10/02/2026
Why I Write (Sure, Why Not)
People ask me why I write. Usually with the same look they'd give a man who's taken up competitive breakdancing while doing yo-yo tricks at fifty-nine. Fair enough.
The honest answer is that it relaxes me. Some people unwind with a pint, some with the garden, some by shouting at the telly. I sit down with a cup of tea and a blank page, and an hour later the world's a bit quieter.
It's fulfilling, too, in a way that's hard to explain. There's a particular satisfaction in taking something that's been rattling around in my head, an idea, a character, a bit of history that won't leave me alone, and watching it turn into actual words on an actual page. Then a chapter. Then, if I stick at it, a book.
And that last bit still gets me every time. Holding it, even if "holding it" means scrolling through it on my iPad at the kitchen table. It doesn't need to be on a shelf in a bookshop to count. It exists. A few months ago it was just noise in my head, and now it's a thing with a cover and a contents page and a beginning, middle and end.
I've a few projects on the go at the minute, as usual. Some will see daylight, some will stay on the iPad, and some will sit in a folder until I've the nerve to go back to them. That's grand. The writing is the point.
So if you've something rattling around in your own head, a story, a memory, a family history nobody's written down, have a go. Nobody has to read it. You might just find it's the most relaxing thing you do all week.
Sure, why not?
