On writing…

Let me preface this with an explanation – for one of my courses at university I had to keep a writing journal and write something in it every single day from the 1st of August to the 19th of September. It was a folio of all the creative-type writing I’ve done in that time. Keeping that journal was a challenge some days when I struggled to think of something to write about, but in pushing through I became motivated more and more not to give up – it was a driving factor in me upping my posting schedule here. This piece is a reflection I wrote at the end of that time.


There is great potential held in words, for beauty, for ugliness, for pleasure, for pain, for knowledge and for lies. They are unlimited in their use, to inform the whole world or to carry a secret expression of one’s soul. Stories, songs, diaries, reports, articles… they are nothing but words spun into a web in such an artful way that we can translate some intelligible meaning. Language and communication is at the centre of our society and we are constantly trying to increase and improve communication worldwide. If nothing else, we exist in a sea of words – we use them to describe and understand and label everything we know and speculate about the things we don’t. Words are even more spectacular than our physical world because we can use them to explore emotion and abstract concepts. We can trust words to keep our secrets and understand our feelings. They have the power to create magical new worlds and universes that may never exist. They can provoke anger or provide comfort and, depending on how we use them, they could be mere chaotic cacophony or they could have many levels of significance or meaning.

There are so many dormant words on Earth, stowed away in thoughts never spoken, printed in books never opened, written in journals kept locked away from prying eyes. Words seem to float in the air, swirling with infinite possibilities, waiting to be chosen until we pluck them out of the collective consciousness and give them purpose. This is writing at its heart. It’s merely thought, intangible and silent until we untangle it with language. Words are used to bind us, in promises and contracts – we have a duty to tell the truth in these but otherwise it’s mostly assumed. Words are nothing but largely agreed upon sounds and squiggles, only significant when strung together in a certain order. But in reality they are so much more than that. They are infinite, and they carry weight. There is beauty in that. This is why I write.


If you are a writer, an artist, a musician, a dancer or if you want to hone any type of skill, practice doing it every day. Practice makes perfect in creative fields and otherwise. Keep at it and you will see the improvement. Power through the rough patches, put in the work on those days when you don’t feel like it, because the more you push your limits, the further they will stretch. This is how you make progress. After a certain point of lifting the same weights, nothing will improve – you have to go bigger to keep making progress. Do something to improve every single day, even if it sucks. Even if you make something and you hate it, you have learnt something and hence improved.

“The moving finger writes and having writ, moves on” – Omar Khayyam

All you have to do is start. You can do that.

Stay safe,


4 thoughts on “On writing…

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