How to be a Completely Unambitious Writer

It’s odd to think that, as recently as 2013, I had enough self-discipline to write 50,000 words of a novel in 30 days.

Shortly after that, I wrote my series of vignettes for the Library Book Project. I still feel that series is possibly the best fiction work I’ve ever completed. At that time, I had absolutely no issue with calling myself a writer. There were stories I wanted to explore, and it felt so good to get them all down on paper.

While I never really had grand ambitions in terms of getting published, I felt like I was definitely improving and developing a skill. There were so many times growing up where I didn’t feel that I had a “talent” like other kids, and finally I felt like I could be really good at something if I just took the time to practice.

Unfortunately… things happen.

There’s a number of factors involved, but the truth is that I really regret dropping the ball. Being out of practice has meant that I’ve lost some faith in my ability as a writer. It doesn’t feel the same as it did before.

Another problem currently is that I’m also so stressed I find it difficult to actually relax and enjoy writing. Like, I’m really stressed out. Final year and graduate application rounds are totally kicking my arse. And, I get it, there are probably people who have lives exponentially more stressful than mine, and you have to be resilient, but, I’m seriously stressed out.

So, writing might not be my biggest priority right now.

BUT

I’m not going to give up. I’ll try things from different angles, maybe start some smaller projects, and keep talking to the people who I know will motivate me. I’m confident that one day, I’ll get some writerly mojo back.

 

 

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The Killer Question – Part Eleven

See the first letter here.

I have to pull over shortly before I reach the prison. My hands leave sweat marks on the wheel. I rub them on the rough fabric of the seats and try to keep my breathing even. I can’t decide if I’m glad the road is quiet or not. On the one hand, it means I don’t have to worry about curious passers-by. On the other, the silence means the only thing I can hear is the ringing in my ears. The worst thing of all is the way the fear makes my gut clench.

What am I afraid of? Him? A little, I guess, but security at the prison is tighter than it’s ever been, and the interview will be closely monitored. Am I scared of what he’ll say? He’s just a damaged man, what he says doesn’t matter, especially not now. Those letters, what was I thinking? They’ve invalidated everything I’ve worked for. Even if my supervisors don’t find out, how can I hold my head high while knowing this research is useless? This interview is a sham. I’m only here because my main supervisor thought it would be a good idea. I was too nervous to think of an excuse.

My mother was so proud when I told her I was going to become a PhD student. “We’re going to have a Dr Atkinson in the family!” She was ecstatic. I stayed over at her home last night. She knew something wasn’t right, but I told her I was just tired after the long drive from Exeter. I couldn’t rest in that place, I never can. It’s so different from our old house, but I’m still scared that if you peel back the wallpaper, you’ll find the same dirty kitchen, the same stains on the walls, and then you’ll hear the shouts, the crashes, and the screams…

My father was never a pleasant man, and the arrest was not surprising. Despite the violence we had endured, my mother made sure we visited regularly. She couldn’t just cut loose like I very much wanted her to. I have to lay my head against the steering wheel as I recall that last visit. They called it the worst prison riot in history. There was a well-publicized enquiry. Gross negligence and failure from the prison staff, ill-thought out policies and procedures were to blame. Heads rolled and the media vultures feasted on the carcasses for weeks.

All I remember were the sirens, enough to make a young, foolish girl so hysterical she runs into the arms of trouble.

I start the car. These memories will be painted over.

The Library Book Project – 23 August 2013

Obviously, this stamp was the date on which I was meant to return the book by. Don’t worry, I don’t still have it! I returned it a couple of weeks ago, but I was reluctant to hand it over without even trying to let someone know why this particular book was kind of special (to me, at least). So, I wrote a note explaining what I had done, and tucked it inside the plastic cover. The likelihood is that one of the library workers noticed it when checking it back in, thought, “Who is this crazy person?” and threw it away. But, I like to think that maybe the next person to pick it up will take out the note, read it, and think, “Oh, that’s kind of cool.” And then they will take it home and be part of this exclusive club of people who borrowed this exact book, and who will probably never meet each other.

I’ll be honest, I didn’t actually count how many stamps there were before starting this project. I just thought it didn’t look like a lot, and that it would be over with quite quickly. It turned out to be a bit more work than I imagined, but it was definitely worth it. I really enjoyed thinking about the different kinds of people who might have picked this book up, and what their problems might be.

I guess I did project a lot of my own reasons for going to the library onto the characters. My housemates were/are busy working most of the time, I had just finished NaNoWriMo, my friends from uni are back in their home countries. I still had another two months to go before going back to uni. I felt a bit lonely and purposeless. The library was just somewhere to go, a reason to get out of the house.

I’d really love to know what you thought overall of the project, so please comment, get in touch, something like that. You can find all twenty stories by clicking “The Library Book.” in the Categories list to the left of this page, or alternatively, you can go to the intro page and look through the pingbacks in the comments section.

