Wednesday, 4 July 2012


I stayed at my grandparents the other night for the first time in over fifteen years. It was an intense experience because there are so many memories in the house and, I am sad to say, the bad memories overshadow the good. 

I lived there for a while when my parents were getting divorced, with my mum and brother. I remember nights sitting on the landing listening to upset voices from downstairs. 

I have spoken before about the big parties my grandparents used to host. Christmas, New Year, Hallowe'en. Now I am older I realise I was completely oblivious to the family politics - the unspoken hostility between certain people. How innocent I was. 

At this time my brother and I were the only children and we were content with this. It wasn't until I was ten years old that my family started to grow. And with it, the hostility. 

The family really fell apart thanks to one particular member of the family and the parties ceased. No more Christmas, New Year, Hallowe'en. No more communication.  

My grandmother was diagnosed with dementia. The bad memories really began. 

Back to the other night. The most intense flashback of my life happened when my grandmother asked what happened to the door frame in her bedroom. Thankfully she does not remember her psychotic breaks. The screaming. The struggles . The breaking-down of doors. The police cars and ambulances. The anger and the fear. 

After many of these incidents she was put into a psychiatric hospital. My visits always ended with tears. I would cry so hard I couldn't breathe. That was before I learned to accept myself as a stranger in her eyes. This acceptance makes it easier for both of us. 

Wednesday, 27 June 2012


"I quote others only to better express myself" - Montaigne

I have a playlist on my iPod of songs that express things I have been thinking. I hear lyrics and think "yes, that is relevant to me today!" (and none of them are love-songs, but we won't go into that)

I sometimes play a game with a friend in which we pick a 'song for the day'. Either a song about how we feel, or how we would like to feel that day. It is an interesting exercise in introspection and it is also comforting to know that others are thinking and feeling the same (obviously, or they would not have written songs about it)!

I need to play that game regularly. It helps me to focus. Today's song I think is "Every Day is Exactly the Same" by Nine Inch Nails. That says it all really. I seem to be swinging between over-enthusiasm and lethargy at present. I am angry at myself for wasting time.

Mondays and Tuesdays are my free evenings. What do I do with them? I have no idea! I get home from work at 6pm... suddenly it's 11pm! What do I do in those five hours?! Am I really lacking that much focus that I can lose five hours in a blink? It terrifies me.

"And we'll collect the moments one by one. I guess that's how the future's done" - Mushaboom

Monday, 25 June 2012

A Beautiful Lie

I spent most of this weekend with my grandparents.  Unfortunately I can only spend time with one or other as they cannot be in the same room without an argument and, as my grandmother has dementia it is always the same few arguments, over and over and over.

This weekend was different.  Mum and I had Sunday lunch with my grandfather in the dining room which has not been used in years.  All the Christmases, New Year’s celebrations, Halloween parties and birthday barbeques were whipped up with the dust from the table cloth.  Memories of a sneaky childhood glass of champagne on New Year’s eve, wiped away like a smudge with a napkin.

My grandfather’s hands, once the strong hands of a Navy Captain, shook with ever-worsening Parkinsons.  Should I offer to help? Or will that hurt his pride?  Mum and I pretended not to notice the spilled gravy or the stray carrot falling to the floor.  There was not much conversation, just the three of us seated at one end of the long table.  I think we were all remembering times gone by.  Wonderful, painful memories.

My grandmother spent this time in bed, wrapped in her favourite dressing gown, insisting that no one would want to spend time with a stupid old woman.

When dinner was over, my brother and his two daughters, eight and two years old, joined us.  I spent time sitting on my grandmother’s bed, pleading, bargaining, bribing her to come downstairs to meet them, as she insisted she had never seen them before.  My brother had not seen her in months, and was taken aback when she finally agreed to come downstairs when he saw how frail she was.  And she looked at him with a sense of recognition that she does not have for me.  This made me feel a little hurt, but reassured that there is still some of her old self inside.

