the globe spins on the tip of my index finger
as seas and shores slip seamlessly past my eyelashes.
I blink myself between mountains,
on river beds,
my breath evaporating like clouds,
close enough for me to kiss it
too close for me to miss it
behind fences
in street light
between the sheets
underwater
these whirled whispers,
curled lisps of love yous,
held tight in a fist,
crushed like moth wings,
or sprawled across pillows in a morning breathed sigh,
they cross oceans.
In the same vein as my latest post which talks about how to be kind to yourself even when you’re not making any work, this post is all about ‘the hard sell’ and how to talk to other people about your work without being nauseating.
I’m all for kindness to self right now; my focus is sharpening back onto myself and my work after my six-month hiatus from anything strictly ‘writer-y’ (which you can read about here if you haven’t already). As I enter back into the plunge pool of creativity (ew), I’m being reminded of what a wuss I am. This wuss-ness becomes most apparent when someone asks me how my writing is going and I am physically reduced to a blithering puddle of Martha.
I have written plays. That is plays as in the plural form of play; as in more than one play. And I don’t mean to sound cocky, but I think they’re really rather good (some of them anyway). I know this in my gut, but for some reason as soon as I have to talk to another human about my work, I am transformed to a gigantic, blushing, ridiculous slice of humble pie. I hesitate more than I say real words. I have a blog which is about pretending to be a writer instead of actually being one. I make stupid jokes until someone changes the subject.
Just as an initial disclaimer, this post is a classic example of “do as I say, not as I do”(like basically my entire blog) as I perhaps need this advice more than most of you reading this. So, how do you talk about your work without sounding like a douchebag or a wimp? I literally have no idea, but I imagine the following pointers are helpful:
Hi, my name’s Martha and I’m an Oxford University Reject.
I hope you read the first sentence of this post in a proud, ‘owning it’ voice and not a breathy, defeated one, because that is certainly the spirit in which it was intended. Maybe I should release an audio book to prevent any further confusion…
It’s taken me three years to move from whiney, deflated Oxford reject to strong independent reject who don’t need no Oxford! That’s your cue to burst into spontaneous applause – gosh I’m really having to spell things out for you today.
Like an archipelago, I’m in pieces.
Strung out in the ocean,
I gasp for breath.
Open-mouthed
I gulp above the waves, my lips
Suckling at air bubbles.
I’ve never felt quite so
Alone.
Your words sweat hatred from every pore and the stench fills the air. Wild and wide-eyed, I dart for a way out, but it seems we’ve already left.
Did nobody tell you the world isn’t just yours? There’s more to a door than an exit and I feel like we’ve been here before.
Have I heard these words in an echo? Held them warm and moist in my own mouth, or was that someone else? I forget. But now I am spitting them at your feet, letter by letter. Vowels and consonants wet with my saliva and tears. You can take your sweaty hate and the fingers in your ears; take them far, far away from here because I can’t bear the smell and the silence.
If you didn’t read the title of this post in an appropriately atrocious Dick van Dyke cockney accent, go back, start again and do it properly.
As you may or may not know, in September, I left home to move to London. To read my initial and hilarious thoughts about this change, check out my post ‘Why things are different now I live in London’ by clicking here.
Now my first year at university is over, I feel, in the spirit of poignancy, I can look back in a wise and philosophical manner as I stroke my imaginary beard, pondering over this year’s ups and downs, its twists and turns and all the nice snacks I’ve had the pleasure of chomping upon. Those Doritos I had back in March really were delicious…
London is a city like no other. On one hand, it’s formidable in ways I can hardly comprehend and yet on a small-scale everyone just seems as incapable as I am. I can see people sat on the underground become visibly anxious as their stop approaches and they must find safe passage through the web of limbs and briefcases between them and the carriage doors. Accompanied by multiple bumpings into other commuters and muttered apologies, they are finally through the doors, on the platform and free to be awkward in some other place.
I’m just fascinated how London as a city is this terrifying, sprawling monster, when for the most part it’s made up of socially anxious, un-coordinated serial apologisers.
I have a love-hate relationship with London which mainly consists of me chasing London around screaming “COME BACK HERE SO I CAN LOVE YOU!” at the top of my lungs, while London smokes a cigarette, takes a sip of soy latte and nonchalantly cycles away from me on its über-cool fixed-gear bicycle.
I go through phases of feeling like a true Londoner. These moments include:
BOO!
Did I scare you? I bet I did. I haven’t been around for so long, you probably thought I was some ghost of Internet trends gone by; tossed in the trash heap along with Myspace, keyboard cat and common decency.
Well, I’m sorry to say you can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m like a urinary tract infection – I keep on coming back.
