Currently listening to The Who’s Baba O’Riley on my very minimal stereo system, ie multimedia speakers + iPod. Feel like writing a song but have no idea how, so I drew this picture instead.

I used to make stuff when I was young, before I had access to a computer. Lots of stuff involving felt-tip pens and cardboard. There was a boardgame at one point. Further back, I even remember writing murder mysteries and making miniature sets and figurines [aka dolls] to act them out (with my slightly weird neighbour).

It’s funny that even though I find myself writing all the time [ie here] I don’t seem to be able to just make stuff up like that anymore. But then I guess my interest in fiction has also declined, so it probably says something about my changing tastes. Fiction seems so tricky– as the author you have to care about it, even though it’s not real. How to avoid that crashing doubt when you think to yourself "Why should anyone give a shit about this imaginary guy in a situation I just made up?"