The Library Book Project – 13 October 2010

To read more about the library book project, click here.

I count the change in my hand, hoping that I miscounted or that an extra pound coin will appear somewhere. The sum of money in my palm does not change. I shift my weight and begin to make decisions. Maybe if I made half? No, I’d still have to buy the same amount of eggs and ground almonds. The macarons will have to wait for another day. I venture down the baking aisle, flicking through the recipe book of my mind.

As tempted as I am to go look at cheap fruit, chocolate is a surefire winner at these family get-togethers. No matter what Nigella says, all I can afford is the supermarket value range, so that is what I pick up. I already have all the other ingredients, so I walk towards the chilled goods section. Philadelphia is on offer, giving me a glimmer of hope, but I am twenty pence short of being able to choose it over the own-brand cream cheese.

Once home, I find the recipe book and lay out the ingredients, relieved that I have everything I need. I love baking. It really is just as simple as following the recipe. If only life worked that way, just get the ingredients and follow the instructions. While you’re at school, they make out that’s the way forwards. A handful of hard work, some education, a splash of initiative, and a couple of good ideas. Mix them together and you’ve got a bowl of success.

It wasn’t until I graduated that I realized I was fresh out of good ideas. A minimum wage cleaning job ensued, one I’m still trenched in, waiting for that golden handshake to pull me up. If it wasn’t for my boyfriend, who got straight into the graduate scheme he wanted, I’d probably be back to living with my parents. He makes it feel okay that I’m a cleaner, he makes me believe this rut really is temporary. My family are the opposite. Why am I in minimum wage work? The idea is abhorrent to them. What am I doing about it?

I didn’t even want to go to my father’s birthday party, but I knew that wanting avoid those questions wasn’t exactly a reasonable excuse. I’m determined to give them something positive to say to me this time. I stare at the brownies in the oven. Even if it’s something small.

The Library Book Project – 20 June 2008

To read more about this project, click here.

I gently massage my sallow belly, clenching my jaws as another swell of nausea washes the back of my throat. I can feel a light sweat form on my forehead and a greasy coolness on my cheeks. My neck feels sticky. I push the back of my head against the pillow, as if it will help me regress back into a sleeping state. As crap as I feel, I smile a little as scenes from last night replay themselves to my inner eye.

I revel in the memory of kissing her. We were both drunk, but not so drunk the act could be chalked up to impaired judgement and nothing more. There was definitely a deliberateness with which she pressed her body against mine. It was subtle, she wasn’t the kind of girl to be obvious, but I knew she was enjoying our closeness. When it became late, I thanked Martha, our hostess. Martha always threw these kinds of parties, the ones that made us feel younger than we really were. She once said that she would grow up one day, but we hoped she never would.

Outside, I waited with her for a taxi. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to break the awkward silence, but then she blurted out something about Martha. It was about her haircut, I think. We laughed about how, at university, she’d dye it a new colour every three weeks. Magenta to violet to platinum blonde.

 “She changed hair colour as often as she changed boyfriends.” I said. It sounded a bit bitchier than I thought it would. Wine usually did that to me. “She used to ask me to go on double dates with her, always trying to push me towards some guy or the other.”

 “She didn’t know?”

 “It’s not that I was hiding it. I wasn’t as fond of her, when we first met. I didn’t think it was really any of her business. Besides, she would just have tried setting me up with girls instead…”

 “Haha, what if she’d tried to set you up with me?” she laughed. I blushed, and then had a few thoughts.

 “Wait… she didn’t…” I began. She kissed me.

 “You’ll never know.”

 As pleasant as these recollections of last night are, I really do feel very sick. I roll over and pick up my library book, hoping it will distract me from the hangover. It doesn’t.

Having Doubts About Everything

A “compliment” slip from Anatomicals. (Possibly the best skincare company I’ve ever come across.)

I went back to my parent’s house for a few days recently. I say I went back to my parent’s house. I saw them for about a day and then spent the rest of my time with a close friend. I had a really nice time overall, but one of the first issues I faced was that my sister also came home and essentially told me that my housemates had been saying things about me behind my back. (To clarify, she lived in the house as well until recently, so has known my housemates for longer than me.)

This really threw me off, as I would say that for a student house, we get along pretty well most of the time. Things aren’t perfect, but when you’re in a house with four other girls (and only one bathroom!), you’re generally just grateful that you aren’t screaming tearfully at each other or trying to rip each other’s hair out.

It made me feel like I didn’t really want to come back, but I realized that it wasn’t the end of the world. 1. My sister is one of those people who have a  tendency to take things you say and make them sound about one hundred times worse. 2. Yes, there was a period when I was ill, when I was busy with NaNo, when I was waiting for an appointment at the breast cancer screening clinic, when housework was not my priority. I can understand why my housemates may have been frustrated about that. If they said anything, it probably wasn’t personal.

