Day 25: Still nothing

Again I've gone almost a whole day and not typed anything in this big, blank box in the back end of blogger.
Oh I've written today, yes, I wrote on the train on the way home, but by its very nature the result is a somewhat rambling stream of consciousness, so I'll spare you that.
I realise that in defaulting to these short, consolatory posts at the very last minute of each day I am actually enabling my own insecurities, and masterminding my own staying-small.
There are some incredible topics in my list, feminism, for one, past lives, humour, etc, but by scrabbling together these afterthoughts of the day fewer than 30 minutes before the deadline I can only be selling myself short, surely?
Big, meaty topics such as feminism, such as "What's the point of Twitter?" should excite me, and as things I am so passionate about in day-to-day life they do, but as topics to write about, they are in fact quite terrifying. These more serious subjects, for want of a better word, paralyse me, for fear of writing the "wrong" thing.
For the same reason that I never used to write on the front page of a notebook, messing up is one thing, but in plain view of the internet, of your friends and harshest critics alike, is an entirely different kettle of fish.
Perhaps I am subconsciously avoiding my first massively negative response and maybe even keeping myself small in the process. This idea that my time-constrained brain keeps circling, that as more anxious humans we keep ourselves small, is something I've begun to recognise a lot in different aspects of my life and I've realised it plays out literally, figuratively, and both physically and mentally, to different degrees.
But that is no way to live.
So, in the spirit of growth, let's try the alternative and start saying what needs to be said, writing that which, as a writer, cannot go unwritten.

Well, maybe tomorrow.

I'll keep you posted. X

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Day 24: That Friday feeling

So it keeps happening that I find myself in the pub on a Friday night not having written anything as the clock approaches Midnight.
Again I remind myself that this challenge was never designed to impede on other experiences but rather enhance them, but at the same time I am beyond glad that this sense of duty and of not breaking this pattern is now instilled in me, and also that I have the kind of people around me who will understand as I turn my attention to my phone for 5 - 10 minutes as I fulfill said creative obligation.
For all my moaning, this forcing myself to write is proving to be the making of me, and I honestly hope that when these 40-or-so days are up that I can continue on this somewhat infectious wave of momentum because honestly, it's really damn fulfilling.
And now, back to the pub.

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Day 23: "Some people are heroes. And some people jot down notes."

And some people, sir, do both.

It was tempting today to simply offer a quotation from the master, Terry Pratchett, as a mark of respect, but even without the impossible nature of narrowing it down to a single string of words, I can't help but feel that would be less a tribute, more a disservice to his remarkable talent and capacity for conjuring, and furthermore a slight against his immeasurable inspiration.
I've always loved Terry Pratchett's writing and it must be said that as a judgement of character, a liking for his work in others has served me well thus far.
The sarcasm, the gentle cynicism, the humour, the reality. That unfathomable ability to paint with mere words such vivid and all-encompassing pictures, scenes, thoughts and feelings that it becomes hard to imagine you are anywhere else other than in fact inside his head. Instead, this entire world is being etched on the inside of yours, like gazing up in to a vast, vivid planetarium of light and colour and the kinds of characters no actual human being could ever hope to do justice to, writing in this fantasy world, this reality of his conjuring, so marvellous, so vividly depicted, and so grounded in observations of society as a whole that often it becomes hard to imagine that those 4 elephants and that giant turtle aren't in existence somewhere in the great beyond. That place where the falling angel meets the rising ape.
Just yesterday I read this piece from Tim Minchin about the talent of others and those incredible, glorious sentences and phrases that as a writer elicit that most frustrating of desires, to have got there first. If I'm honest, that is what Terry Pratchett's work is to me. All of it. Even now I re-read sentences of his and while delighting in the beauty and sheer sorcery of his words, still mourn the fact that that particular alchemy of language will never be mine. That ability to so accurately and poetically depict thoughts, feelings, situations so as to elicit actual unconscious nods in a reader, those knowing smiles, smirks of confirmation, that laugh of recognition. Such is, was, his talent for spearing the human condition, capturing the fallible, imperfect beings that we all are so perfectly and so knowingly: that is what I aspire to.
The master himself wrote that "Dark sarcasm should be taught in schools," and all I can do is agree. Terry Pratchett's legacy offers up that particular blend of honesty, cynicism and charm that prepares you most adequately for the world as it really is: baffling, mystical, and when you're really lucky, as glorious as it is ridiculous.

