Kindling

Sep 5, 2017

I’m in Year 11. It’s a winter evening. My English teacher has set my class some homework to write something. Because it’s 2011, I’ve got a pen in my hand and a notepad on my desk at home – not an iPad. I begin to write something. Immediately, something feels different about this one. For starters, it’s actually good, by my standards at least. I’m writing like I’ve never written before. Every word is carefully chosen. Nothing gets rushed. I read it back and discover a talent I’ve never properly given the chance to exercise before. Internally, I know it’s not the best piece out there and that other people in the class have probably written something less cliché and more real. But that wasn’t what I was going for. I was aiming to create something that would please myself as much as my English teacher. In the process, I discovered what would become my favourite pastime.