I’m not sure where to begin with this. Where can I begin? I want to talk about my emotions, my feelings, my uncertainty of where I stand as one of eight billion people; my uncertainty of where I stand as a friend, an acquaintance, a sister, a daughter. I’m not sure about any of it, really, but since I’m writing, the topic of writing might be a good place to start.
I’ve always dreamt of writing, in any form, really; author, poet, journalist, columnist, scriptwriter, even advertising (I could be the person who makes up those puns, I think when I pass a billboard, that’ll be the thing that gives me a purpose). I can’t remember how this started. Today I finished reading L’Amant by Marguerite Duras; there’s a scene where she first tells her mother she wants to be a writer, this strong memory of when her desire began. I don’t have any such memory. I remember being one of those children who was friends with their English teacher and would help mark other students’ work over break time, and I remember not telling anyone I was about to be sick because I didn’t want to miss my SPAG test. I remember being told I was good at writing and envisioning myself as a successful author. I remember feeling most like me when I was writing, though I hated (and am still desperately afraid of) showing it to anyone else. And of course, I remember reading. A lot. Jacqueline Wilson said that all the best writers read. So I’d read, and read, and read. I should be reading more than ever, now, for my degree; instead I feel as though I’m plateauing, teetering off the edge, finding myself dedicating significantly more time to bad television or films over novels or poetry.
I used to be constantly writing: I want to write a book, so surely that’s the way to get it done. I used to have separate notebooks for each book, but never quite knew what to respond when people would ask what my book is going to be about. Ideas sprung around me like frogs, and I’d chase one for a few miles until I saw another, more appealing one and ran after that instead. And so it formed: a string of unfinished books, poems, storylines. Oddly, the only thing I’ve come close to finishing is a screenplay, a first attempt that I haven’t quite been able to get out of my head for the past year. Even then, the writing is sporadic: it comes in odd, vicious waves. Writing can’t be forced: it comes with experience, comes from a feeling. As Anne Sexton puts it: ‘sometimes you get a line, a phrase, sometimes you’re crying, or it’s the curve of the chair that hurts you and you don’t know why… what you’re doing is hunting for what you mean, what you’re trying to say’. I suppose that’s what I’m doing right now. Hunting for what I mean, what I’m trying to say, attempting to trap emotion and splay it, examine it under a microscope.
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‘but it is good to be several floors up in the dead of night
wondering whether you are any good or not
and the only decision you can make is that you did it’
(Frank O’Hara, Adieu to Norman, Bon Jour to Joan and Jean Paul )
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It’s New Year’s Eve as I write this, and I should probably have more interesting things to be doing. But reflection is inevitable at the end of the year- especially for me, as my birthday is a few days before New Year’s Eve. This usually means I’m not only reflecting on the end of the year itself, but the end of my year being this age. I struggle immensely with reflecting on things. I have a horrific habit of seeing things in extremes, in black and white. I don’t know how to react when it’s been a year like this, one where, until September, everything was great, but something fell off balance somewhere in-between summer and now (though, then again, I sometimes think something has felt askew in all the winter months since I turned fourteen). I can never place it, I can only feel it- this uncertainty, this imbalance, the knowledge that something is different but I don’t know what, like I’m searching for someone but I can’t quite remember who it is. Am I so lost that I can’t remember who I am? Or is this, here, now, who I am? I’m trying to think back to childhood and question how I’ve changed. The truth is, I don’t know. I just don’t know.
I felt incredibly seen when watching the scene in Fleabag where she is crying in the cafe and says, ‘Either everyone feels like this a little bit and they’re just not talking about it, or I am completely fucking alone’. It’s one of those feelings that I can’t quite put into words, verbally, and I can’t quite admit it to anyone, because I don’t entirely trust my emotions. My hormones are a mess- I’ve had to train myself not to trust any thought that occurs to me while on my period, something that I despise because it makes me feel like some sort of medieval witch who’s been sent away for hysteria. And it all circles back to the one, recurrent thought: I don’t know who I am. It’s a common one, I’m sure. But that doesn’t really make it any easier.
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‘Sometimes I wonder if the purpose of my writing is to find out whether other people have done or felt the same things or, if not, for them to consider experiencing such things as normal.’
(Annie Ernaux, Passion Simple )
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I think this is why I’m so fascinated by identity in literature (something I discuss in my article from last week’s column, about the book In at the deep end by Kate Davies) and film: I love Forgetting Sarah Marshall for this reason. It’s an utterly, undeniably silly breakup comedy starring Jason Segel, and it is very funny, but also one of the most realistic films I’ve ever seen when it comes to trying to figure out who you are. For Pete (Segel), it’s trying to rediscover himself and heal after his breakup with the Hollywood star Sarah Marshall (Kristen Bell), which prompts him to take a vacation to Hawaii. It’s oddly touching, watching him learn to like someone new, finally pursue his dream of writing a vampire musical (you may have to watch the film to see this vision, but trust me on this) and having to leave his job that he hates, despite it being conventionally successful. He sings a silly song about his life while procrastinating writing his musical, one which strongly resembles me during tough times at uni. This is also why I adore coming of age films; Lady Bird, for example. People making bad choices and losing their temper and miscommunicating, everything that’s human and real that we feel eternally guilty for. Making mistakes, trying to discover yourself. I think I’d just (naively) thought that by 20, I’d have figured more of it out.
There are so many things that I don’t know or understand. I don’t think I’ve travelled enough, or written enough, or done enough. I still don’t know what I’ll be doing in ten or even five years. I don’t know what I’ll use my degree for. I don’t really know why I’m getting the degree I am, besides the fact that I enjoy it. I hate the thought of climbing any sort of career ladder. I don’t know if I want kids, and I’ve always wanted to get married but live in fear of losing someone I’m that close to. I can never make my mind up, about anything, about people, places, things, things I enjoy, things I hate, things I value and things I don’t. I’m nearly always late and it feels like there’s a dent in my brain that should be the place that helps with time management. Everything seems to slip away from me, my room is always messy no matter how often I try to clean it, and I never feel finished with washing up or laundry. There are so many things I want to do, or that I think I should be doing, reading or researching or running, and instead I can’t find it in me to get up in the morning. I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I doubt any of us do. And what can you do in this situation but find solace in silly breakup comedies like Forgetting Sarah Marshall or cry while watching Fleabag?
Last November, I was sitting on my bed, contemplating my lack of purpose and direction. In a moment of spontaneity, I signed myself up for a marathon, and for a brief period of time, it gave me a purpose, some milestone for the future that propelled me. Then I pushed myself too hard, determined to succeed at this entirely random (and let’s be honest, meaningless) goal I set myself, and injured my leg, forcing me to take a break from running. So, a month after signing myself up for a marathon, I signed myself up for counselling instead. And I thought about the scene of Pete singing from Forgetting Sarah Marshall as I did so. And then I laughed, opened my laptop, and rewatched it for the nth time.