I love to write. Not great pieces of literature (although I wish I could manage that as well) but write. I love pens, paper, pencils, stationery. Can there be anything more attractive then a notebook, with notes scribed from front to back? I guess I was born several centuries too late – I should have been a scribe, sat at my desk scribing away all day to hand write a book.

Of course, I love telling a good story as well. I do enjoy words and using them but for sheer joy, it is hard to go past some nice writing.

Yes – the winter has been long here in Mongolia. Soon, gentle reader, the springtime will return, and then the summer, and then we can look to the countryside again. In the meantime, where did I put that pen?

One thought on “Writing

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