Ever since I finished university I have had this big, terrifying question lingering over my head.
“What do I want to do with my life?”
I really thought, all this time, that the hardest part of growing up and figuring everything out was going to be trying to work out what I wanted to do, career wise. I’ve spent the last year and a half searching through job after job and career option after career option, trying to consider as many different paths as I could, waiting for the day when it would suddenly all miraculously click and I would know I wanted to do something like be a teacher, or be a hairdresser, or work in PR.
And then I realised, and I’m using the past sense in the loosest possible way here because I literally JUST realised this and this is why I’m writing it down NOW at half past midnight…
I haven’t really been spending this whole time trying to work out what I want to do. I’ve known the entire time that I want to be a writer. I’ve just been blindly, subconsciously praying and hoping that there was something else I wanted from life other than the absolutely agonising, soul crushing, often near poverty-inducing life of writing. I honestly thought, somehow, that I could convince myself that I could be content with any other life, and now I’m finally starting to accept the fact that I can’t, and I won’t ever be.
Someone said once (could be someone well known or someone random, can’t for the life of me remember) that being a writer is like being gay. You don’t choose it for yourself, and sometimes it takes you a while to realise it, but when you do, you just have to shout it from the rooftops and hope everyone accepts you for who you are.
And I hope that I can do that. I hope that if I start to write seriously that people would be interested and people would want to read my words and that they would accept me for who I am. Because quite honestly, knowing that people have felt emotion or they’ve thought something because of something that I’ve written, is the best feeling in the whole entire world. Second only probably to the actual writing of words, because I have so many of them filling up my brain all the time and I never give myself the time of day to get them out. And it’s such a nice release. Even knowing that I might be able to convince someone to do something, to buy something, to invest in something, even change their damn mind about something is really all I want to do. Even if it’s just someone saying “huh, she’s alright at writing isn’t she?” that would still be fucking great.
At the moment I don’t really have a plan for what I want to write or for who or for what or even why, so most of my word vomit is probably going to end up here and the chances of me even publishing this tonight are pretty slim because I don’t think anyone should publish anything when they’ve already been in bed and then got up again to write something down because it’s just spewing out. But I just had to write it because I honestly thought I was going to be sick if I didn’t. But that also might actually just be the banoffee pie I didn’t really want earlier.
So anyway, here’s to writing and here’s to me not worrying about whether I’m going to end up being an accountant or managing a charity shop and here’s to nonsensical blog posts and here’s to life and I don’t know if you’re imagining me toasting to myself right now but I’m not because chances are I won’t be able to afford a bottle of wine until I’m 42, which I don’t really mind because I’d rather just have a nice relaxing glass of squash.
This is all just proving the point that I shouldn’t be writing at 1am. Bye guys.