason why I wrote my last post about the Bon Iver music video and my wanting to go Iceland one day, even though It wasn’t something I particularly felt I had to write or share about.

I just knew I had to write something. And whatdya know, one thing led to another, and here I am again.

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