When I was younger I loved to write. I kept a diary, wrote stories, poems, lyrics, and daydreamed about working on books and magazines. I just love words. I love discovering new ones, where they come from, what they mean. I love how their different combinations conjure rhythm and feeling and stories. But as I got older I found I just…stopped. I felt pretentious to even consider writing down my thoughts, even if it was just for me.

Being on the introverted side, I find I am often mentally rehearsing and editing what I am going to say at any given point. These days I really do try hard to speak openly and with more confidence, but inside my brain is frantically scrambling for the words, the right tone, a dash of humour. I have always communicated better in writing, when each sentence can be carefully considered. Thank goodness for email. For WhatsApp. For text.

Recently my internal monologue has grown so much louder. Like journalling, but entirely in my head. Narrating my own life. A stream of consciousness that I rewind and embellish with descriptive words. Maybe it’s because I spend time on my own, or allow myself to just be with my thoughts more often (get a dog, the walking is good for that). Google says I am just reminding myself that I still exist.

Social media has become a place where people can share their thoughts and journal their activities, but I go through phases with it. Mostly I wonder why anyone would be at all interested in my days out or recommendations, but then, with an occasional flurry of posts, I remember it is a good way to get those little social connections – that was the whole point, originally at least. I remember that when people go to the effort of writing a description of their holiday, or a particularly delicious meal, I enjoy reading about it, vicariously eating up their experiences.

A few weeks back I had a little solo trip away and, with no-one to share it with, took to Facebook to review my day. I was encouraged by a few people who commented that they had enjoyed my little narrative. I decided that perhaps I should write down my thoughts more often, even if just for me. I enjoyed it and it brought my memories back more vividly (and my memory is so often terrible). Besides, all the studies say that journalling is good for you, especially those of the overthinking-tending-to-anxious variety.

So I looked at lovely Moleskine journals, and promptly forgot about it. Then, weeks later, I had a moment of inspiration. My colleague posted a new entry on her blog and I thought, why don’t I write one too? If no-one ever reads it, it doesn’t matter. I can learn how to use WordPress. Maybe scatter in a few of those photos I’m constantly taking. Just making something will feel good.

And so here I am, warm laptop on my left knee, warm dog on my right. I’m quite looking forward to creating something new.