I'm writing again after a long time of just not being able to. I have been yearning to have something to write - something good, something worth it. I've had ideas but no stories. I lost them.

I think I was yearning to write, not because I loved writing anymore, but because I felt I had to prove I could keep doing it. I wanted to impress and wow and yet I couldn't think about writing without talking myself out of it.

I don't know how to express this, but I have fought with a strange revulsion when I look at my books. Real shame that they were not as good as I wanted them to be. Embarrassment that people could look and see and know the mess.

This is NOT a 'please tell me I'm great' tweet - it's just saying how I've felt. Because writing three books quickly wrung me dry. I realise now that (for many reasons) I am fairly slow. I think I've only just caught up with myself.

I would intend to write, because oh my gosh career and momentum and money and and and... but then I would sink into utter misery at the thought of holding out a secret precious thing to the world again.

And I would think 'I need a thicker skin'. But that's not true. I need to be tender and thoughtful and feeling and bruisable because the stories live in that part of me.

And maybe I won't 'keep up' - maybe I'm not cut out for 'the industry' but I am cut out for stories. So, I'm going to quietly write. I'm going to write the tender, odd stuff and it might not work and it might not impress and it might not make me money. But it might make me proud.