The first words I can remember writing were in Grade 1. My teacher, Mrs Cook, a matronly woman who wore her wiry hair in a bun, presented the class with the overnight task of preparing a sentence showcasing the word “pig”.

I returned to school the following day with the words “I am a pig at my dinner” inscribed neatly between the ruled lines of my exercise book.

I can’t remember if my effort was solo or assisted, but the end product certainly points to some level of parental intervention.

I’d love to say this was the moment I became obsessed with the English language and all it offers, by way of self expression and story telling. But that would be rubbish. It was much, much later – in my early 20s in fact, when I was travelling around Europe – often by myself, and had nobody with whom I could share my adventures or observations. So I wrote them down.

I’ve still got all those jottings somewhere – in a box, which I suspect by is now riddled with cockroach poo and other symbols of seclusion. I don’t know – I’ve never opened it.

There’s probably some sort of neurological explanation for that, but I’ve never bothered to find out what it is.

What I do know is that time’s precious, and I’d much prefer to spend my time writing than reading. Particularly old stuff.

I trust that doesn’t confirm or perpetuate my early reputation as a pig. I think instead what it points to is society’s growing pre-occupation with the written word.

That might seem strange a observation, given our obsession with all things digital, but in our 21century world there are so many channels – outlets – through which we can express our opinions, canvass our views, tell our stories. Even provide intimate detail of where we are, what we’re doing, and with whom. We are bloggers, social commentators, industry experts, even “best selling authors” (whatever that means).

In that sense, you might want to ask yourself, is it time to stop reading these ramblings and get back to working on your own stuff?

I know there’s a lot to talk about.