Welcome to the circus

Yikes. OK. So a real, proper novel... It's time to actually get off my arse and do this thing. Yippee-ki-yay motherfucker and all that. Shall I wax lyrical about childhood dreams of being a celebrated author? Probably not; I'm sure that's a given. Needless to say, childhood dreams are yet to manifest at the ripe old (young, sorry) age of 30 (well, 30 next month). My bad. Sorry.

No, instead of delving into fiction, I took the tried-and-tested "real job" route and became a journalist. A bloody good one, too. And then the quarter-life crisis hit - aided and abetted by a hellhole of a newspaper and small-town syndrome - and I packed up and hit the bright lights of the big city. Three years down the track, and I'm lost. The quarter-life crisis persists, although I at least am working out what I don't want, which is infinitely important.

And so, as I journey back through the recesses of my mind to work out what went wrong, I've stumbled across the fever once more. That fever that had me writing endless amounts of short stories as a kid, hand-written in self-published runs of one. That fever that drives a need to create. It was staved off while in newspaper-land, but now, in the real world, it's bubbling away. Something is bubbling away. Something needs to come to the surface...

Something will come to the surface. I just need to figure out what. What is my story?! In the parlance of the time, stay tuned....