It's like stepping out into virgin snow.
Like being the first to walk along a stretch of beach smoothed by the waves.
First footprints.
The first post must be auspicious, the feet solidly planted.
What shall I write about?
About how it feels to be addicted to books and unwilling to kick the habit.
About writing - process and pleasures, pain and prose.
About my own altercations with the printed page, trying to knock some kind of sense into my words.
And
About being here - Malaysia, my home of twenty years.
About a life lived between here and there, and the rootless in betweens.
About the people who matter to me.
About life and laughter, love and language.
Of cabbages and kings.
One think I've learned about journals, is that though you may begin with a clear idea that you are going to write about precisely this thing or that, your writing takes on a life of its own and decides where it wants to lead you. I'll go with the flow.
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