let it begin.

I’m not quite certain what we’ll do with this, but it’s going to be all about the writing. I’m sure you know how much I love to read. There are few people who have escaped my acquaintance without suffering at least one rant about how just completely fucking brilliant some book or other is, and you’ve been lucky if it was just the one (and to those who’re into the triple figures by now, my sincere apologies.) But loving books so and spending all your time reading them is dangerous in the same way that hanging out with other people’s babies is: sooner or later you want one of your own.
mmYou know that it’s different when you’re not just visiting for awhile. You know you’ll need to take on extra responsibilities and wake up in the middle of the night when the fucker needs you and actually make a commitment to something other that’s not just for Christmas and maybe stop being a child yourself. There will be nappies to change and vomit to clean up. You’re aware of overpopulation, and the gratuitousness of the act, but but but - to sprain the analogy, the biological clock is ticking and you’re getting broody like a hen.
mmThis is the situation I’ve been in for a long time. Unlike a child, however, which any fools can (and often do) make by a moment’s thoughtlessness, a book requires a sustained act of thoughtfulness. Hell, even writing this has been the longest I’ve concentrated on anything bar a crossword or my own misery since I finished uni. There are problems to be overcome: the problem of what to write; the problem of why we write; the problems of how, where and when; the problem of the terror that gnaws my innards at the thought of being read; a thousand others. 
mmFortunately for us, we are not solitary genii scribbling consumptively in garrets. We are friends, and when put together may constitute a whole functioning person. 
mmOnwards.