RIP sir, and thank you.



"I knew the two of you would get on like a house on fire. Screams, flames, people running for safety."

"Rincewind could scream* for mercy in nineteen different languages, and just scream in another forty-four. (*This is important. Inexperienced travelers might think that "Argh!" is universal, but in Betrobi it means 'highly enjoyable' and in Howondaland it means, variously, 'Your wife is a big hippo,' and 'Hello, thinks Mr.Purple Cat.' One particular tribe has a fearsome reputation for cruelty merely because prisoners appear, to them, to be shouting 'Quick! Extra boiling oil!')"

"Vimes' glare ran from face to face, causing most of the squad to do an immediate impression of the Floorboard and Ceiling Inspectors Synchronised Observation Team."

"The camel looked along its nose at Teppic. It's expression made it clear that of all of the riders in all of the world it would least like to ride it, he was right at the top of the list. However, camels look like that at everyone. Camels have a very democratic approach to the human race. They hate every member of it, without making any distinctions for rank or creed."

"It didn't look like the kind of snow that whispers down gently in the pit of the night and in the morning turns the landscape into a glittering wonderland of uncommon and ethereal beauty. It looked like the kind of snow that intends to make the world as bloody cold as possible."

"It was quite impossible to describe.

Here is what it looked like.

It looked like a piano sounds shortly after being dropped down a well. It tasted yellow, and it felt Paisley. It smelled like the total eclipse of the moon."

"Oh, them as makes the endings, don't get them."

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Day 21: Ever wanted to just switch off your brain?

Set yourself a challenge to write every day for 40 days, there's nothing quite like it.

A day without a writing direction, without any kind of useful inspiration, and just starting to type 8 minutes before a new day.

Make that 7.

And now 4.

I need to write something, anything, but my brain is having none of it.
In 3 minutes I will press publish on whatever sits on the screen in front of me, the cursor blinking expectantly, impatiently, the overwhelming sensation of "Is that it?"
Today, it is.

1 minute to go and I still have nothing to say, nothing to make of an entire day, except the increasing heaviness of my eyelids and the feeling of any kind of creativity quietly seeping out in to the atmosphere around me, starving these very fingertips of any kind of inspiration whatsoever.

0

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Day 19: My Favourite Person

I don't have one.
Or at least, not yet.

The title of favourite person is one not easily-earned, but then nor should it be.

I want my favourite person to be the person I can't wait to spend time with, to shower praise and good things upon, but not be afraid to call them out when they're in the wrong. And vice versa.
A favourite person should be someone you trust, someone who lifts you up but keeps you level, and forces you to consider your own input and impact on the world.
My favourite person needs to be that person that ultimately I want to impress, and make proud, knowing that their opinion is one of very few that really, truly matters.
I want my favourite person to be someone who has my best interests at heart, and who appreciates that I am fallibly human. And vice versa.
I want my favourite person to be a friend, and everything that implies.

In fact, I'm striving to be my own favourite person.

We see many of these qualities in clusters or isolation in the people around us, but in the end, all of these things have to start with us.
It's clichéd, it's cheesy, you may well have stopped reading as your eyes rolled involuntarily upwards across the page, but it's also the truth. There will be times in all our lives when we feel like we might just be the only thing we have, and at those points, we simply have to be enough.
It may not be forever, but life is made just that bit easier knowing you are not in fact alone, and that someone you trust is looking out for you even if it feels in that moment like no-one else is.

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Day 16: Accents

Accents are a distinguishing thing.

Patchwork and nuanced they hint at a back story, mottled and daubed with flecks of countries, conversations and circumstances we have known. It's through this inflection and intonation that we map the journeys of others, the rivers of speech patterns carving their way through both home soil and foreign lands.

Exposed to a new city for the first time accents become the gatekeeper to both existence and experience, at once possessing the unique ability to both alienate and ingratiate at any given moment. Schrödinger's acceptance.

Just today, in the space of 7-or-so short hours in Madrid I have found myself in conversation with an Italian-born Madrileño of 7 months who, upon learning we were Welsh and not English, happily regaled us with the story of his time spent in Burryport where none of the locals could understand his decidedly international accent, and quite frankly neither could he theirs. He commented at this point that in contrast he could very clearly understand us, and that we "spoke English very well."