My nieces spent the afternoon in the garden, laughing - a garden that has not seen laughter in over ten years. I remember the times my brother and I spent being super-heroes and villains... many, many years ago.

I feel I spent the weekend pretending things were as they used to be when we were children. My grandmother acknowledged me as 'Susannah's (my mother's) daughter, when she usually treats me as a stranger.

I know this experience will be brief and that the next time I see her she probably will not remember me, but it is those brief moments that mean the world.

Friday, 22 June 2012

All Aboard!

I have been thinking about applying for an admin job on a cruise ship. I saw an ad on a job site and thought it could be interesting. Yes it would still be admin, but the scenery wouldn't always be the same! I have been weighing up the pros and cons and to be honest, there are very few cons. I would be earning more money than I am now, I could still keep my flat, being at sea I would have less opportunity to spend money...

But I would be stepping far, far out of my comfort zone. I would be leaving town, leaving the country, for long periods of time. I am excited but terrified. But I think it's something I need to try. Also, if I am to start my Open University course it will give me more time to study without the usual distractions of home life.

I am talking myself into it. I should be talking myself into it.

My mother moved to Kenya 6 years ago. Sold her house and left. I try to imagine the emotions she must have felt... This way I won't be leaving the country, I will just get to travel. Could I handle months at sea?

There is one way to find out... take the plunge! (not literally!)

Wednesday, 20 June 2012


YJust write. I just need to write. I am hiding in my empty dance classroom while everyone dances next door. The red and orange lights and the deep bass of kizomba music makes me feel... I don't know... Safe? Happy? Calm?

I am finding, at the moment, the music is more affecting than the dancing. I find I am now thinking too much on the dancefloor. Not about anything important (that is impossible) but about my body, the way it moves, the things I can't do with it. The things I know i CAN do with it, but my feet are not under my control.

I got dizzy in the class tonight. I never get dizzy (the benefit of a ballet background) but tonight I nearly collapsed. I blame a muscle spasm in my neck (which is very real) but what if that isn't it? I'm being overdramatic again.

Monday, 30 April 2012

Pens and Lines

My necessary tools for writing have always been a blank notebook and a pencil. This has always been the way. In the past I have been given notebooks for birthday or Christmas - beautiful notebooks, but I have put them away on a shelf because the pages are lined.

A couple of days ago I found myself writing fervently... with a Bic biro in a lined, spiral-bound notebook taken from work.

Why is this so odd?

I have always shut out the possibility of using anything but blank paper and an HP pencil because I thought anything else would quell my creativity. I built up this wall hoping to protect what I thought was my creative mind. Breaking through seems to have released something. Apparently not poetry, but certainly prose.

It seems my friend was right. I am now looking at the world from a different creative direction. Having this blog in mind I try to make everything interesting so I can write about it. Okay, sometimes I fail on the 'interesting' scale, but for me this feels creative. And this makes me feel good.

I even attempted opening a blank MS Word document to see if this encouraged anything more than a blog entry. Not yet, but perhaps I will keep trying. I can't limit myself and still expect great things to happen. I need to be open to anything, as long as it allows me to express myself.

Perhaps I shouldn't limit myself to the label of 'poet'? After all, poets write poetry... what I am is a creative mind. I just need to find my direction.

Thursday, 26 April 2012

"Really Good!"

I was wide awake at 2am this morning. I turned on my laptop to find that the internet was down again! It is strange, the feeling of being cut off from the world. Am I really that reliant on the connection with my laptop?

I crawled to the kitchen for a hot water bottle and hot Ribena (my security blanket) and stood in front of my fridge for a few minutes looking at the hundreds of word magnets, to see if anything would happen. Something did emerge, but nothing I care to share here.

Again, nothing I would care to share.

A friend of mine once told me to allow myself to be a bad writer. To put my work out there to be criticised. The worst reaction for me from friends or family is "it's really good!" I don't need you to spare my feelings! At least tell me why you think it's 'really good'! I need help to make it better. I need criticism, not false reassurance!

