I’ve added reading to my daily routine. Several articles on Medium per day, and I intend to re-add reading fiction to the mix too. Every day. Not only has this helped me think critically about my own ideas, and indeed discover things I just didn’t even think about, its rewarding in that it has been just plain interesting. Life is a constant search for knowledge and reading is a highly efficient way to borrow other people’s!

Entirely from personal experience — no basis in any kind of fact or science — life is balanced. Good and bad, equal. Good deeds have a bad counterpart or side effect and visa versa. Maybe it’s not true. Probably, in fact. But it seems that way. In less words, life is a rollercoaster. It doesn’t mean good isn’t worth it. On the contrary, it’s all the more so. Good is always worth it.

Snow’s great, a ton of fun. Until it stops you getting to work. Then it’s infuriating. Because England is notoriously unprepared for snow, it doesn’t take a lot to bring the country to a screeching halt. The snow is barely ankle deep. It was forecast at a 100% chance several days in advance…and yet there was no grit to be seen. And I live a couple miles from a salt storage!

Technically still meeting my goal of writing every day — very technically though! I’m a scientist through and through, fiercely reliant on facts rather than faith. I tend towards being genuinely against organised religion — in short because I believe it’s too prone to corruption and dogmatism. But that’s a topic for another day. Personal spiritual belief, without all the trappings of the ‘modern religion’ and its prophets, is another matter entirely.

Just like that, this is the seventh Scribblings that I’m writing. A whole week, gone by in a flash. That’s 12-hour shifts for you, I suppose! But in between the necessity of making a living, I still found time to write. It wasn’t particularly hard either. So I’d encourage you, if you enjoy writing — or even if you don’t but want to share — write. Write every day, a sentence or a whole piece.

There’s something about motorcycling that makes it just… Fun. Even the rare (hooray for filtering!) occasions I get stuck in traffic, I’m still grinning. Sure, it’s kinda dangerous, mostly down to the lack of awareness of other drivers. And it takes your absolute focus. Perfect control. But it is truly joyous. It makes getting places fun. It is more than just a method of transport. It isn’t all about the adrenaline.

I just got done cleaning my motorcycle, something I don’t do as often as I should. I always find it surprising quite how long it takes. But it’s also incredibly satisfying to have all that chrome at a high shine. A little ritual of satisfaction — like making beds is supposed to be. But I still don’t see the point in that one! Still no fiction today. Imagination just isn’t flowing.

I’m writing this on a bus today as opposed to the trains that the last three were written on. It’s an interesting metaphor, writing on the move. Writing is a journey unto itself. So after all that’s happened recently I had work drinks last night. Left me feeling a little worse for wear as I write this! It’s important, though. Not necessarily drinking, there’s plenty of downsides there. Taking moments to unwind, I mean.

The text prompt is menacing today. That little cursor blinking relentlessly. Daring me to say something, when I feel like I have nothing to say. I’m sure every other writer understands what I’m feeling. Better than I can write about it, ironically enough. But the whole point of this ‘blogthing’ is I write every day no matter what. So here goes. Yesterday came a bolt from the blue. The calm before the storm.

I picked quite the time to start this endeavor, Christmas is a busy time at my work! But I will persevere. Though of course now I’ve found the time to sit down and write I can’t think of anything to say. Always the way I suppose. Yesterday I started watching Vikings. If you haven’t heard of it, I’d describe it as Norse Game of Thrones. Which for a GoT fan and Norse mythos lover like me is just perfect.

A book lies open on the table, pages blank like fresh snowfall. Ink spills like blood across the crisp cream pages. An invisible hand scrawls lightning fast. Patterns of loops and lines inscribed in the blink of an eye. Letters forming words, words forming sentences. A story beginning to unfold, told in ink black as night… This is that story. I hope you enjoyed that little intro snippet of fiction as much as I enjoyed writing it.