Apart from my politically correct IG captions - it those count - and utterly grey SEO-compliant content at work, I haven't written anything much for my inner child in a millennia. Don't know what I've been busy with but since my last post I've lost people, lived through a pandemic, ran a bake shop, worked with my hands, dabbled in B2B writing, and moved to another continent. In between these, I might have lost that perky voice I thought I had on here. The inner kid has retracted deep into her Cancerian shell, and now will you help me smoke coax her out? Lately, specifically in the last 4 years, I've been feeling detached from that side of me that writes. Sure, I've been distracted by life, but writing for myself has been an escapade ever since I could read. It began with a diary. Her name was Amanda. She was a pretty hardcover in pink and pistachio with a golden lock on her. When unlocked with a matching golden key, her A5 pages came lined in pink. I'd
a blog about small things with big value