The Art of Wasting Time

Dolce Far Niente - John William Waterhouse

I have often thought myself to be a Jack-of-all-Trades, the silent "Master of None", always quite audible to my mind. I was an all rounder at school (except sports which I forgoed as soon as I realised that my lack of co-ordination, read concentration, meant that I would have to work extra hard to be just average.

Since leaving University I have walked through my professional career believing that I am decent at most things I try my hand to, but not especially exceptional at anything. I have since realised that this is perhaps an ingrained mental belief in “not being good enough” that finds safety in hippity hopping between skills and completing them with passable ability rather than stepping out of the safe box and owning brilliance in something or other.

It is a classic trait of insecurity and something I am now trying to rectify. In leaving a traditional, full time, salaried job, I am having to learn to fight against all these learnt instincts. My life and career is now what I make of it and I need to believe I am the best person to do X, Y, Z.

This is especially true in the novel and play that I am writing. For the best friends of Jack-of-all-Trades are Unfinished Projects, Procrastination and the skill of Wasting Time.

The amount of times I have said I wanted to do something whether that be enter a particular writing competition, join a rowing club, a drama club, do the three peaks challenge etc and not completed it are innumerable. Sometimes it has taken me three hours to make a phone call to, for example, the dentist to make an appointment. My talent in time wasting is exemplary.

On Going With Your Gut

Have you ever had that feeling in your stomach, an automatic reaction to a person, a situation, a problem, an idea - sometimes before you are even in the moment of making a decision on it? I'm not talking about the brain-led voice of your ego that constantly chatters away to you, I'm not comfortable, I won't succeed, this won't be good for me, I want people to like me therefore I'll avoid this....

Thoughts Too Much

Thoughts Too Much

Thoughts, thoughts all the time, inescapable...

Locked inside, but so loud.

Thinking not sleeping, sleeping while walking,

So loud.

People don’t see, don’t know, don’t ask.

Externally calm and poised.

The chic woman on the tube with the slightly red hands.

The house on the hill, the door never opened.

Boxes and boxes of stuff, endless phone calls.

Rituals that become your life,

So, so loud.

Nonsensical, but it doesn’t stop you, does it.

Disney films and sleeping pills and late night conversations,

Might placate them for a while.

Self-medicating stills them for a while, but is inadvisable,

They return louder and more detailed than before.

Fighting them every way they come, vehemently fighting them.

But this doesn’t help in the end.

In the end, you just have to let them go...

Don’t fight anymore and the volume turns down.

Until you learn to mute them.

#The100DayProject, #100DaysofWriting, Day 16

What Books Made You?

Yesterday, I went to Bailey's Women's Prize For Fiction and Grazia present #ThisBookClub Live, a panel discussion by five notable women and readers on the two books that they believe had the most influence on their careers and lives and shaped them to be who they are today. The discussion was part of a week's celebration of reading and authors in the run-up to the announcement of the winner of the Women's Prize for Fiction on Wednesday.

Chaired by renowned author, Kate Mosse, the panel was made up of columnist and author, Grace Dent; Shami Chakrabarti, Director of Liberty and chair of the 2015 Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction judges; Polly Vernon, Grazia columnist and author of Hot Feminist; Aminatta Forna, award-winning author and Jane Shepherdson Chief Executive of Whistles.

The discussion was lively, the women were intelligent, insightful and a joy to listen to; I was especially spellbound by Aminatta Forna who I must admit I had never read and who has the most mellifluous voice that I ever did hear and smart, lucid opions (must buy her book). Grace Dent is delightfully witty as you would expect from her columns and Polly Vernon is part-girly, part fierce-honesty. Shami Chakrabarti I love, I have heard talk before and she must be one of the wittiest lawyers that has lived... (sorry cheap lawyer joke there). Jane Shepherson, an incredibly impressive business woman came across warm and bright. Kate Mosse, was just well, the narrator/chair that charmed us all, as she does in her books.

Of the two books they chose each, I had read four of ten, the rest are on my reading list now... I will list these at the bottom.

However, what the discussion really left me with, was what books had affected me in the same way? What literature had shaped my life in some way.... obviously there are numerous, but as 60% of these were wiped out of their stipulations, due to the fact that they were written by men, I at least could cut my list a little shorter. Here, after some soul-searching, are my two...

1) Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

Frankenstein was one of the books I chose to write my dissertation on; a ten-thousand word rambling on motherhood, taking in the novels of Mary Wollstonecraft and her daughter, Mary Shelley, as well as Wollstonecraft's pioneering text, A Vindication of the Rights of Women. My dissertation, was not as good as it should of been, crafted in my third year at university where I was a little lost in a spiral of slight depression and - as I now recognise - quite bad OCD.

However, Frankenstein sung out to me when I read it... Billed as a horror story, I thought I would not like it, but in fact, I loved every part of it. The creature's narrative especially, which is written in the most beautiful language thrilled me to the core. Shelley is so gifted in telling the story, but she also teaches through it. She teaches about the danger of unnatural creation, the danger of leaving women by the way-side, the story of nature vs nurture. To me Frankenstein, is a story about a lost child and Shelley herself had an absent mother - dead as she was. With all the impressive themes that the novel delivers, what I most gained from it at the time, I think, was the beauty of language, of description and of narrative. The narratives of the three main protagonists of the novel are all written so differently. She is a wonder storyteller is Shelley.

