Bitterness, disappointment, and remaining hopeful.

Don't let a 'bitter chill' steal the chance of springtime...
(Too cheesy..?)

I’m glad I’m not bitter (who laughed??). I know some people who have let life’s disappointments turn them cold and hard; they seem to lack hope for the things they dreamed of one day having. It makes me sad.

I once read an interview with Virginia Ironside, an ‘Agony Aunt’ who writes for The Independent newspaper.  She said: ‘Once you feel hope, you’re always going to be straining for tomorrow ... Longing and hope keep one in a state of unhappiness’ (Third Way magazine, volume 33, number 6, 2010). 

What I think she meant was, if we hope for something, we’re not satisfied with what we have; she went on to say she believes acceptance is best of all.  At the time, I agreed, but now I’m not so sure.  (Never let it be said I can’t admit when I’m wrong.)

If we give up on the things we hope for, whether it’s love, a family, new social opportunities, or that career using our talents – and yes, these are all things I’ve recently considered giving up on – then what is life for?

Sure, life can hurt sometimes: we can get let down, things can turn out in a way we didn’t want.  But there’s always tomorrow to try again, and who knows?  Maybe next time we’ll get exactly what we’ve been dreaming of.

Never let disappointment and bitterness rob you of that.

Let's talk about sex...

I’m not one of those guys who walks into a bar and girls go: ‘Oh my God, he’s so hot ... I need to change my knickers.’ 

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I’m a bad looking guy, I’m just sort of ... ordinary.  And I’m not only looking for sex either, definitely don’t get me wrong about that.  Perhaps my post is mis-titled and this is really about loneliness. 

But sometimes sex can feel like the answer to loneliness.  And, even if it’s not, it can feel like a good substitute.

I suppose I’ve been lucky in love more times than some; I have happy memories of times spent in the arms of a girl, be that on a coach trip, on the sofa, or elsewhere.  But I’m getting older, and I would like to have times like that – and, yes, sex too – again at some point in my life.

Generally it’s not safe to assume that everyone in a bar/club/coffee shop/sitting on a train/walking down the street is as ... keen to meet someone.  (I deleted a whole range of adjectives before settling on ‘keen’ including: ‘lonely’, ‘desperate’, and ‘horny’!)   So you put out feelers, test the water, and it’s usually cold.  Tepid at best.  So what's a guy to do?

People tell me: ‘You’ll meet someone when you’re not looking!’  Those people annoy me, really.  More than ants in my kitchen (but less than spiders in my bedroom).  How is someone supposed to stop looking for something they earnestly want?

If those people lost their keys, how would they feel if I said they’d turn up if they'd only stop looking for them?

As a solution to all this, I’m trying to accept that maybe my time for this has been and gone.  Perhaps those ‘loves’ I’ve had are all I am to have.  So, I’m savouring the memories, smiling about them often, and concentrating on what life has left for me now, such as writing, music and getting rid of ants, apparently.  (Fortunately I don't have a spider problem in this flat, but if they should ever rear their ugly heads again, I'll be ready.)

If you are in a relationship, or even just having sex with any sort of regularity, enjoy it, and keep hold of it for as long as you can.  Because, as JD says: 'No one understands how important sex is better than someone who isn’t having it.'

(Sorry for the long clip again, it’s really only from 4 mins 40 secs I wanted!)

Activism and doing what you want.

My last post could have gone two ways.  I’d planned to say: rather than my current job being a destination, it could merely be another link in a chain.  Like this:

Discovering what you want to do in life is a huge thing.  It gives you something to strive for.  As I wrote my last post, I realised: no matter what 9-5 role I happen to find, I’ll always be striving towards the goal of being a fiction writer, even if I find a creative job.  I mentioned my last job was creative and tailored to me, but I was still working on my novel and stories.  The job wasn’t enough.

Then there’s the part about being an activist, about wanting to ‘change the world’.  A friend of mine asked: have I really become the activist I wanted to be?  The answer is: ‘yes and no’. 

I've never been one for camping in fields...

Yes, because I do a job for a charity doing good in this world.  I’m not one to stand on the front line, march on Westminster, camp in fields or town centres and all the rest of it; I'm as close as I wanted to get.

And no, because it's not what I wanted to do after all.  To do it ‘properly’, you have to be committed, you have to be willing to put in the extra hours.  The people I work alongside are committed, whereas often I’d rather be at home, writing.  I liked the idea of a role like the one I have, but the reality is too much of a sacrifice for me.  Maybe that’s selfish, and that’s what my last post became about.

The thing about dreams is they’re not always what they seem.  My ‘activism’ dream turned out to not be ideal after all.  But that’s okay, I can dream again.

Here’s a song I love that came to mind while I wrote this:

 ‘I always thought a man should have a dream, to pick himself up when he hits the floor.’

It may be your dream to fight the injustices in this world and that’s great, we need people like that and I will continue to be one of them.  It’s just not my life’s ambition.  (For me, I wonder if ‘activism’ is more something to aspire to in my daily life, rather than being the reason for that life...)

My advice is, if something is not your dream, don’t do it just for the sake of it.  Don’t give up chasing your dream because you think you ‘ought to’ do something else.  Keep chasing, keep searching.  Be whatever it is you, and only you, can be.

And again, I'm gonna plug Don Miller's post: 'Two words that kill passion.'

How to change the world...

I've never been an artist...

It feels like there’s a choice: doing something less personally satisfying for the ‘greater good’, or finding a more enjoyable career path.  I’m beginning to think the latter is better, and it’s not necessarily for selfish reasons.

The little blurb about me at the top right of this page (it’s up there, go on, have a look!), says I’m a ‘wannabe-activist’.  For a long time I dreamed of working for a charity, then of working for a charity I believed in.