It sounds obvious, but I think it takes a level of foreign language learning to become sympathetic to the plight of the foreign ear battling with the native tongue. You become unconsciously aware of that split-second between words, making sure to allow just enough time for translation and meaning to collide somewhere in the depths of the synapses. Instinctively you learn to look for and recognise that split-second flicker of approval and comprehension that flashes across the eyes and down to the corners of the mouth with a slight nod of the head, signalling for you to carry on the sentence. You become aware of your vocabulary, not so as to dumb down, but simply ensuring that you don't inadvertently default to the kind of linguistic riddles that we have such a bad habit of, like, falling in to.

There is always the argument for speaking as much of a native language as possible when travelling, but it can be a minefield.
Accent, intonation, speed, vocabulary, and even simply your own panicked brain can seem to conspire to leave you standing at the front of a queue of people, open-mouthed and silently floundering as you fail to process fast enough the simple question of whether or not you would like a bag.

Yeah, thanks for that.

Accents can conjure a whole host of emotions. When, far from home, your ear happens upon a familiar lilt, that easiest of conversations, the simplest of interactions, that mere acknowledgement can make all those miles feel that much shorter. Conversely, it can have you sidling down the nearest side street, denying any kind of connection to that most obnoxiously "other."

Accents are to speech as dynamics and articulation are to melody and music: the colour, intensity, and, well, je ne sais quoi that brings the bare bones of language to life.

After all, it's not what you say, it's how you say it.

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Day 15: Glasses vs. Contact Lenses

I have never worn contact lenses.
I've never really had a desire to.
Some people want to be rid of glasses, of contacts, so completely that they take lasers to their eyes in an effort to permanently negate the need for them.
I on the other hand like wearing glasses. I like the way I look wearing them (let alone the fact that I can actually see what I look like when I wear them)
In the same way that I like make-up, I like being able to fashion a face that I want to present to the world, and my glasses play a part in that.
When I was first prescribed glasses I jumped at the chance. The same happened with braces back in my early teens. In both cases I was not in dire need of their functions, but still I eagerly accepted the offer.
A chance to alter my appearance in a non-invasive way, a chance to change something about myself and to impose some kind of autonomy.
I make no secret of the fact that body image is something I have struggled with massively over the past decade, and well before that too. I get frustrated and at times bored of some of those thought patterns that even now have a tendency to creep back in, so much so that as a compromise I opt to try and change something about myself that is at least somewhat removed from that familiar ache of feeling entirely ill at ease within your own skin. Hair colour, hair cut, piercing, new make-up: small steps to alter the narrative, to nudge the familiar sequence off course. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, but we can all attest to the fact that even now it's fun to play dress-up: an escape from all sorts, not just the dark, heavy stuff.
I have left it too late to blog again and as midnight approaches along with the prospect of a 4:30am wake-up call, it's high time I slipped my glasses off the bridge of my nose and allowed my eyes to rest as they seem so intent upon doing. Simple. Chalk that one up as another win for glasses.

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Day 14: An empty mind

These are simply words to fill a page, words to fulfill an obligation.
I am the very definition of spent, and it is sheer determination alone guiding my finger touches across this keyboard.
When I set myself this challenge I'd not really comprehended the task I was undertaking. 40 days is a surprisingly long time, and I'm not even halfway there yet.
I am enjoying the routine of writing every day, the inevitable bout of creativity that I can hang the day upon, but on days like today when I'm already mentally 12 sheep down, it is harnessing more brainpower than it should.
There is no point to this post, no meandering narrative or pithy conclusion.
I've hit a temporary wall: not a lack of motivation, but a lack of headspace.
While my brain has emptied of the requisite words to wax lyrical on a given topic, it is only because they have been crowded out by duty and expectation.
The kind of tired that sits either side of the bridge of your nose, bisecting thought, reason and function.
The longer I stare at this screen the less I am convinced that the holes in my head will act as any kind of outlet so instead I will give in to their weight and endeavour to empty my mind to sleep.
Until tomorrow
x

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Day 13: The History of the Pub

An experiment.