When a child paints a picture the mother's reaction is always "oh wow, that's really good!" not "the sky isn't green" or "a horse only has 4 legs" because that might hurt the child's feelings... as adults surely we are strong enough not to be hurt by peoples negative reactions? We should encourage them.

Then why do I refuse to show my work to anyone?

Maybe one day...

Wednesday, 25 April 2012

Books in the Basement

Today in town I ventured into another Waterstones bookshop – one I do not often think about. This one has a basement. Not a ‘downstairs’ with windows and a revolving door – this place has no windows. No doors. Just a creaky staircase leading to the outside world.

The muffled pressure of thousands of voices bearing down on my from every direction… the smell… the rows upon rows of colourfully bound words screaming silently… I feel strangely overwhelmed. There is non-descript music droning in the background which drowns out the beautiful hush of the books.

It is interesting to see the people climbing down the creaking staircase; the students heading for the academic guides; the suited businessman towards ‘business management’; the grungy boy in glasses drawn to the sci-fi section (this may seem stereotypical but it is simply a current observation - I myself enjoy this genre). There is a tanned man in shorts (despite the rain) perusing the travel section, undoubtedly planning his next adventure.

All the while shadows in Waterstones uniforms move quietly between the shelves, their trolleys piled with lone copies of books gone awry. They pass unnoticed by shoppers consumed in their chosen pages. I feel a pang of jealousy for these ghosts in black.

And then there is me. Sitting, neutrally in the centre, not belonging to any section, any genre, in a slightly uncomfortable cushioned and for some reason animal-print armchair. I must look out of place, but I feel like I belong.

Tuesday, 24 April 2012

Square Peg

... this is what my boss called me. It is true but a little offensive considering they are the ones trying to jam me into a round hole. I didn't choose the hole! I never would have chosen the hole marked 'Human Resources' - I want as little human contact as possible.

At least when I am a librarian I will have contact only with people who want to be in the library - my kind of people!

I ventured into Central Library yesterday (not my favourite place since they replaced people with computers and books with DVDs). Perhaps if a book has a return date it will encourage me to finish it, rather than it sitting on a pile of other unfinished books with receipts or chocolate wrappers used to mark my slow progress.

I chose the biographies of Martin Luther King Jr. and Paulo Coelho (writer of The Alchemist). Both these men have had a profound effect on how people view the world. I want to find out what it takes for someone to find the power to change things. I recently read Nelson Mandela's 'Long Walk to Freedom'. He shows that, in having a complete and unflinching belief in something, you can change things not only for yourself, but for an entire country. An entire world.

Ghandi said, "be the change you want to see in the world"

I also read Wangari Maathai's 'Challenge for Africa' - this Kenyan woman believed that if every African were to plant a single tree, this would solve all of Africa's problems. I was in Kenya when Wangari died of ovarian cancer in 2011. Everyone was encouraged to plant a 'Wangari Tree' on the day of her funeral. The question everyone asked when meeting each other was "have you planted your Wangari Tree?" It was beautiful. We planted our tree in my mother's garden in Nakuru, Kenya. It is amazing how such a small gesture could have a profound effect on people's beliefs.

I can keep searching for my square hole, or I can carve one myself. But I don't know if I have the strength, the resolve, or the belief in myself. How do I find it? Because at this moment I feel weak and helpless. I have the tools but there is no instruction manual!

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

Charity Shops

When you hear the term "shopaholic" you probably think of girls going about town with hundreds of pounds worth of designer clothes. I suppose I am a small-time shopaholic. I love charity shops, but they have ruined me for high-street shopping. The phrase "how much?!" is guaranteed to pass my lips, or at least my mind. I can go charity shopping with £20 and come back with a pair of trousers, three tops and... various books. I find myself cringing at an item of clothing costing more than £5.

I suppose this is a good thing? Is there such a thing as being TOO frugal? My nine year old cousin has been taught well. She believes "they are like real shops but cheap!". I think is a good view for a child to have; to understand that something does not need to be expensive to be good.

