I was striding along an urban footpath, head up and delighting in the first day of the year I hadn’t needed to wear a hat (although I love my orange beanie and often wear it inside), when I came across three young guys just ahead of me, about to dissect my path. They were moving and talking energetically, which was enough to get my attention, but then I noticed one was holding a camera and that the other two were on skateboards, one in an impractical looking long black trench coat and maroon DM boots, the other pushing himself along on a weathered wooden broom, the bristles bending under his weight.

“You look like you’re going to do something cool,” I said, because I’m never afraid of initiating a conversation with people when what they’re doing sparks my interest, if it feels right. Earlier on I’d stood for several minutes in an underpass (nearby to the skateboard meeting as it happens) watching four street artists side by side at work, zooming in and out physically from the wall to assess and add to their creations on repeat. I nearly asked about their process, but thought better of interrupting them, and carried on.

The cameraman looked delighted to be spoken to, but initially gave nothing away except a wry smile. The broom-holder seemed more intent on mastering his punt-like motion and keeping his momentum. “I’m a writer,” I added, as if it explained or excused my original inquiring statement. The third guy skated casually on but, at a prompt from the cameraman, turned back to tell me to look up @galleryskateboards on Instagram. Then they were gone, heading off diagonally on a branch off the path to presumably, go and do something cool (and on investigation it looks like they are).

I’m a writer, but I spend an awful lot of my time not actually writing. I spend it soaking up the world around me like a sponge that never gets saturated and engaging in small acts of encounterism (thank you Andy Field for giving this quirky habit of mine a name). Sometimes people open up – I had the loveliest in-passing chat with the cashier at my local supermarket today – and sometimes they don’t. I learn as much from when someone doesn’t want to interact (occasionally they look downright startled I’m speaking to them) as when they do.

I’ve been musing recently about the creative process of producing art versus that of writing (words which may never be read or published) thanks to an animated conversation with Dr Philip Miles, cultural sociologist and author of Midlife Creativity and Identity: Life into Art. I consider an artist an artist regardless of whether they’re actively making at a given time. I don’t afford myself the same luxury. If I’m not writing, I question whether I’m a writer. It may be a reflection of my own insecurities, that fear that (to quote the awesome Art Juice podcast) an output hiatus may bring only a ‘wave of nothingness’.

I do think writing has a muscularity to it and that there’s a benefit to regular practice (the first of my Tips for aspiring writers from an aspiring writer, in fact). Having used the label of being ‘a writer’ to give a voice to my inquisitiveness about a group of guys on skateboards and as a licence to use that voice however, I’m going to officially give myself a break. I’m a writer because I observe, notice, process and interpret things and because I distil these into the written word. To return to Art Juice and realign with the wider artistic community, awareness, perception and understanding are the strengths.

Being a writer is an enormous privilege. On the whole, people want to tell their stories and I have a legitimate way to invite them to, which fulfils their desire to share or need to be heard as much as it taps into my ongoing fascination with humans being human, why we show up as we do, and what patterns emerge. I’ve written this, but I felt truly at one with my craft watching a skateboarder elegantly negotiating tarmac with an unexpected handheld aid, recognising other storytellers on the cusp of inventing and simply asking them, ‘why?’.