I'm currently writing an odd post-apocalyptical short story set in Wales, of all places. Involving books, the sea and children named after animals. It's peculiar and I have no idea why I'm writing something like it, but I also haven't been writing much lately, for reasons my therapist would probably be more apt at describing. So I'll settle for this slightly stilted fantasy nook of my imagination, and stare at these pictures every time I lose my thread.
(An afterthought: I think I've finally cracked something about writing. At the first creative writing class I had at my current school, which was about a year and a half ago, our teacher asked us a question I've been thinking about since: Who does the reader care about? I put up my hand straight away, without even thinking about it first. My answer? The reader cares about themselves. Of course.
So the thing about writing, then, must be to feel what everyone else is feeling, but express it in a way nobody else can. Remarkably simple. Except not really, right?)