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Right, I think I’m starting to get into this blogging lark. Pretentious old self-important me. Just a quick one today.

Firstly, I think it’s fair to say that I was wrong in my first blog. Blogs aren’t pretentious, and neither are they just for self-important types with high opinions of themselves. There are lots and lots of very interesting, entertaining and helpful blogs out there, and I’d like to bring a couple to your attention:

• http://iainobrien.co.nz/ – Iain O’Brien, New Zealand Test cricketer, nice chap. Interesting blog about the life, trials and tribulations of a professional cricketer. Currently sweating his nuts off in Sri Lanka.

• http://crackerwax.com/ – the insane ramblings of some chap who works in the same building as me. A definite candidate to do one day what can only really be described as “A Michael Douglas in Falling Down.”

• http://baldyblog.freshblogs.co.uk/ – now, serious head on for a moment. Without meaning to repeat what is written in his wonderful blog (and because I can’t do it justice), Adrian Sudbury – an old classmate from secondary school – was struck down with leukaemia, and he used Baldy’s Blog to chart his progress. Sadly he lost his battle exactly a year ago, but his friends and family are still contributing to the blog. It sounds clichéd I know, but no-one ever had a bad word to say about Adrian, and the courage he showed in his final months was truly inspiring. Just go and check out his blog, OK? Then sign up to be a blood and bone marrow donor.

But back to more trivial matters; specifically my attempt to write a novel. Before I start I’d like to point out that I don’t see ‘novelist’ as a career step towards fame, celebrity mates, posh London nightclubs and the like. I’m quite aware that it’s a tough career, and it’s rarely an especially rewarding one, financially.

So why do I want to be a writer then? Because it’s what I enjoy. Since school I’ve always loved writing and telling stories. I did an A-Level in English Language but regret not choosing to pursue it further. I took what I thought was the safe option: accountancy. I bottled it. I thought that in order to be successful as a writer (of any description) you had to be either insanely talented or unfeasibly lucky. I didn’t back myself to be either.

Here I am, twenty-eight years old, the soul-destroying big 3-0 a worryingly-near sixteen months away, and the urge to tell stories is still there. It hasn’t turned into a full-on mid life crisis yet. Not quite, anyway.

I’m not purposefully dragging this out, honest. I’ll write a bit about the actual novel idea soon, I promise.