2) Harry Potter series JK Rowling

Ok, I ummed an ahhed about this second choice, there are novels by Toni Morrison, Sylvia Plath, Margaret Atwood and Alice Walker which all shaped my "womanhood" and how I grew up, how I learnt about feminism and how I learnt about myself. But if we are really looking at books that glare out at me through the years, that I remember and reread. It is this series. From the first book, published when I was 11 to the last which I read proudly at 21, there was ten years of growing up, of fighting with my sister about who got to read the family copy first, of learning. I aged with Harry and Hermione (kick-ass female if ever there was one) and the rest.

There are two main points that I still take from these books, even as I read them now. Firstly Rowling inspires me as a writer because of her ability to tell stories, she is a great story teller, telling tales that span years with multiple characters and plot lines... I envy this and I praise that it can be done so well. 

Secondly, it is the magic. I have always loved the idea of magic existing alongside the humdrum of day-to-day life. Those are the best stories, to me. And at times when I felt adolescent and misunderstood and later when I felt sad and I didn't know why, these stories took me to a world that I wanted to believe was true. Now, older and not wiser and as I still attempt life and still make plenty of mistakes, I like to believe and live in the magic of everyday. And when I read Rowling, she still helps me to remember this.

So tell me please... what books made you who you are?

Books chosen by the panel:

Grace Dent: 

The Pursuit of Love - Nancy Mitford

Station Eleven - Emily St. John Mandel

Shami Chakrabarti

To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

The Biography of Eleanor Marx - Rachel Holmes

Jane Shepherdson

The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath

Union Street - Pat Barker

Aminatta Forna

The  Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood

All God's Children Need Travelling Shoes - Maya Angelou

Polly Vernon

Lace - Shelley Conran

The Signature of All Things - Elizabeth Gilbert

All available in good book shops and online.

#The100DayProject, #100DaysofWriting, Day 15

Ok, I'm Ready...

I think I'm ready now, finally. I have never really been before, but I think I am now because I know what I want and what I don't want. I've made those distinctions.

I've spend time having loveless flirtation and sensual (and not so sensual encounters). I've dated and dismissed many a man (and boy). I've had a few short "relationships". Mostly I've been afraid of it, to be honest, afraid of what somebody else would do to me. 

Maybe it's because I wasn't really sure about myself, whether I like myself all that much, whether I was who I was meant to be. The thought of blind and internet (sorry app- what is this the 00s) dating just sent me into a spin of fear and insecurity that they might reflect back at me the flaws I had already outlined in myself.

I was never one of those people who dated to fill a hole or to feel more secure and steady in a situation, because for me, putting yourself into that vulnerable position of being half of two rather than half of one was not something that settled me. In fact it sent me careering off into outer space, heart thumping head-spinning, ecstatic then anxious, crying with laughter, then just crying. I didn't want this. I wanted a steady ground.

I am ready now, because I've realised what I want and that steadiness often comes from within. I'm ready now because I am happier with who I am.

So if you know anyone...

Kind but not weak. Compassionate, likes animals and nature. Reads, please. Interested in all ideas even if they don't agree with them. Doesn't talk over people who are quieter than them. Respect's people of all ages, sexes, colours, nationalities, backgrounds, creeds, educated or not. Realises we are all the same, WE ARE ALL THE SAME. Can take (and make) a joke. Does not practice bitterness. Loves to laugh, to make others laugh, the moment of laughter. Wants fun in life. Responsible, but not anal. Understands me, lets me be me, even if that is odd. Intelligent, not necessarily academically or bookish, but bright, sparky, interested. Likes talking and listening. Likes long conversations about the world and what it means... but can tug me in and make me feel safe too if I drift off into the stratosphere. Healthy attitude towards mind, body and soul. Appreciates and indulges in the sensual pleasures of life, but does not gorge on them. Smiles at people even if it makes them look stupid. Tactile. Reassuring. Shares their problems. Lets me look after them sometimes. Not scared of their feelings. Quiet, but also loud. Trustworthy and trusting. Has passions and interests. Would be a good father. I want to find him beautiful, but that doesn't mean anyone else needs to. Makes my friends smile and feel warm inside. Interested in my family. Open-minded. Likes the sea and the mountains and travelling. As flawed as humans are. Never thinks he knows it all.

Do you know anyone like that? I don't yet and this list may seem unrealisitc. But I have no stipulations for money or looks or background or anything else. None of that, just these things.

I'm just putting that out there.

#The100DayProject, #100DaysofWriting, #Day12.

Walking

Walking is my thing.

It's the thing that I do when I want to think, when I have problems or worries that I just can't solve. It's almost meditational to me... because generally whatever I''m struggling with works around and around in my head and some sort of solution is thrust forward.

My father takes a long bath whenever he is fussing over a conundrum, I walk.