Friday, 13 April 2012

Search Filters

Today I am wrapped in a blanket in my 'library' (the room dominated by my bookshelf), applying for as many jobs as possible. When I job-search online I always put 'filters' on - find me positions in these specific areas. I haven't done that today. Why limit myself? Yes, I have had to trawl through hundreds of jobs, but I don't want to miss out because something slips through the filters.

Had I discounted clinical roles my search would have been a lot quicker. I do not understand who would want to work in medicine. I have the greatest respect for these people but I cannot (do not want to) imagine it myself. I have enough trouble talking to someone on the phone. If they came in crying and covered in blood I think I would run screaming in the opposite direction!

Far too much pressure for me.

Give me books or paper and I am in heaven. Unfortunately the jobs I have found in libraries are either qualified positions or do not pay enough, although part of me is tempted to sell everything and live in a box so I can afford to earn pittance, just for the sheer pleasure of working in the environment I was born for.

I am currently awaiting a phone call from the Open University to discuss funding for my Humanities Course starting in October. I am fizzing with excitement at the prospect of learning! I enjoy reading non-fiction but to study with a purpose will give me the focus I am lacking. I do wish I could afford to go to university full-time - to be immersed in education, but circumstances prevent this.

Oh well, on with the search!

Thursday, 12 April 2012


I love spinning at salsa - it feels so natural to me, coming from a ballet background. Other dancers have to be taught to 'spot-turn' (to focus on one point to stop you getting dizzy) when it never occurred to me to spin otherwise. It is one thing I am known for at salsa - I am Spin Girl!

I also laugh a lot which puts a lot of people off. But this is why I love dancing so much. I laugh constantly and everything melts away but the beat and there is no time to think which, much of the time, is exactly what I need. My friends outside salsa do not understand why I throw myself into it.

The reason is impossible to put into words (at least for my mind at present) - not through lack of trying! Some kind of temporary catharsis occurs when I don my dance shoes.

Two, three, even four nights a week I can fall into bed feeling genuinely happy, even with aching feet.

No alcohol, no drugs... just dancing to the beat of the cowbell.


Tuesday, 10 April 2012

Broken Pencil

I was on the bus tonight and had the somewhat unfamiliar urge to write. I have unfortunately fallen out of the habit of carrying a proper notebook, however I always have a pencil - I find pens rather uninspiring. I did have a small, lined 'shopping list' pad with me and the urge to at least hold the pencil over the paper, if nothing else.

My pencil broke.

I have misplaced my pencil case, including my pencil sharpener. This realisation was strangely affecting. The first night in a long while I suddenly have the urge to do something remotely artistic and all I have is a small lined pad and a broken pencil.

My heart sank.

What would I have written had I the right implements?

I always find it strange travelling by bus at night - windows turn to mirrors. I try to look outside and all I see is myself. This has always fascinated me in a creative sense - trying to create some sort of metaphorical insight from this concept but I have no idea how to use it.

One night inspiration might strike, hopefully when I have remembered my pencil sharpener...

Monday, 9 April 2012


How many books am I reading? How many have I started and bookmarked? I have a compulsion that leads me into Oxfam bookshop whenever possible, I find an amazing book, start reading, then put it down. That's it. That's as far as it goes.

I need a new bookshelf. I have actually run out of space. Mum asked if I buy the classics because I want to look intelligent. I want to buy the classics because I want to find out why they have survived so long. Ok so some of them are really quite dull (not mentioning any names, Bronte and Dickens - sorry!) but I want to say I have read them.

I do love the ultimate classics by Homer, Socrates, Euripides etc. because they are the basis for all modern literature. They are beautiful, usually in a violent, bloodthirsty way but the stories have survived through the ages, from word-of-mouth all the way through to the printed word.

I find that incredible.

