Writing. I’ve started doing it.
I’m not as interested in story writing as I was when I was younger, but the allure of perfectly crafted ‘poetry’ is certainly great. ‘Poetry’, sadly, is a word I heartily dislike on the grounds of its connotations (heavyhearted middle-aged women, arty types, Romani gypsies and the crossover all thereof: Carol Ann Duffy)
It is things like this, when talented writers use the sublime in every day description, to which I aspire. For the time being, though, I have my little yet-to-be-named book of verse. I will be trying to widen my vocabulary, and then put it to sensible creative use. At the moment, my work has an 18th century flavour whimsy and romantic abandon born (as I well know) of immaturity. That, however, is how I feel like writing; I do not plan to remedy it soon.