Walking also helps me to really feel in the moment. To feel small and insignificant and to watch the world work around me, it reminds me that I'm not at the centre of it. The familiar buzz of humanity through towns; the shouting, laughter, irritation seeps through. It earths me. The rolling hills and trees do the same.

It's something about the nature of the rhythm of footsteps perhaps, perhaps they move unknowingly to the beat of your heart, to your breath and make you feel grounded and restful.

I don't know, all I do know is that it soothes me. And I can do it anywhere.

Whatever your soothing ritual is, or however you problem solve, be sure to include it in your daily routine. It is good for your soul, don't you know.

Lost

I have decided after a dreamy ten day holiday to take part in the #100DayProject. There are various versions of this across the web and Facebook, but the general premise is a promise to do one thing everyday for one hundred days. I have decided to write. As a "writer" this may seem an odd thing to choose but I am in dire need of a writing habit that is not at the mercy of my creative spirit. I think comitting to this project will FORCE me to write something every day, however rubbish it is. For added help I will be using The Writer's Block by Jason Reuklak for those times when my head is empty.

I will be posting everything that is written here, so prepare to see A LOT more of me... and apologies if sometimes it isn't the most insightful prose.

Today my challenge was "Describe Your First Brush With Danger". This turned into a much deeper piece than I was expecting, but ain't that the way it goes. Anyway here it is. Day 1.

Lost

Being physically lost as a child is perhaps the most frightening thing in the world. Your heart beats quickly, the world seems huge, familiar paths and areas that you walk with your loved ones everyday suddenly transform into sprawling jungles filled with monsters around every corner. You jump, you jump as anyone approaches you as you have been told not to talk to strangers... you don’t know who to trust as your mother usually vets people for you. You tend to think more attractive people might be nicer to you, or kindly old ladies, but still, you are good and heed your mother’s words. Don’t move, don’t talk to strangers.

After walking around the small vicinity of the area in which you first found yourself lost, eyes desperately trying to make out a familiar figure, a red coat, the pitch of voice that calls you home, you sit down and you cry and this seems like the end of the world. This, the first danger you have ever felt, real true danger. Even as you remember the nightmares you have had in your bed, when your mother or father has come running, you scoff and become more tearful. When you had monsters in your head at night, you knew that they were always there to reassure you that these were just dreams and after hours of softly stroking your back and whispering calming words in your ears you believe them, safe in your home. Safe with your people.

But now they are nowhere to be seen. Everyone around you is a strange blank face and they all seem so large. Your mind flits between panic about how badly you will be reprimanded when they finally do find you and even more hysterical panic that they never will. You cry all the tears you have, until you know it is useless and then you sit forlornly on the ground waiting. You wonder what will happen to you now. Will you die soon or will one of those strange people kidnap you and take you away forever. You know not where, but you have heard such things.

Then she appears, an angel on the horizon that you almost don’t believe is walking, no running towards you. And she is crying. And you find yourself being enveloped in the familiar smell of cigarettes and perfume. The fear tension pours out of your body and the relief brings more tears. You are found.

**

Being mentally or emotionally lost as an adult is perhaps the most frightening thing in the world. Your heart in turn beats quickly and irrationally and then slowly and dully. The world seems huge and tiny at the same time, familiar streets and trains of thought seem both terrifying and full of monsters and that mind-numbing type of monotonous that is so alarming that it often makes you feel physically sick. You fear approach in this loss too, physical approach as this feeling of loss has turned you into a shell-less tortoise, a mole in the sunlight, shirking, blinking... diving for solitude. And also mental and emotional approach, because as fearsome as this loss is you are comfortable in it for now and anything or anyone that might try to tug you from it is highly suspicious and intrusive. Don’t move, don’t talk to strangers.

After walking around this small vicinity of your brain that your loss is comfortable with, you recognise all the familiar figures. They are all you or versions of you that you have allowed or other people that you have allowed, who echo back at you this version of yourself that you have approved. But these familiar figures don’t comfort you, they make you angry because they are why you are lost. This is the first danger, you have felt, the first real true danger, but this time you do not scoff at your nightmares, because they are part of your daytime. And your mind has given so much power to them that they have wrapped around your thoughts. And it is much harder to reassure yourself.

Your real people, your good people are everywhere to be seen. They are in photographs and in phone conversations, they are beside you every day, they are reassuring you, they are laughing with you, they are there. Yet, you are still lost. Even in the sea of familiar faces. You do worry about reprimand, because you are now an adult and adults are not meant to be lost, but it is ok because no one will know. You sometimes cry and sit on the ground forlornly. You do not worry about people kidnapping you... you think that might be a welcome break. You do worry that you have already kidnapped yourself. You know not where, but you have heard such things.

Then she appears, no angel at all, flawed in many ways, but she is familiar. Get up, she says, get up... we do know the way. We are not really lost are we? We have taken ourselves here and so we can get back. She is not crying, she is smiling and she is strong. I’m sorry, she says, I went away for a while, but you always knew I was here. Why are you not moving? Why have you not talked to some strangers? You are not a child. There is that familiar bossy yet placating tone and your fear is beginning to ease. It might take a while you realise, but you do know the way. You knew the way all the time really. Didn’t you. She did, she’s you. You are found.