Sunday, 8 April 2012


I was told this blogging thing would help my writers block. The word 'blog' is forever spinning around my head but nothing comes from it. I keep thinking "no one will want to read about that" but I need to get it into my head not to write for other people. This is about me. If other people are interested that is just a bonus.

I have told people to burn my notebooks when I die. No one can ever read the rubbish I have written over the years. How can I be embarrassed or ashamed to read MY OWN work? I have written a couple of pieces I am proud of but most of it is just painfully desperate.

"every answer that I find is the basis of brand new cliche" - Tim Minchin

People have told me that many famous artists did not find fame until after death. How is this comforting? Fame is not really what I want - I just want to be happy with my writing. If other people think it is worthy of note then I would be happy with that.

I like the idea that poets don't really achieve 'fame' in the way other writers do. The idea of fame scares me. I am ridiculously shy and the idea that anyone would want their life to be open to strangers blows my mind. At least as a writer people would only know a name and whatever might be written on the dust jacket of a book.

Why am I talking about the possibility of a book? Really?


Saturday, 31 March 2012

Herman the Friendship Cake

Yesterday I was given 'Herman' - a friendship cake. This ritual supposedly originated from the Amish people, passing sourbread dough to the needy or sick. The sensation has swept across continents over decades and has become a sort of chain-letter.

Herman came with this instructions "You cannot put me in the fridge or I will die. If I stop bubbling, I am dead." The idea is to keep Herman 'alive' in a bowl for ten days, feeding him on day four and nine with flour and sugar. On the tenth day he is to be split into four portions. Three of these are to be given away to friends or family and you can either cook the fourth portion or simply start the cycle again.

What an odd concept... Personification of a cake.

I feel a strange responsibility for this bowl of goo. What if I kill him?

Wednesday, 28 March 2012

That's It, I'm Done

It has happened. The camel's back has been broken. I got so angry at work today. Not angry at my boss, my colleagues or the stupid people that keep calling me (ok so they might have been a big part of it) but angry at myself. I have spent almost a year complaining and complaining about my work. I am sick of hearing myself - I feel so sorry for my friends and family, having to put up with it, like a broken record.

Why has it taken me so long? Why have I waited all this time, knowing in my heart of hearts that this is not where I want to be? WHY?! What am I scared of? I should be excited, not fearful of change. What could possibly be worse than this job?

I received a text from a friend after a mini rant this afternoon. She told me I can't sit and act like a victim in this situation. She is so right. I am not a victim. I put myself in this situation and I must get myself out.

I was in a bad state when I left work today, nearly two hours late, having slammed the phone down on a department head, burst into tears and stormed out. So I walked four miles home, turned on my laptop and I have applied for eight jobs so far. Even some obscure ones such as cabin attendant on the Isle of Wight Ferry! Why not? It's better paid!

Enough talk of change. Talk is cheap.

Monday, 26 March 2012

Fridge Door

One thing that creates a crack in the locked door of my creative mind is magnetic poetry. It has provided much-needed inspiration, even if it leads to nothing more than a few lines of... anything.

My fridge stands next to my kitchen window. I can spend hours standing or sitting in front of it. It must seem very strange to onlookers, a girl (usually in her pajamas) staring intently at a kitchen appliance.

Hundreds of little magnets to move around to make 'poetry'. It is a great creative exercise. I make space on the door, stand back and look. I don't look for anything, I just look. Soon random words will start to stand out and I will attempt to use these as a basis for something.

My Dad came around once and read a poem I had assembled, about war. He always complains that my writing is too dark - why can't I write about happy things? I tried to explain to him that I don't have a choice. If inspiration strikes, no matter what the subject, I have to grasp it before it disappears.

I keep all my pieces on another blog: and I will sometimes revisit them to see if anything will evolve...

I can hope.

Friday, 23 March 2012


I narrate my life with music. I can't write music, or sing, but I find inspiration for life through the music of others. I have a playlist on my ipod simply called 'Life'.

