When I was a teenager, I would write, and write and write. And I would listen to music. All the time.
Now I'm thirty-something, I don't listen to music for the sheer pleasure of it any more. I forget. Real life occupies my mind too much and oh, now I've realised that, I'm very sad about it. I am going to do something about it. On my buy list are Adele, Ludovico Einaudi and, oh dear, I can only name two. That's shameful. At least I'm on my way to rectifying the situation.
It's scary how easy it is for life to get in the way of things we once thought were the centre of our existence. I used to play and write music too. Don't even go there.
I decided to start writing again - properly - a month ago. For the last ten years, very on and off, I've written erotica. Now I've started paying attention to it as a serious pursuit, I've realised I've written Very Bad Erotica. And I don't even mean bad in a deliciously wicked way. I mean poor.
But that's fine. I can improve. And I can enjoy doing it. Scandalous sex, excruciating teases and men with nice arses. What's not to love?