For some writers the scariest thing they encounter may be a blank sheet. For others it might be the spider in the bath after a few hours’ hard work. For others it might be the realisation that your survival may actually depend upon your work.
I fall into the first and the latter of these categories. Having written absolutely nothing for the past year, and I mean nothing aside from application forms, today has become my D-Day: it was painful but time may show that it will in fact be worth it if the term “arse in gear” is anything to go by.
I’m good at things. Well, some things. I can write, I can
make friends, I can cook a damn good chilli and I can distract myself for hours
by doing nothing. Since December of last year I’ve been working in a call
centre on an IT helpdesk (a rather oddly not too distressing combination of two
things I hate the most about modern life); and for much of it I’ve been
dreaming of escaping. My two month sojourn in Australia
taught me a few things – sometimes it’s better just having yourself for
company; people who are scared of water shouldn’t try to surf; and bus drivers
aren’t always right about which areas of Melbourne
to avoid. King Street Backpackers was my favourite place! – but since my return
all I’ve really had to focus on is getting some coin when I should be trying harder
to get back in career mode. The Scottish media seems intent on snubbing my
English media experience, so I am lacking in the experience I need and yearn
for to make a mark in my own country. I admit I have applied for only a handful
of jobs and only had one interview, but still. I had a good base in England.
It’s just that a lady knows when to leave. So I left England after five mostly
good years, I left Australia after two long but interesting months, and today I
left college after four mediocre hours.
It was weird being in a classroom again after working solidly for six years: the handouts, the “get out your pens” instruction, the health and safety chat, the over helpfulness, the exaggerated encouragement. Don’t get me wrong, our lecturer this morning was lovely, truly. But I couldn’t settle. Somewhere, deep down, I wanted to be at work; that thankless, chained-to-the-desk abyss I’ve spent the last nine months – no encouragement, no spoon-feeding, just getting on with it. And then ranting at no one in particular for ten minutes after you get the hapless user off the phone.
I think it’s because I know I’m good at my job – I know where I need to improve and I won’t need to sit an assessment to prove it, it’ll just get done. I was not, however, good at that class this morning. It was a basic sewing class. I don’t remember the last time I used a sewing machine so I approached the bench as a total novice, willing to learn yet slightly afraid of the judgement that would be laid on me over the four hours til lunch time.
I can take criticism – bring it on, that’s what I usually think, because I also like to think I have an answer for everything – but knowing that I was a total beginner and not picking it up first time was frightening to me. I’m 27, and I’ve decided I’m too old to be a student. I sat there thinking, “I should be writing. I have things to say”. Of course, I’m out of practice and scared (read terrified) of failure. But there it is, I’ve taken a step and admitted that I can’t take it. I can’t take the student life and I can’t take being a failure openly. I make a mistake at work and there are only a few people that’ll know about it, but the classroom is different. Examples are shown, and mine now are not worth sharing. I’m not a studious Higher candidate any more. Those were proud days, I knew and loved hard work: and I still do. I work through problems with the people I see are capable of helping me because I want to improve.
And that is what I really want. Improvement. I want to write to inspire, share, explore, teach and learn, and mostly to be an honest writer. I don’t think I could find that sitting in the classroom, only through life; and perhaps through putting myself in unusual or unsuitable situations just so I can write about them! Either way, I need to find my voice. I need to explore what’s still inside me as too many feelings have been dormant for too long, and they need to be written about. As a great colleague of mine said to me after she found out about my latest job, “if you’re talking, you’re not writing!”. She’s got a point, I simply need to shut up. And write.
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