I like to find a song that describes my day or the way I want my day to be. I listen to Iron Maiden when I'm angry, Coldplay when I'm thinking too much, Latin music when I want to smile and a bit of Tim Minchin if I want to laugh.

I lost my ipod.


All I can hear now is the rattling of the bus and a girl arguing with her boyfriend. How do people do it? How do they spend their lives walking around without music? A piece of music can instantly turn a day around.

As Pratchett says: "nothing is louder than the end of a song that's always been there"

When I feel brave I switch iPod to 'shuffle' and it is astounding the sheer variety of music I own - from metal to country, from classical to hip hop, and everything in between.

I have lost the soundtrack to my life. My mind is now too free to roam. I have nothing to shut out the thinking, or the colourful language of the chavs on public transport. I feel utterly lost, yet curious. Could this somehow give me new insight into life? With nothing to shut out the world will I now take more notice? We shall see.

My song for the day? Overkill by Colin Hay - one of my favourite 'life' songs.

Which song best describes your day?

Wednesday, 21 March 2012


The thought occurred to me at my salsa class this evening that, for years I have been the youngest at the salsa club, and now there are girls the best part of a decade younger than me, they are not as shy as I am and they can move in ways I cannot. I am jealous and I do not like it.

I have occasional moments when I realise I am not 18 any more. I am 26. When will this sink in? Over a quarter of a century. I need to sort myself out. The old line "I'm not getting any younger" is starting to play a lot on my mind. Some of my friends are married and contemplating children. That blows my mind.

I am stuck in a stop-gap, desperately searching for a direction. A direction away from a desk would be preferable. Every problem I have stems from that desk and sometimes I just want to slap myself for returning to it day after soul-destroying day. One day, hopefully not far down the line, I will have a job I love. There must be one out there somewhere...

At the end of March I can apply for financial funding for an Open University Course in Humanities starting in September. I am incredibly excited. To have something to occupy and expand my mind will be fantastic, and to have a degree would be a dream come true.

Sunday, 18 March 2012


Pencil to paper. Surely that's all you need to be a writer? But even the act of making that connection now feels alien to me. I had no idea as a child just innocently putting ideas down on paper would come to anything - writing so hard I couldn't get it all down.

I wasn't a writer then. Children can't be labelled as 'writers' - they just have a delightfully active imagination. Just like a child who can play the piano is not a pianist, just a child who can play an instrument. At what point do we attach labels to talents? When do hobbies become something more? When do they become a part of who we are, not just what we (think we can) do?

Saturday, 17 March 2012

More to Prove

I was filling in a job application with the help of my boss (yes he is trying to get rid of me) and we reached the 'Additional Information' section. My boss said with a smile, "if they can't prove you are lying, you can say anything" - an interesting concept but where to draw the line?!

I am an Excel Specialist. Fact. I build and maintain spreadsheets. Fact. I spent 3 months in Kenya working with orphans... sort of fact... it was actually six weeks and I visited the orphans a few times... There is bending the truth and then there is out-and-out lying.

Does the same apply to life? If people cannot prove you false, can you be anyone you want to be? Can you build a persona then change your life to fit that persona? If that is possible who would I want to be?

I am not talking about claiming to have invented the microwave or self-adhesive stamps. That would just be silly.

A friend and I were in a bar when a girl came over to make conversation and asked what we do for a living. I instinctively said "writer". I am not a writer. At least not now. If it is not currently true, why did it come so naturally?

Because a writer is what I am, not what I do. I must keep telling myself that.

Tuesday, 13 March 2012


The time has come to make a concerted effort to find a new job. The universe has been poking me for months and it's time for me to poke back. But I hate filling in applications. "Why do you want this job?" "Because I hate my current job, I am smarter than my entire department put together and I deserve something better."

While this is true, strangely, I am not sure this approach will work.

I need something stimulating. Something challenging. What I do not need is to be a scapegoat for other peoples mistakes, or an in-tray for stray pieces of work.