How I came to be sitting in this pub; a literal history of the people in this pub.

Literally. In an effort to in-absolutely-no-way pass off some of my writing burden I asked the 6 people assembled to write a line on the topic of how they came to be sitting where they are.
In the pub.

1. Once dragged around pubs as a child. Simultaneously "encouraged" to maintain my violin. I appreciate these influences for they have combined so that I can be sitting in this pub with my desk partner and fellow orchestra-ers.

2. Over the hills, further away, around the black ice at the edge of the world, down the bottle and up the barrel.

3. A time honoured tradition of wandering from rehearsal to public house. Tradition became habit and I'm here every week. It's not the impy though.

4. Cheers!

5. Je ne sais pas... J ai suivi la lumiere...

6. Red wine fanatic, what can I say?


It's an interesting thing to think about, how you've come to be sitting somewhere.
It's also interesting to see how people choose to respond to a brief when they have a phone shoved in front of them at the pub and are asked to write a sentence.
I have come to be sitting in this pub due to a series of fortunate events, with a few less-than-fortunate ones along the way.
Life has conspired to make me think about fate and circumstance a lot recently. How the little details of life collide seemingly at random knocking certain things off kilter and surreptitiously sliding others to the forefront of our consciousness.
That one aspect of your life where you can pinpoint the exact decision, one way or the other, that brought you to a certain place, or put you on a certain path. That one person you seem to always see on that one bus you only catch from time to time.
Is it the universe telling us something? Is it fate, or destiny, or some other force of nature compelling us towards certain people, places or things?
Or is it the human condition: the desire for more, the desire to see more, the desire for more from the everyday than we feel we have been assigned.
There's something wonderful in the idea that we're not just clusters of sinew and cells scattering at random across the vast expanse of the universe.
I like serendipity, and circumstance, and the idea that maybe, just maybe, certain things are simply meant to be.
Perhaps sometimes we engineer our own circumstance and find ourselves where we need to be entirely off our own backs, but once in a while it's quite nice to believe in a certain kind of magic.

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Day 12: Sleep

We spend a third of our lives sleeping.

We sleep in, with, and around.

Encouraged by those around us we sleep on it, sleep it off and often lose it altogether.

Sleep is the facilitator of dreams.

The measured, calm overseer indulging the boisterous puppy of dreams.

The facilitator, yes, but in its own right the thing our bodies crave the most at the end of a long day, the thing most notable by its absence and when it evades us.

Physically we cannot fight it. 

The gentle figure who really does know best, calmly, quietly nudging with slow-blinking eyes, nodding heads and increasingly heavy limbs in a measured crescendo towards all-out slumber.

The full stop, new sentence at the end of a day to forget; the semi-colon of excitement and anticipation cascading from one day to the next.

Sleep is the one great leveller: it is its only cure. 

Great men and women; warmongers and thieves. 

Sometimes we should let sleeping dogs lie.

And on that note, to sleep.

Perchance to dream.

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Day 10: Ampersands

I love ampersands.

I can't remember my first encounter with them but they were always this odd, intricate, grown-up looking thing that clearly required a PhD and an overly mature outlook on life to be able to conjure.
Now I've reached the age where friends are stockpiling letters after their names it has become apparent that these things can be mutually exclusive. Phew.

I can however remember owning a pair of ampersand earrings at some point during my last 2 years of school. I can also recall that one went missing, which in hindsight offers up a rather poetic summation of a lot of feelings of general hopelessness at the time and a fear of what the future may hold:
& nothing

They are poetic looking.
Indicative of forward motion both grammatically and physically, their very formation on the page guides you skilfully towards the pregnant blank space where the next word should be, gently nudging you onward in one fluid motion.

I love ampersands so much I intend to have one tattooed somewhere about my person at some point. My only issue is deciding where. When this was suggested as a topic I bargained with myself that I would book an appointment to coincide with the writing of this post, to try and hurry along the decision, but alas. Perhaps before the end of this challenge.

I like the anticipation, the expectation of an ampersand. I like the implied & what? What else? What if? What next? The ampersand implies more, implies bigger and perhaps better, but it also implies inclusion, acceptance and togetherness and all in all, that is a pretty good summary of what I want, and hope to achieve, for myself.

