Why do you Write?


I love to write. I don’t know why. Usually I fall asleep telling myself a story. It has crackling characters, spitting with energy. They get up to an awful lot. It’s a bit like a soap opera that has been going on since I was about eleven.

It’s not really a soap opera, though.

Ugh. Who am I kidding. It is exactly that. How embarrassing to admit it. I despise soap operas.

Not that I judge soap operas or their people.

Who am I KIDDING. I do judge them. Terribly so.

I like to write because I feel like I can explore aspects of my personality through other people that I have created. I could also make them do things I could only dream of doing – although, if I really wanted to do those things I would jolly well get up and do them, but I’m too lazy, that’s what – so I just write about them doing those things instead.

I write because I could make my characters do things I couldn’t morally do, unless I am having an intrusive and unsociable thought.

I write because sometimes I have a lot of feelings and they want to manifest themselves into words. I sit back and survey these words and I think, ‘gosh, Lenora, that is exactly how I was feeling, you got it so right.’

Of course, that is only true for me. For somebody else reading my words, well, it might just be a clutter of irritation, or inconvenient confusion. Take your pick.

Then I generally have a cup of tea because tea and words get along like peanut butter and jam. (Very freaking well is how they get along)

I love words. I love how some people can twist and shape them into intricate chains that inspire fireworks of thought in my brain. Wow. That string was so amazing, how did he do that? Or, my gosh, that phrase was arresting, was she descended from the angels, to speak to my soul so?

Wordsmiths are kindred spirits. I think people who write so well must be earnestly passionate. Not sexually (although, maybe, right?), but their minds must be enigmatic. Electricity. Like a Mr Rochester (oh, I didn’t like him though.). Or.. or… well, a Mr Bhaer! Or a Ned Worthington (from What Katy Did Next). I fell in love with Ned Worthington and I still secretly harbour a literary affection for him. If I were fictional I might be awfully horrid and try to steal him from Katy. If he looked at me I would probably faint. Don’t tell my husband.


So, dear reader, why do YOU like to write? I am sure everybody has different reasons. Please feel free to share, I am so curious.

Do you ‘do’ Valentine’s Day?

My husband and I don’t do Valentine’s day.

It wasn’t something we contracted previously before getting married. It wasn’t something we both decided and agreed on. We didn’t say “Oh, we don’t like soppy things like that” or “we should love each other everyday, not just on the 14th of February.”

I think it’s nice that there is a day on which people celebrate love by giving each other tasty things and colourful plants. They say men are visual but I think all humans are visual. What woman isn’t swayed by a nicely dressed significant other who smells fantastic and is presenting an array of colourful flowers, just for her? Not me for sure.

I like pretty presents. During our first few weeks of marriage my husband used to buy me lots of presents. Expensive bracelets, high quality perfume, a pair of ghd straighteners which I could never afford and which, now I know, he couldn’t afford either. First class train tickets to London. Giant boxes of chocolate (which I let my family eat because I was watching my figure), a giant cream cake (seriously, do you WANT a fat wife?), a tray of colourful cupcakes (say whaaaat). He wanted to impress me. He didn’t know he’d already impressed me with his clean cut fashion and his smell and his infectious smile. But I wouldn’t say no to the other things.

My mother, pragmatic as always, said, “he’ll stop opening the car door for you soon.”

Two years later, he has stopped doing it. I guess he doesn’t need to ‘impress’ me anymore. But sometimes he does. When it’s a special occasion. Like when we escaped the family and went to a retro cafe and I wore lipstick and a flowing dress and he wore his expensive coat and the cashmere sweater that I love.

My husband hates hearts. I don’t know if its a ‘macho’ thing, or if he is still a bit immature (he is 24). He gets irritated by them.

“If I see a heart,” he said once, impassioned, “I’ll… I’ll punch it in the face!”

I found this so hilarious that I laughed about it for three days straight. I still laugh about this. I am chuckling away to myself as I type.

So yes. We don’t do Valentine’s day. We don’t schedule dates. We don’t plan holidays. We don’t get gifts. We just never think about that. It doesn’t matter to either of us. we aren’t the celebratory type. We aren’t mushy, and can be awkward demonstrating our love.

Do I, as a woman who can be emotional sometimes all the time, ever feel bad about it?

Honestly, hand on heart honest, I don’t.


Some people feel very low about Valentine’s Day. They feel more lonely, surrounded by loving couples. It is a day that can exclude a lot of members of our society, even though it is not only meant to celebrate romantic love, but all love.

To other people, Valentine’s Day is pointless, ridiculous consumerism and a way for the capitalists to make their capital gains.

To me, Valentine’s Day is the sweet day Katy Carr and her siblings exchanged heartwarming (and sometimes chuckle-worthy) poems by a roaring fire, surrounded by comfort and love.

What are your thoughts on Valentine’s Day? Do you ‘do’ Valentine’s Day, or would you ‘do’ it?