Risks (part 2)

It seems-to use a tired phrase-I've taken one step forwards and two steps back.

For the first time in years I have a vague direction of where I want my life to go. I say the first time in years because the last time I was this sure of what it was I really wanted to spend the rest of my life doing was in Reception. I wanted to be a chocolate taster.

If all my current life ambitions fail me, that's my back up plan. Organisation pays, kids.

Yet despite all of these great plans and not so fleeting dreams, when opportunities arise, when they're really staring at me straight there in the face and are in no uncertain terms real. I fold.

I won't tell you what any of these great plans actually are, that would of course be far too intrusive for my liking. When people know what it is you aspire to do then there's pressure. Here, right now, nobody really knows my life ambitions. By my reasoning this means that nobody can watch me fail at them. Any decisions I make from now on are private, this way I will be the only way to know if and when I fall short. Everything is locked away safe, and fortunately I'm not organised enough to have made any copies of the key.

However after much thought I have decided to share with you what I think is the source of the problem.

I get scared when publishing these blogs. I fear that I won't have communicated my thoughts exactly the way I want to. That certain parts won't translate well. I fear criticism, rejection, and mockery. I want to do my inner most feelings (though of course I can oh so cleverly disguise my ramblings as my inner most feelings, when really they mean little to nothing at all) justice.

This fear translates into every day living as well. This past 2 years my confidence has built, I was finally becoming happy with who I was. But then something must have happened, I can't even pinpoint what it was, and my self belief became practically non existent. Perhaps it was a culmination of things that caused it to gradually disintegrate, I don't know. But it seems to be gone for the time being. I heard once that as soon as you gain confidence that's it, you've got it, you're fine. But I can't see how that can be true when there are so many things going against you. I imagine it as climbing a ladder to the stars when you're afraid of heights. You've got to keep looking up at the magic that awaits you, because if you look down you'll lose your nerve.

No matter how desperately I may want to take those first steps to achieving whatever it may be that I want, I just can't seem to. I stay static. Not even a shuffle. Because I know as soon as I put myself out there, as soon as I take those first steps, it feels like I'm setting myself up for a fall.

I know it's far nobler to try and fail rather than to not try at all. But my own self doubt and inability to take the risks that really mean anything stop me every time.

I once was told by a so called friend that I needed to 'get a backbone'. And although I can't even begin to attempt to explain to you how very wrong this person is about the vast majority of things they say, it strikes me as strange that this sentiment has stuck with me. Maybe I do need to get a backbone. Or maybe it was just that this so called friend made me feel worthless. Who knows? Fortunately I haven't spoken to said person in quite some time. And I'm all the happier for it.

What I do know is that I'm on that ladder and I think it's high time I got over my fear of heights.

Risks

Writing's a funny old thing

I believe it's really rather beautiful. The right combination of words, written in the right way can convey love, tenderness, compassion. It can change lives, stir generations, start revolutions. The pen is by all intents and purposes, far mightier than the sword. We could raise an army of poets, authors and lyricists to promote every good cause in this land. To bridge the gaps of society by simply expressing ourselves in a way that reaches out to people. Do not tell me that no man has ever made a difference through words alone.

For me nothing compares to when words are used in what is quite frankly a 'nice' way. Nice. A word that at school we are told to avoid like the plague. Yet why is this? Surely you'd much prefer to be described as 'nice' in favour to a more descriptive word such as 'horrific' or 'intolerable'? The simplicity of your sentence doesn't matter; there is no pressing need for the structure of it to be particularly poignant or the language symbolic. But lace it with thought, with honesty, with conviction. We cannot know as writers how our words will make another feel, but we can guess. Lay your soul out on a piece of paper. Create something that's truly worth picking apart.

This inspirational tool of ours is far too often used as a way of insult, harm and destruction. 'Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me' How wrong we are to be taught this as children. Bruises from stones will heal, but it's the taunts of a bully that will stay with us for a lifetime. As clichéd as it may sound it will always be this emotional damage that effects us the most. Having confidence in yourself and your commendable qualities is an almost impossible task when you are being told daily how inadequate you are. How eloquent we seem to become at just at the wrong time.

I could talk for days on end about how much I admire certain writers, speakers, poets. Ultimately this clumsy attempt at creating something worth reading stemmed from nothing at all but procrastination. I write often but I don't like letting people read things I write. When I start to write something there is never any desire to let anybody else read it. I've only ever let one short story be read by others. It's a terrifying prospect for me. It means offering yourself up for criticism and humiliation. But I've told myself to take more risks. So I am.

Looking For An Opening Line

For what seemed like the millionth time I deleted and re-typed the same sentence. Oh don't worry, it wasn't like I was typing exactly the same things over and over again…oh no…I was adding all sorts of interesting things. Such as different fonts, colours and sizes. Wouldn't that be a lot more interesting for the editor to read? No? Oh. It was worth a shot.

What I was supposed to be doing was writing my debut novel. One day-after a few too many espressos I believe, I told my boss exactly where he could shove his poxy little job. And for some strange, completely unknown reason he took this to mean I wanted to quit. Don't know where he got that one from.

I had a pretty average job. Average hours. Average pay. I mean who doesn't work for a boss that expects you to go out at 3 in the morning to get him a bottle of wine? Or demands you do his dry cleaning? And then proceeds to complain at you when you haven't done the accounts because you were out getting his mid-morning coffee. Those coffees were the bane of my life. Never, not once, were they the right temperature for his Majesty's regal tongue.

