I want to apologise for Sunday’s poem. It got likes but personally I thought it was sub-par.
I’ve effectively left social media in favour of this blog. I love my friends, but the whole set-up was making me miserable so I’m not regretting leaving at all. It’s a bit like being dazzled by your own liberty. This is excellent, I believe it is known as living.
I want to make this blog great, in spite of my ‘proper job’ and trying out ideas for picture books and poking at the shadows of my brain. A vampire has taken up residence for a long time now, he’s waiting, standing in a nook in a beautiful old library at the time for candles in the evening. Like he’s waiting to be called for an appointment with me.
He’s wearing a black shirt or doublet, looks a bit like Keanu Reeves and keeps telling me I should write a story about the friendship between himself and me. He can’t bite me because I literally have toxic blood as a bipolar sufferer. And okay, he’s cute in an intense way. You know that dark, refined and very neat Scorpio way. But I haven’t got time to fall in love with a vampire on the page.
I don’t know how to go about doing the extraordinarily brave thing of caring about things again. I’d rather be normative than Manic of course, but sometimes anything that isn’t outright bliss runs the risk of turning into flat champagne.(As a Muslim I’m only referencing champagne as a fizzy metaphor, I don’t drink.)
The extraordinary part of me is the ivy that curls around the stem of the glass and tells me that adventure is possible. Is it stupid of me to crave ‘normal’ when as a friend once said: “You’re exciting. Stuff always happens after you’ve walked into the room.” (?)
I’m just trying to work out what being ‘good’ at writing means to me. Success? Likes? Views? Critical acclaim? I’ve never really dipped my toe in anything professional because I’ve never had anything good enough to offer, competitions are already so subjective. There’s a lot of work that I don’t show. My friends are convinced I’m sitting on a goldmine, but I’m afraid to disappoint anyone. I’m afraid to work really hard.
Read that again: it’s not that if things were right I would be lazy, it’s that I’m afraid.
I don’t know what I’m asking for, maybe courage, some purpose to put this strange vocation to. I don’t feel like I chose it consciously. I’ve just loved and honoured writing so devotedly, whether happy or sad it is unshakeable and it has outlasted everything for me, apart from faith.
I’d give anything for an answer.
~ Pola ~