Last week I wrote a piece about being dissatisfied about my writing. I still am, but I can’t help wondering if I have latched on to one little thing. There have been a couple of times this week where I have written something on FaceBook about my morning walks where I have been fairly relaxed and the words have flowed quite freely, a little less rigid than I normally am.
It’s not that I want to be poetic, lets be realistic, I am writing about me, what I think (for the most part), my opinion, what I see. I think I am trying to write prose. I guess it’s autobiographic – is that correct? What I haven’t been writing about is a story of my life. Only very occasionally do I delve back in to my deep history. This is my history of this week.
Ironically, having said that I want to write briefly about one of the two books I am currently reading, the Purbeck camera. It has a picture of West Street in Wareham, a particular shop, well garage, it was a very simple garage only one or two pumps, I used to fill my moped there. We are talking 48 years ago! That came as a bit of a shock to me, why would that be?