My Mumbling Thoughts

You remember when back in the day when I used to blog about how sad I was because I didn't live in London? And god, wasn't it just so tragic because I lived in Virginia, and life was just SO BORING. And I would whine, bitch, moan and complain for days, weeks, months even because I wasn't in the capital of England. My life sucked. It was horrible, and I was just the world's most boring person because I did admin work in northern VA. Remember that?

And remember how much you just wanted to punch me in the face because you were like, "COME ON SAM. Get the fuck over yourself already! There are way bigger problems in the world than you not living in one of the most expensive cities in the world, okay? SHUT UP."

Well, I'm sure I'm probably going to be even more annoying (as if that's possible, but I have found a way), and tell you...I'm not so sure this was the greatest life choice for me. I'm not having second thoughts, but...I kind of am having second thoughts. Only about certain things.

No, I don't regret any of it, but it's just making me think that things aren't going as I had originally thought. I was supposed to move over here, build my own little London Life, gain all of this amazing knowledge that was going to land me my dream job of doing some fantastic writing for a newspaper or magazine and have everyone love me, because gosh, being a tiny American girl in London is just so awesome. And they're so hard to come by these days. I am one in a million. ONE IN A MILLION.

Instead I took a slight detour and it feels like I've gotten lost. Now it seems like I have spent far too much time looking at the directions I was given and back tracking all over the goddamned place. I have seen that house one too many times, and I maybe I should pull over at a gas station and see if anyone knows where I should actually be going.

University is not at all what I expected. My lectures are shit, and I've only had maybe three that I've enjoyed and find interesting. Now that I type that though, I'd probably say two. There have only been two lectures. I struggle with my work, which is piss easy, and have lost all motivation whatsoever to do any of this. I came here to write, and now that the floor is wide open for me to do that, I can't be bothered. I wonder if it's one of those cases where once you get what you want, you're satisfied. You don't need anything else, and just want to go an tackle something else that's completely different.

But then I think about it a little more, and know that I still want to write. Even with everything that has happened since that fateful day when I landed in unknown territory almost two years ago, I still would like to write as a profession. Only now that I've gone to some of my lectures and have been taught all of these different things, different techniques, I've come to a standstill when it comes to my work. I'm constantly second guessing myself, doubting myself, and saying, "no, that's shit. Scrap it all and start again. Loser."

I'll admit, some of the things that they have told me have been semi-helpful, but everything else has just torn apart everything that I thought I knew and have replaced it with their ways, their words, their processes. And quite frankly, I hate it. They're shit. They piss me off. They make me angry and want to scream in their faces, "look at what you've done to me! I used to enjoy my writing, and was kind of decent. Now everything that I write it absolute garbage!" There's no panache. I'm no longer quippy. I have nothing interesting to say. Everybody is writing heartfelt, meaningful, touching, brilliant pieces, and everything that I touch or think is just a big pile of steaming dog shit.

I have lost the writing faith, so to speak.

I blame it on them. And on myself. And on my surroundings.

When I think back on where I used to write, and how I used to write, I was always alone. Completely alone. Sometimes I'd have music, and other times it'd be silent. I'd be at my desk, at work, or I'd think about things in my car whilst in traffic. That was my place. I would think of everything in my car, in traffic, smoking, with my music and alone. It worked. It felt right. I enjoyed it.

Now, now I don't have that option. Things changed. I don't have my car. I don't have the option to sit in traffic with my cigarettes and album of the week, to sort through my thoughts and come up with different things that I'd like to write. No. Instead I have this tiny ass flat with Trish, Carlene and Helen all inside it at the same time with me. Looking at me. Breathing in the same room. Sitting across from me. Interrupting me by knocking on the door, or asking me to listen to something that they've written, never mind that I'm writing my own shit.

I love my girls. Really, I do. They're my family, my sisters, my comrades. We laugh together, we drink together, we go out together, cry together, and do oh so many other things together. But writing. My writing. When I write. I have to do that alone. In my own space. In my own time. My own uninterrupted time.

And sometimes I'll go to my room, but they come in there too, just to say hi or to see if I'm still awake.

Yes, dear. I'm still awake. And I need you to leave now so I can keep the creative flow flowing.

I don't want to say to them, "can you all just leave me alone for about five hours please? Don't come in my room, don't knock on my door, don't send me IM messages, text messages or emails. Just pretend I'm not here. Or that I went on a cruise and am unable to reach." I don't want to say that, because I do like the fact that they just knock whenever and chill in my room with me from time to time. Sometimes I like the distraction. It's a welcome break, and reminds me that I'm not a hermit that lives inside a tiny cave. And also, saying that to them would be really harsh. I don't want them to think that I'm annoyed with them, because I'm not. I'm just annoyed with myself and that every single thing that I've ever written here has done absolutely nothing for me. If I don't feel it, then I won't write it. I'll stop, put it aside, and never think about it ever again.

I think I need a new location. I need a place that I can sneak away to and hide whenever I want to get in some serious writing time. A place where I can be alone, completely alone, that nobody knows about, and has the same vibe as when I was at work or in my car. I need to recreate that kind of atmosphere here. I would consider my room, but aside from everyone and their uncle knocking on my door, I don't like my room. I don't have a desk, therefore only leaving my bed as the only space to work, and after laying there for two hours, I just want to take a nap for five hours, which defeats the purpose of me getting in "some serious writing time."

I've thought about the library, but libraries scare me. I don't like being left there alone for too long, especially at nighttime. I think about old spirits that wander in between all of the bookcases (because every library is haunted), and get distracted about ghosts and other scary forces that I can't see. Cafés are annoying and cliché. Besides, I'd probably spend too much money buying tea after tea after tea, and muffin after muffin after brownie. I don't have anybody's house that I can go to that's nearby. There's nothing. I have nothing.

But...now that I think about it...there is Helen's room. I like Helen's room. And if my memory serves me correct, she doesn't really work at her desk that she has in her room. That perfectly good desk. I generally find her on her bed with her books all sprawled out and surrounding her in a little book fort. I could sit at her desk with my iPod playing sweet serenades in my ears while she quietly worked behind me. I would have the feeling of being alone, without actually being alone (no scary ghosts), and when I would get into my "writing zone" I could just politely ask everyone to not bother me unless something serious has happened; like a fire in the kitchen, or breaking news about Britney Spears.

Of course I'd have to ask Helen first and make sure it was okay that I would always be hanging out in her room clicking away furiously at my keyboard. I'm sure she wouldn't mind. I hope she doesn't mind. It's the first place that I've thought of that doesn't make me heave. And it's local (about five steps away from my bedroom).

I'll ask and see. All I know is that something drastic has got to change for me, and soon. I'm so tired of feeling like everything I write is shit, and wondering if I was just better off on the third and fifth floor doing everyone's bidding. This short story that I'm currently writing, is the first thing where we've had a little bit of creative freedom, and now I'm even having issues with that. I read every sentence and think about a different way I could construct it, or what can I change to make it sound more interesting? Can I cut something out? Is that really necessary to include? And look at me blogging again, using up all that time, and all of those words that could have been used in my story. There I go babbling, and rambling about some stupid scene that doesn't need to be included. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I hate you creative writing degree. Eat my shit and kiss my ass. I'll write my own goddamned shit, my own goddamned way, in my own goddamned time. And fuck you if you don't like it.

End of rant. Happy thoughts please.