There was a time I wanted to be a writer. I loved the feel of words, the possibilities of ink and paper or the tap-tapping of fingertips. Ideas would float around my head – “Wouldn’t it be great if there was a book on ___?” “I should write a book about___”.

I used to love the process of stringing together sentences and watching something coherent appear before my eyes. There was a thrill in it – a nodding pleasure as I rushed to finish one sentence and begin the next – all the while thinking “I know where this is going next”. It wouldn’t take me long. It was fun, exhilarating even.

But it has honestly taken me an entire day to write one page. I may be seriously starting to reconsider my calling in life.