Me, myself & I

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Day 9: A New Film That Has Come Out

I have not seen 50 Shades of Grey.
This somewhat negates my discussion of it in relation to the title of this post, but only somewhat.
But we'll get to that.

From what I have read however, the books are really not well-written, which alone is a more than good enough reason not to bankroll it in my eyes, let alone its questionable morals and inaccurate and frankly dangerous portrayal of a relationship that while labelled BDSM actually has all the hallmarks of abuse.
But each to their own.

Many other people have written far more eloquently and authoritatively on the subject than I ever could, but my worry is the now seemingly inextricable link, in the eyes of the general public at least, between the 50 shades hype circus and a surge in an increasingly more mainstream acknowledgement and recognition of female sexuality.

Women enjoy sex.

Have done for years. It's not actually a secret.

Traditionally however, the conversation about women and sex hasn't even been presented for discussion.

So passive was (is?) the role bestowed upon us by the powers-that-be, that women have been branded not sexual simply by omission.

When the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy first began capturing the hearts, minds and wallets of an increasing number of women, (and men) the media at large became the archetypal giggling, shaming schoolboy, condemning so-called frustrated housewives, and pretty much coming right out and laughing at actual, human women for exploring the idea of sexuality and sex and having the gall to do it fairly openly.

 Man, or at least the archetypal male gaze, is catered to with Page Three, openly in national press, on a daily basis. Masses of women dare to seek out, behind the cover of a book no-less, a part of themselves that they have previously been almost actively dissuaded from considering, and the media suddenly seeks to shame and embarrass these perpetrators 'on principle'

 Women feeling freer and more able to embrace their innate sexuality, whatever and however much or indeed little of it there may be, is a certified Good Thing.

I just wish, really, truly wish, that it had been a different, better book as catalyst.

aaaaaaaand now to hark back to the actual title, as promised.

 A new film that has come out that really impressed me was Rocks That Bleed. It's a short film about two brothers, and the rest I will leave you to find out, but trust me when I say that that is part of the beauty of it. The, in this case, curiously hopeful sensation of 'something' is tangible right from the opening sequence, and it is this 'something' this unspoken other that slowly creeps from possibility to realisation as the film progresses, nudging pieces of the puzzle in your direction in an increasingly foreboding and rather beautifully calculated way.

Masterful.

Oh, and also featuring a topless, sweaty Jack Howard. If you're in to that sort of thing.

Which I might be.

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Day 8: Strangers on a Train

There's a guy sat opposite me on the tube, writing in a notebook.

Another one.

I was about to be doing exactly the same thing, but now I don't feel I can.

It might feel like I'm copying. Almost as if when I chose to store my notebook in my bag along with my new writing pen, as I do every day, that I was somehow eavesdropping on this man's thoughts so as to engineer this exact moment of tandem scribbling.

I'm actually quite frustrated because it's 20 to 11 and yet again I need to have written more than I have, or, let's be honest, written.

I intended to utilise this time on the tube to full effect, scribble away to my heart's content, maybe fulfil some romantic notion akin to that which I unsuccessfully tried to pin on my previous tandem train scribbler. AKA my soulmate.

But now, those plans have been scuppered.

Instead, here I sit typing frantically on my phone, which let's be honest simply is not as impressive, or anywhere near as romantic. I mean, I could be texting.

Oh god, I just looked up and there was eye contact.

I now really want to get out my notebook to prove to him definitively that we are kindred spirits, but it's been an awkwardly long time to now suddenly produce a notebook.

I wonder what he's writing.

I mean, people probably assume I'm messaging, or typing a to-do list.

A really freaking long to-do list.

Maybe I look the forgetful type.

Or just really organised.

No, can't be that.

With a notebook and pen there is an assumed gravitas and profundity afforded to that which you scribble.

You've deemed it important enough to mark indelibly on something ergo it must be inspirational/esoteric/really bloody special.

Oh no, he's getting off. And not with me. Just the train. More's the pity.

No wait. The notebook is back open.

Does he know I'm writing, like he is writing?

He must do.

We are kindred after all.

I'm sorry maths man from day 5, it's not you, it's well, this rather beautiful gentleman scribbler currently sat opposite me. Soz.

Wait, he's getting off at my stop. Lord.

False alarm. He simply retired his notebook.