The funny thing is, I love monotony. I love data-entry, archiving, filing... all the things 'normal' people find horribly dull. I think I should be paid more for doing things no one else enjoys. Like crime-scene clean-ups. They get paid lots. Not that I am comparing archiving with cleaning up after dead people, although, if a lot of books are written by dead people...

I digress.

I am even thinking of applying to Waterstones or some such establishment. Bearing in mind I am probably earning about the same as a sales assistant at least I would be somewhere interesting and I would get to play with booooooks! The perfect place to embrace my bibliophilia (I love that word!)

Thursday, 1 March 2012


I used to read all the time. More so when I caught the train - that 20 minute journey to work granted me 20 blissful minutes with my nose in a book. I went through a stage of perhaps two books a week!

No longer.

In 2008, at the age of 20 I was diagnosed with temporal lobe epilepsy (the temporal lobe is responsible for comprehension, verbal memory and other language functions) but the fact that it had gone undiagnosed for so long (ignoring the symptoms) meant the medication actually had more of a negative effect than the condition itself. Memory-loss was a major set-back. And verbal communication became an effort.

One thing that disturbed me was the loss of spelling and grammar. I realise that sounds ridiculous but, for someone to whom words are everything; from having a such a wide vocabulary as a writer, to not knowing how to spell words such as 'ridiculous' was devastating. I felt stupid and this upset me greatly.

I have become a slow reader. I can read entire pages without absorbing any information and I forget things almost immediately. I have read my favourite book, Birdsong at least 3 times but I can't tell you the names of any of the characters. I now also lack concentration. I have started so many books on my extensive bookshelf but I have not had the focus to complete any of them.

It makes life hard sometimes, but I do realise that compared to some people with epilepsy I am so incredibly lucky. I must keep reminding myself!

Tuesday, 28 February 2012

Dream Job

Some people suggest using ones own experience to find inspiration but at present I feel my experience is what is preventing me from doing so. I have such wonderful things to write about, but the one thing choking my mind is my job and as this is where I spend most of my days it is overshadowing everything else. It is soul-destroying.

When I left school the Head of English told me she could see me as Curator of the British Museum. Eight years later I saw this teacher again and she remembered what she told me that day. I felt utterly and completely ashamed to admit that I work in an industry completely unrelated to my passion - books.

How did I end up here? A good day at work is one in which I do not burst into tears or have someone yell at me. Surely that is not right? Is it any wonder I feel so lost in my own head?! It has reached the point that I am now not looking for my dream job - I am looking for any job, which just means I will end up in the same situation a few months down the line.

Is there such a thing as a dream job? I have a couple of friends who love their work, who couldn't imagine anything they would rather be doing. I am in awe. It is hard to believe that such jobs exist. Where are they?

People laugh or look uncomfortable when I tell them I want to be a librarian - I may as well have a chicken on my head for the reactions I receive. Who would want to spend their days around musty old books? I would. Desperately. But just as there is something blocking my creativity, it seems the same force is preventing me from finding my dream job, where I can thrive and find myself.

Let the search truly begin...

Here Goes...

One night, sitting with a couple of bottles and a friend discussing my creative drought it was suggested I start a blog. Now, being the kind of person I am it has taken me over a week to decide on colour schemes, fonts, text sizes (which I am still not sure about)... constantly putting off the moment to start writing. But here it is...

All my life I have thought of myself as a writer, but for months I have not anything of note. I think about words constantly - how they fit together, how they roll off the tongue... my mind is perpetually buzzing, only with other people's words. Why can I not find any of my own?

There is much in my life that bears amazing creative potential, be it happy, sad, exciting, confusing, dark, but I am unable or subconsciously unwilling to grasp it and I am on the verge of physical pain. There seems to be a very real force preventing my pencil from hitting paper.

I do hope, as my friend suggests, this blog will help to ease the frustration and at least keep me writing, even if it is mindless dribble, for which I apologise now. Please accept this as my disclaimer - read on at your peril!