It’s Easter Sunday. I gave the kids far too much candy and set them loose in the back garden. 30 minutes of peace.
I settled down with my crochet hook and got to work.
Just about 40 more squares to go…
Yesterday I found an oilcloth remnant in a local upholstery shop and for the neat sum of £1 it became mine.
I made this with it.
Comes in pretty handy doesn’t it?
Happy Easter all! xx
For as long as I can remember I’ve loved to read and loved to write even more. I’ve always said if there was only one thing I was good at, it was writing. But deep down I don’t think I ever truly believed that. Believed in myself. In my writing ability. And it has certainly held me back. Sadly. My greatest fear is rejection. Clearly, I’ve chosen the wrong passion! Rejection seems to be par for the course when it comes to this writing gig. I also crumble under criticism. I take it so personally. When I write I feel vulnerable. I am expressing myself in the rawest form. I feel exposed. And to have what I write criticised, even constructively, makes me feel unworthy. My constant refrain is “I’m just not good enough.” I’m not a real writer, it’s just all in my head. A fantasy I have created. This is what plagues my thoughts daily. That I am simply faking it and that one day someone somewhere will wake up and say “you had us fooled but now we see right through your charade!”
I’ve always thought that perhaps if I could write just one amazing thing then I would prove something to the world and to myself; that I really had what it takes all along. Then I could die happy. But that amazing thing hasn’t happened and I am not sure if it ever will. I do not have a niche, I haven’t found my voice. I feel like I am stumbling blindly in the dark. I cling to the hope that if I keep taking classes, keep learning more about this craft that one day, miraculously all the pieces will just fall into place. Things will simply click. And I will be a real writer just like Pinocchio became a real boy. Where is a blue fairy when you need one?
In my narrative class today, I felt the feelings of unworthiness come creeping back in with a vengeance. One by one, around the room, my fellow classmates reeled off names of authors I had never even heard of let alone read. Up until that point I had considered myself fairly knowledgeable about all things literary. Now suddenly I felt lost and slightly embarrassed. I smiled and nodded along, pretending to know who Gail Jones and Scott Blackwood were while silently cursing myself for never finishing The Alchemist or purchasing the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I made mental notes to expand my reading repertoire as soon as possible.
All this self-loathing has sucked away my last dregs of energy. I feel spent. And empty. And I still don’t really know whether I’m coming or going or what I truly want out of all of this. Perhaps I should have taken up Chemistry or Maths. Something certain, stable, and predictable. Fact-based. Dull. I would have died a thousands deaths and I know it. So I write. For the sake of writing. Because it’s all I know. And for now, at least, it’s good enough for me.
Just a few things that are on my mind. Not an exhaustive list by any means.
- Writing at midnight is a terrible idea. I’m sleep depreived and hardly coherent. Spelling errors and rubbish musings (such as this) abound.
- But “I Write at 1.46pm” just doesn’t sound as cool.
- Semester two of the world’s most perplexing Master’s degree starts tomorrow. When people ask, I still can’t explain what I’m studying.
- I don’t wanna go to school. You can’t make me.
- Halloween. Nuff said.
- I shouldn’t have eaten that cold leftover meatball just now.
- I should have washed it down with some ginger ale to conteract the impending upset tummy.
- I am now too lazy to return to the kitchen to fetch said ginger ale. I suffer in silence.
- Why am I still awake?
- Alarm. Must remember to set. Again.