Why

My parting line to the Prof was that I would always keep writing - a promise to self wrapped in serious gratitude. What patience, I thought, it takes to steer indulgent young minds to an explorer's courage. After two years of prodding and many meek stories, I found my boldness and grasped a handful of understanding. I wanted to leap towards my future words. For a moment at least, crafting vivid sentences didn't seem like half the labour I knew it to be ... (quite possibility) why I then said I'd found the meaning writing in fiction.

Two months later, I know I was wrong.
What's worse, I haven't been diligent and am still befuddled on how to write (well). This is an awful excuse because in this time, I have traveled across the globe, walked in an inviting yet unfamiliar country, met some severely intriguing people, swallowed The Question of What I Will Be In Life and found more rooms for my imagination ... even with this bounty of material, my writing fell flat.

I have written accounts of the moments, exchanges and landmarks that passed me by, as I paused and exclaimed 'Ah! this could make great fiction.' But to gather these snippets of eminence, to conceive a story that breathes with naked, pulsating truth - I have yet to learn how.

I hope this place will commence how.

Because I've promised there to be words that follow, to dear Poet Prof and the dozens of anonymous eyes across the computer screen, I shall not disappoint thee :)

What follows here will be fiction, fiction questioned, questions fictioned and (at last) many things written.