I think he may also have noticed me very nearly miss my stop as I frantically stabbed my thumbs at my phone, the Morse code of "You're writing, I'm writing, you're very attractive" practically boring through my screen.

Maybe he'll write about it.

Maybe Tandem Scribblers could be a new dating service.

Instead of swiping left or right on an uninspiring selection of badly-lit group photos you each write 50-100 words on a subject and vet the results.
The modern-day equivalent of surreptitiously peering over-the-shoulder at the notebook of your future beloved.

Sigh.

And you could use the geotargeting to potentially match with sexy tandem scribblers you happen upon in day-to-day life.
I mean, obviously it's too late for me and the Central Line scribbler, (Note to self: think of a nickname that makes him sound less like a serial killer... or underground-based sex offender) but perhaps it is my destiny to help write the happy endings of other single scribblers across the land.

How poetic.


Tl:dr Don't sexy, creative men get your creative juices flowing. Phwoar.

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Day 7.

1 week.

I've blogged 7 times in the past week and the experience has been all manner of things: enlightening, draining, really rather tricky.

1 day.

Today.

Today has been, well, a day. Let's leave it at that.

Again I find myself the wrong side of 10pm with words spilling from my fingertips and I start to wonder what it is I'm putting off by not writing things sooner.

The prospect of coming home and haphazardly piecing together the remaining scraps of brain power in pursuit of anything other than what was most easily accessible in my head made my limbs twitch with a heavy, restless unease, so for the sake of my mental health I have postponed today's topic and decided to just write.

I say just.

Every fibre of my being wants to curl up, switch off the light, start again at daybreak. Even as we speak I'm more horizontal than vertical, and with every jump for the outer edges of QWERTY and YUIOP I can feel myself slipping further towards sleep.

If I'm honest, there's no just about it.

When you've placed this expectation on yourself and you have no choice but to deliver, it has this potential to be really, really draining, or at least I think so.

Some people learn to thrive on this feeling; I must have been ill that day.

The whole point of this challenge was to force myself to write, to create, but most importantly, to finish.

There's an apt quotation from prolific wordsmith Scroobius Pip that perfectly illustrates the rut in to which I had so cosily settled.

"These kids love being writers, more than they love writing." - Let 'Em Come

I had become a theoretical writer.

I told people I wrote, I freely volunteered this as a Thing That I Love Doing to friends and strangers alike, but one cannot escape the fact that I just wasn't.

I tried though.

I attempted to justify my pause for creative breath with the meaningless assertion that I could if I wanted to and then simply proceeded not to.

Genius.

I say creative breath, but for me, writing almost doesn't feel creative, especially this stream of consciousness that is essentially the handwritten equivalent of a massive emotional clear-out.

I've said it before, but I write like others tidy, with the express intention of making this space which I inhabit 24 hours a day at least vaguely liveable. Often it works.

When you say creative I picture brush strokes, colour, sound, light; an abstract quality inherent in others, in people labelled as such either by themselves, their role, or society.

I would hesitate to describe myself as a creative person, but I know not why.

Even in my day-to-day, my everyday, my job, I am finding myself gravitating towards the more 'creative' tasks and making my mark on them to boot.

I've often challenged myself that I wouldn't be able to be 'creative' to task, every day, and on given orders.

I've rather spoiled my own argument.

Maybe when the non-creative becomes as draining as you envisaged the creative would be, it's time to swap the passive everyday for the deliberate every day.

Perhaps it's time I embraced my creativity; made a stand for what I apparently believe in, even if I don't quite know or understand it yet.

My name's Abi and I am a creative person.

There, I said it.
And I've not died from the conceited smugness of it all. Yet.

Perhaps it was all in my head.

Perhaps I'm subconsciously keeping myself small.

Perhaps my error has been in not entertaining the idea that creativity manifests itself in a myriad different ways in every single person.

So yes, writing every day is taking its toll, but 1 week down I can admit to feeling a little chuffed and just the teensiest bit proud of myself.

It's just writing, but I've just got on with it, and just let myself create.

Perhaps in 33-or-so days time I will have a clearer understanding of my creative self, this other that I have so far kept separate from my day-to-day, and maybe, just maybe it will get easier.

Maybe I will finally start to reconcile the pressure of everyday with the pressure of every day.

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