I’ve been thinking a whole lot about telling the truth lately, and especially when it comes to my writing.Continue reading “Committed”
I am the rejection queen. I don’t administer too many rejections myself, but I have become an expert at receiving them. Especially the big rejections – the ones that have a larger life impact, that can sway how the rest of your day, week, even year could go. And it’s not something I ever foresaw myself being able to handle really, because at heart I am a pretty sensitive person, who used to be very impacted by the opinions of others. But I suppose age and practice really do make perfect. Or they make for mild desensitisation; it’s unclear.
Two years ago around this time, I wrote about my desire to keep moving, and the beginning of my detachment from the London I had once considered home…
“Home is where the heart is.”
I have always struggled with this phrase. It sounds simple enough but actually, I’m not sure it means anything more than “Home is where you like to sleep”, or “Home is where the person you like, likes to sleep”; but that sounds a bit like the mantra of a stalker, so maybe it’s not quite as simple as that.
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Midnight, or 12.04am to be exact. The Piccadilly line is taking an age, and there are people scattered on the platform. I’m exhausted, in the way that’s starting to feel more and more like London. I wonder what I’m doing out here, at night alone, doing a mediocre impression of a mole. Bruno Mars tells me to raise my pinky in the air but only if I’m a player. I am not.
I am a prolific procrastinator. That’s what I have discovered about myself this week. I mean I get stuff done, but like, really, really late. However I suspect it’s something more than just “I’ve decided to be unproductive this April”. So some navel gazing is probably required.
I don’t claim to know much about things and stuff, but that didn’t stop me this week from writing my first article on politics. In fact, if the media is anything to go by, my status of knowing very little prior to doing the article probably made me the perfect candidate to write it, no? I believe the answer I was looking for there was a resounding ‘YES’. Please and thank you.
Is it just me or have we been blind-sighted by the swift arrival of Christmas and the impending end of 2015? Perhaps I haven’t been paying enough attention to time carrying us along on a train to older age, because I’ve been distracted with despising house shares, commuting in a hell tube, and eavesdropping on strangers’ dates. So maybe it’s time to take stock of 2015? OK, you’ve twisted my arm. Let’s do this.
I always thought of myself as someone who doesn’t deal well with rejection, but I think I’ve been selling myself short. Having this year given into my writing urges, sentencing myself to a potential life of struggle for my art, I’ve become pretty adept at dealing quickly with rejection and disappointment.
This weekend I had the best holiday I’ve had in years. I wasn’t white water rafting, bathing on a beach or climbing Kilimanjaro (because really why would I do that?). I was however holed up in a little village in Devon called Sheepwash; enjoying a writers retreat that spawned my most creative episode yet.