I think I’d like to write, for a living, maybe, when I get older. I think I’d like to use my words, big, small or complex, to say something, to tell a story. I think I’d like to write a book or make this blog bigger and better and well known, or maybe even both. I think I’d like to do that because people would possibly think that I am a fantastic writer, with awesome DIY’s and a knack for using large words to either insult, confuse or intrigue. I think I’d like to create my own stories, my own world and share them with people who want to know about them and love them as much as I do. I think I’d like to share a common interest with hundreds, maybe even thousands of people. I think I’d like to stop using I think I’d like to.
Sure I’d like to become a writer, a little more serious than what I am currently, but what would I write about. I have an imagination, a wonderful and vivid imagination, when I am not thinking about it. When it comes to the crunch however, when I need something imaginative I never know what I want to write about.
I think maybe I’d like to write about the beautiful romances that I enjoy to read about, but how do I know what love or fantastic summer flings feel like? I have never experienced them. I want to live before I write. I want to have experiences to influence my writing with truth and ingenuity.
So that is my realisation for the day. One day I’ll figure out what I want to write, when and how I will get there, but for now, I shall live the life of a sixteen, nearly seventeen year old.