I'm going to write a novel. A story. Of sorts. I'm going to string a few words together and call them something beautiful.
Currently, I'm sat at a wooden table. It's covered in kids' psychedelic doodles. And there's the odd crack where it's aged.
It's home. To family dinner, family arguments and now me. It's lovely.
I've been hit with inspiration. And the notion that I've formed new roots. A new home where the people are mad and complete opposites. It feels warm and tender, and my heart could burst.
It's about finding the connection. Looking deeper and below the surface.
Look for the 3D. Go for inappropriate.
Anything you see.
There's something in everything.
Package. Wrap. Present. Recreate.
What does that look like? That webbing when you buy an orange.
What is it? It's fishnet tights and high expectations.
It's Amsterdam and bad choices.
And all you've done is open a fucking orange.
And this is my novel.
Be obsessive. Emphasise. Be fucking mental. Have faith in your ability and it will be alright.
Obsess. Obsess. Obsess.
Draw lines and never stop.
Write without lifting the pen.
Write. Write. Write.
Lines. Lines. Lines.
A novel. A scribble.
Write. Lines. Do. Move. Walk. Scribble.
This is my novel. A story. Words strung together. A burst of my heart.
Over red wine and olives.