For a long time, I laughed at calling myself a writer. I didn’t believe I was good enough. But after a year of blogging here and pitching articles elsewhere, I recently realised that, yes, I’m a writer. I can do it. Write.
This has always baffled me. Numerous times I’ve went down to St Kilda beach on 30-degree days decked out in a loose-fitting white T-shirt and shorts. After ten minutes or so of strolling on the sand under the cloudless sky, beads of sweat scramble to form on my forehead and back.