And then, a few days later, I went out with my friend and got terribly drunk. And it was very fun at first. But then I kind of hit that moody, depressed state which I’ve never experienced before. The one where you wonder what you’re doing with your life because:

A. You still don’t have a job because you’re a lazy fuck and nobody wants to employ you and why am I so useless and oh god.

B. You’re really not that smart either. You’re not dumb, you got a 2.1 this year after all, but that’s still not a first.

C. You are surrounded by the absolute dregs of society, including some freaky stranger who keeps coming up behind you and putting his arms around you and trying to kiss your neck and arrrrgghhh leave me the fuck alone!

D. You’re a terrible writer. A real stinker. What are you playing at, spending so much time on wordpress and pretending people care about what you write?

E. Your housemates hate you. Maybe they’re right and you are a horrible, terrible person.

And, I’m absolutely sure that a lot of people on here can empathize with D. Not because they’re bad writers, just because they have doubts. Even famous authors have doubts about their work sometimes. 

I guess there’s no big secret to suddenly gaining confidence in your work. It takes time. I think it’s all about practicing and not giving up.

Oh mighty users of WordPress, what is your opinion?

Taking Back The Crown – Part Eight

“Seta, do you ever still talk with your old mentor?” Sonya asked, casually. They were finishing up a training session early. It was Sonya’s 14^th birthday today.

 “Not really. He went back to his home town. We sent letters at first, but then we lost contact.” Seta began. “We were never really that close.”

 “Really? Despite all the time you spent together?”

 “He was very formal. You know, the others criticize me sometimes for being too casual with you. They were worried…” Seta stopped and paused.

 “Worried about what?” They walked towards the doorway.

 “It doesn’t matter.” Seta was blushing. It was the first time Sonya had seen him embarrassed. She blushed too when she realized what they were worried about.

 They went their separate ways to bathe before dinner. When Sonya reached her room, she was still red-cheeked. Seta was over ten years older than her. The entire idea of him… and her. It was ridiculous. That was why he had been embarrassed. Her eyes were watering and a dull ache weighed down her chest. What was most ridiculous of all was that she had much bigger things to worry about than the absurd crush she had on her mentor.

 It had been four years since she’d come here. It was time she showed some initiative and found out what had happened to her country, the one that she had been born to protect. She had planned to go when everyone was sleeping, but if she stayed here then she’d only be miserable. She looked in the mirror and summoned a black cloak, darkened her brown hair and made small changes to her face that made her look older.

 Sonya looked at her watch. She had an hour before it was time for dinner. That meant she had just less than five hours on Earth.

Taking Back The Crown – Part Seven

“You hesitate too much. You’re thinking, that’s a good thing, trust me, I didn’t think at all when I first started training. I’d just lash out and my mentor would walk circles around me. But you are thinking too much. You shouldn’t need that much time to make judgements, trust the first one that comes to you.”

Sonya stood on the opposite side of the combat room, a sweaty layer forming on her back, trying to take Seta’s advice in. Part of the problem laid in the fact she constantly had to scale down her true power. If he realized how strong she really was, they might figure out who she was and not let her stay. Besides, she might end up killing Seta in the unlikely event that she actually landed a blow on him. Power wasn’t everything. Seta was extremely fast, elegant and he made controlling his strength look easy. Even if Sonya wasn’t holding back, she wouldn’t win.

She supposed that was why they’d let him become a mentor early. Normally, a student did not become a mentor until they were thirty. Then again, Sonya was a year younger than all the other new students. She was also much more female. They had all stared at first. Some still did. She didn’t know what they thought of her. Students here did not socialize much with each other. Everyone travelled around in their mentor/student couplings.

Seta was a good mentor to her. When Trin or Naria had escaped the “abyss” the Rutilus had put them in, she’d be ready to fight with them.

The Dispute

The Following Is A Dramatization Of Real Events.

The hungry ache slowly inches upwards through my torso, like some particularly malignant cancer. The thirst is worse than that, as if a small dead mammal crawled down my throat while I slept. I could give in. The future would still be uncertain, but the outlook would be less bleak than it is now. I could face her accusing look. But I’m sticking to my principles. I never committed a crime and I won’t pretend I did just for some peace. I’d rather stay in this room and rot.

I mean, for crying out loud, if she got so upset over the washing up, how will she react if she finds out I haven’t once vacuumed under the couch in the past nine months?

There’s been a small amount of drama between one of my housemates and the rest of us recently. It’s a long story. My other housemates have all fled elsewhere. I’m pretty much staying in my room until they get back. Apart from maybe going to the door to collect a pizza delivery.