The House That Jack Built.

It’s my first time here for a while, I know. Writing hasn’t been coming as naturally to me of late. When I actually do it, it feels great; but being able to actually sit and write something worthwhile feels like a Herculean effort for the most part. My original intention on sitting down tonight was to begin a flash fiction entry for this year’s Inktears competition (something I’ve been intending to start for about two months). However, the blank screen stared at me until I changed tack, and started to write this post instead.

The problem with having no limits is that it can leave you feeling rather lost. You are in the situation of having to stake out your own frontiers, guarding your little corner of civilisation from the terrors of the unknown. Where do you start?

I’ve been having to do this in a much more general way, too, I now realise. Since about Easter I’ve been at home, trying to work out what to do with my life. Not in a bad way, as such, but I have been finding it rather difficult to live in the middle of a void. I’ve very suddenly had to deal with sorting out my own life, without much in the way of outside influences (i.e. the day-to-day responsibilities of a University timetable).

It’s been difficult.

So I guess this is me, trying to create something from nothing. Making my own way of doing things, my personal house of cards. I’m getting the hang of it, maybe. But we’ll see. We’ll see.


The Post Office:


'Quintconsequential' is a word of my own invention, despite the definition in the style of the Oxford English Dictionary featured on the site. By all means, use it, whisper it, shout it from the rooftops. But please, remember that you heard it here first!