Now, I do that very thing; I have pretty much become the ‘activist’ I wanted to be.

The reality, however, is difficult: the workload is stressful, vast and, at times, monotonous.  It’s tough to keep one’s eyes fixed on the reason for turning up each day (beyond paying the bills, of course).  I miss the far more creative work of my previous role, tailored specifically to me and my abilities, even though I wasn’t passionate about the raison d’etre of the charity itself.  And I feel guilty, as though I should nevertheless be satisfied I’m doing something I perceive to be ‘worthwhile’.

A friend of mine (www.goplacidly.com) once said she was giving up on trying to ‘change the world’ and instead was focusing on ‘being happy’.  And now I wonder...

If more people spent their time pursuing the thing they personally find fulfilling, that uses their unique talents, that they find stimulating and rewarding, and that makes them ‘happy’, then wouldn’t the world simply be a better place?

Imagine all the undiscovered painters, unpublished writers, would-be new-scientists, struggling musicians, frustrated architects, potential great leaders ... whatever ... able to do the thing they love, without having to sell-out a part of themselves to the daily grind just to make ends-meet.  What kind of a world would that be?

So go, find the thing you love, chase it, do it, and never give it up.  Because that’s how we can change the world.

(For more on this read ‘Two words that kill passion’– it’s a blog-post from Don Miller. He very eloquently says some stuff I wanted to about how doing what we want doesn't necessarily only lead to sex, drugs, rock n roll, etc...)

A brief thought about vocabulary...

Words: they’re everywhere.  And sometimes unexpectedly.

It seems to me as though the brain has a secret store of words. It's full of ones we hardly use, and even forget completely they exist until, just at the right moment, the mind says: ‘Here you go, something I had out the back.  Try it!’ 

This happened to me twice this week already: ‘industrious’ was the first and ‘pervade’ the second.  (Not particularly exotic words, I know, but also not ones I use with any sort of regularity!)

I find the more I exercise the part of my brain that is ‘wordy’ (obviously didn’t have an adjective in stock for that one), the better, and easier to use, my vocabulary becomes.  I can honestly say I’ve noticed this since starting reading more again (all hail the Kindle!), and spending more time writing.

So read, damn it, read! The world needs more lexicologists! (And there's another..! Though I have to admit I'm not sure if it's the right one in this sense...)

Memory and who we are.

Me!

Certain character traits define ‘me’.  I know them of myself and they've always been present.

I was thinking about this before, during and after my trip last week – I mentioned my earliest memory being of Findochty.  Here it is:

I was sat at a long table in a kitchen/dining room with my family.  I think my mother was to my left. The entrance to the house was at the far end of the room, and I believe the external door was blue, with a pane of glass, but I could be wrong about that.

On the table was a bowl of fruit and I vividly remember looking at it, wanting an apple, but not being sure whether it was real or plastic.  I remember being too shy and nervous to ask, or to take it and find out for myself, so I just sat there, looking at it, trying to figure it out.

The interesting thing to me is, even though I was only two-and-a-bit years old, it is so very like me, even now.  

My whole life I’ve been plagued by a lack of confidence, afraid of approaching shop assistants (as a teenager I’d get clothes ordered from catalogues so I didn’t have to go into shops!), or of going places people might notice me, or of making phone calls ... anything really, through fear of being laughed at, making a fool of myself, or just not fitting in.  (When I think about it, it’s pretty amazing I can walk into a bar and play music to a bunch of people watching me!  But that’s probably another blog post...)

I think the reason I remember this episode – and with such clarity – rather than, for example, the trip to Ibiza only three months earlier, is because of the strength and depth of my fear of embarrassment.  To my two year old self, it was obviously a very big deal.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve naturally learned to deal with these feelings, to hide them and compensate to some extent.  But they’re still there, and I find it really fascinating that they have been from as early as I can remember, as though this insecurity is at the very core of my being.  It’s a central part of who I am*. 

And that’s okay, it’s good to know.   

*It’s probably the central cause of many of the Depression-issues I’ve had but, again, that’s probably another post!

The problem of needing a day-job.

It’s Sunday evening, that traditional time for feeling depressed about the impending Monday morning.  When such feelings roll around (and they’re sadly not confined to Sunday evenings...), I wish all the more I could make my living from writing. 

It’s hard pursuing such a career in my spare time because I want some ‘down’ time too.  I want to socialise, I want to watch movies, play music, have fun, but, if I do, certain feelings nag away at me: my writing isn’t getting done; I’m not even half way through my novel; I haven’t submitted anything anywhere in a long while.  Not to mention the ‘feeling tired’ after a day’s paid-work

So I end up feeling guilty and miserable about the lack of progress.

Then there’s the knowledge I’ll never meet anyone – be they friends or otherwise – if I don’t get out and do something, but socialising on a Friday night leaves me yet more tired, inducing yet more guilt – not only did I lose Friday as writing-time, I lost Saturday too. 

It all leaves me feeling very frustrated that I can’t get up tomorrow, do a good 7-8 hours writing work, and then have time to meet people/play my guitar/crash in front of a DVD/whatever.

The privileged few who are paid fiction writers are my chief source of envy at the moment.  And knowing that they’re a ‘privileged few’ doesn’t exactly help either: even if I sacrifice my social life etc for a year to complete my novel, the chances are it still won’t get me what I want.

I guess all there is to do is keep plugging away, keep tapping away at this keyboard as best I can, whenever I can.  Like a marathon runner: focus too much on the twenty-odd miles left, and you’ll not have the strength for the next yard.  The only way to finish is one step – one word, one sentence – at a time. 

So here I go...plodding on.