'…but life in the outback was never simple.' Delete. Delete. Delete! The delete button and I were fast becoming friends. The outback for Christ's sake?! What was I thinking? I could just imagine my publisher's reaction to a novel about our sworn cricket enemies, 'Oh yes John, you're really going to make it as a respected writer by writing about bloody Aussies'. I needed an espresso. I had all my best ideas when highly caffeinated. Like quitting my job for example. On the other hand maybe I'd just stick to water.

Sorry, I was talking about my boss wasn't I? Novels can be such distractions. Other, less knowledgeable people, may see constantly tidying my flat, re-aligning my pencils and taking regular walks to 'clear my head' and 'gather' my non-existent thoughts as procrastination devices. But no, I see writing my novel as procrastinating. It completely distracts me from my every day life of…erm…drinking coffee, watching films and pretending to be a hip and happening Londoner. People say hip don't they?

See! Look at me! I'm doing it again! Right. My last boss. Power driven, glory seeking, money loving fool that he is. I reckon that at night he used to consult with Satan about new and twisted ways to torture and distress me. You wouldn't believe that this self same man was the owner of a dusty little bookshop at the end of my quiet isolated road. The man has been known to wear tweed for God's sake! Tweed! He was a walking contradiction. Tweed wearing men should sit reading leather bound books and eat Werthers Originals until their wives of 50 years make them their usual bedtime Horlicks. Unfortunately this picturesque image of my boss is no where near reality. The very moment you stepped into his poor excuse of a bookshop you felt drained. It's like someone comes and sucks all the life out of you. Some of my darkest hours have taken place in that miserable hell hole. Life doesn't seem worth living when all you've got to get up for in the morning is to check Sir's seat for miniscule crumbs that he might have left. When the only thing you've got to look forward to is the precious moments before he enters the shop. I could always smell him coming before I heard or saw him. His stench would drive wild animals away. I could never quite put my finger on what exactly his aroma was a concoction of. A cross between second hand smoke ('It's a disgusting habit John. Absolutely disgusting. Now where's my 10 o'clock whisky?') from last nights binge at the pub and the smell of grease from his late night kebab. Classy fella he was.

'…fear suddenly filled every fibre of my being. He stood towering over me, like a great ruler overseeing his kingdom. My heart raced. My head spinned, thoughts spiralling and…' I paid a visit to my new best friend again. Whilst I had been 'writing' my novel the backspace button had become my only friend. Trapped in the solitary confinement of my own home all day long I longed for company. I don't know how my real friends hadn't sent out a search party for me yet. I'd neglected them for far too long now. Maybe I'd go out to see them tonight…not that I was trying to escape my novel writing duties. It's funny that. Here I am continuously trying to think of new ways to escape writing my novel, when books to me are all about escape. They're about transportation. Getting away from the monotony of every day life. Transformation of yourself. Books that really reach out to you and make you reassess. Books that spur emotions inside of you like no other person or thing can do. That make you want to cry and laugh and everything in between. Books that keep you hooked and gripped until the very last syllable and then some. Books that somehow make you feel for these fictitious characters like you don't even feel for a friend or a relative or a lover; characters that somehow become a part of your very existence. They shape you and mould you and become something so significant, so poignant that you can't possibly forget them.

I remember reading 'The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe' late at night in bed, thinking my parents didn't know I was awake (the thought that they might have realised I wasn't tucked up asleep never even crossed my mind at that age; parents were oblivious to everything after all) and wishing desperately to be transported to a faraway magical land. I used to check my wardrobe every night, just in case. I remember my copy had said 'a book for children' on the front of it. But it was as if he'd written it just for me. Like a secret between old friends. And just like C. S. Lewis so brilliantly did, I want to create characters that when you come home from a long day you know you can rely on, that will always be there. People that you can relate to and connect with on a level you never thought were possible from a book. And I'd be so in control. Of these characters destinies and of the reader's emotions. I've never been in control; not of my life, or my relationships or anything else you may dare think of.

Sorry. I've completely gone off on a tangent haven't I? My boss. Always in control. Didn't appreciate the musky scent that the books in his shop contained. Never stopped when he opened them just to look and smell and take in everything a book has to offer. An alcoholic, cheating, angry man. Wouldn't stop for a frail old dear crossing the road unless it was worth his while. And when I told him on that fateful day just exactly what I thought of him and his whole idea of book selling, I probably didn't damage him in the slightest. But to me it was the single most courageous thing I have ever done in my life. And when my book is placed on his rotting old shelves, I'll be sure to thank him in the acknowledgements section that nobody reads unless you know you're mentioned. 'To Edward Jones-for destroying me, for sending me to my bleakest moment. Because of your cruelty and severity I learnt to stand up for myself. And here I am leading the life you've always wanted to. So thank you good Sir, for being everything I'm not.' I might even pop round and give him a signed copy. Tell him it'll be worth something in a few years time and he'll jump at the chance. I doubt he'll even recognise me. They'll be someone else in my place by now. Someone else for him to order about. I pray to God that they don't end up murdering him like I so many times thought of doing. It'd ruin the smell of the books.

'For what seemed like the millionth time I deleted and re-typed…' Genius.

Bonjour

My name is Sara =]

I plan on importing some old blogs here first as they're all on myspace at the moment. And the myspace blogging system is ok, but it's not brilliant.

I have no idea who will read this, but it's more for me to express my own various thoughts and ramblings. Anybody else reading it would just be a really lovely bonus.

Prepare for a few old(ish) and one very new and shiny blog/s!
Au revoir.