A lot has changed since we last spoke. I now speak Italian, live on a narrow boat and am struggling with an aggressive addiction to grapes*.
(*only one of these is true – you decide which)
The biggest change in my life is that I have left home and now live in London. The big smoke, the rotten apple, the concrete jungle where dreams are made of…I think you get the gist.
I know what you’re thinking: “But, Martha! With your bounding whimsy and lack of co-ordination, you are surely too frail for city-life! I can only see this going badly for you!”
Alright, that’s enough! You sound just like my yoga teacher, my cat and my dentist. And although I don’t appreciate your unanimous and relentless underestimation of my capacity to be a functioning human being…Alas, you are right. I overheat on the tube, I drop my bags on the floor when I manoeuvre around the bus and I am permanently in the way…of everyone…all the time.
But I don’t care. Because London puts me through my paces and I’d rather be sweating, apologising and picking up my tampons from the floor of the no. 23 than doing anything else in the world right now.
So here are the things that have changed in my life since I moved to London:
Disclaimer: As I’m sure you have noticed, the word ‘meditations’ indicates these thoughts will be coherent, tranquil and life-changing with inspirational quotes an wisdom a’plenty. Please do not expect any of this, or I can guarantee you will be sorely disappointed.
The Fraud Police are the imaginary, terrifying force of ‘real’ grown-ups who you believe – at some subconscious level – are going to come knocking on your door in the middle of the night, saying:
We’ve been watching you, and we have evidence that you have NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE DOING. You stand accused of the crime of completely winging it, you are guilty of making shit up as you go along, you do not actually deserve your job, we are taking everything away and we are TELLING EVERYBODY.
– Amanda Palmer, The Art of Asking; or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let People Help. (If you haven’t read this. Do it. Do it now. Put the Internet down and read it.)
Does this sound at all familiar? This constant sensation that you’re not the right person for the job? That you’re not up to the task? That every imaginable success you have achieved in your entire lifetime is actually just the result of an administrative error or a typo? That your name won’t actually be on the list, and it’s just some elaborate ploy that the ENTIRE world is in on…except you? You have? Oh brilliant, I thought it was just me and Amanda Palmer.
Welcome to impostor syndrome – make yourself at home. Actually don’t! Instead, remain on the periphery, try not to mingle with anyone and certainly don’t give off the impression that you’re in anyway comfortable. That’s much more in-keeping with the whole ‘impostor’ shebang.
It’s like that feeling when you’re in primary school and the teacher asks a question to the class, so you raise your hand and he/she points at you. So, you start answering with ever so slightly too much confidence, only to be interrupted by the teacher: “No, Martha, not you. I was pointing at Roger.” At which, you slowly turn your head to see the smug face of Roger directly behind you, as he delivers the correct answer and gets a gold star on the wall chart.
Bitter? What are you talking about bitter? This is 100% hypothetical. Gah, you sound just like Roger.
A life spent feeling like an impostor when it comes to your own abilities can be tough sometimes, but many people feel exactly the same way. Including (surprise surprise), yours truly.
Naked, slicked-back and sliding into the bathtub, the hot water shocks her system like the day she had spent outside the hospital. Sloping her body, the steam rolls around her; a shroud. She is not drowned, she is a mermaid when her hair curls under the water. Closing her eyes, she lets the water soak into her and pull the memory from her skin, but it doesn’t lift easily.
Wrapping her fingers in her seaweed hair, she feels anchored to herself. She finds this comforting, and pulls tighter.
As she does this, his hands; calloused and sun-kissed, like his father’s, emerge through the steam and they cling to hers. It’s a trick of the light filtering through steam, she blinks and the hands dissolve into the muggy bathroom air. As soon as they vanish, she longs for their return.
She had tried to comfort him, but her words tumbled from her lips and onto the hard waiting room floor. The waiting room, where there was nothing to wait for; it had already happened.
“Perhaps stroking his hair would have been more reassuring”, the sound of her voice surprised her. She laughed at her own strangeness, finding haven in it. Knowing she was different made her feel stronger.
The bathtub is too small for her now, she can only submerge her torso when her knees are bent upwards and drawn in on themselves. She remembers the splashing giggles of Sunday baths with her brother when soap bars were battle ships and flannels were sails. Then, with bubble beards fizzling on their chins, they would pluck adventures from thin air. They were pirates against Vikings, making costumes from sponges and anything from anything; only snapping back to reality when their father pulled them from their underwater world, dripping and laughing as if, at that moment, they were the only things that existed. She often felt like that growing up. Everyone else was made from smoke and mirrors.
When she ran her bath today, she’d hoped the water would return her to her adventures. Of journeys across the seven seas, her brother her only crew member.
“This is a bit like a journey too,” the hopeful words echo in her head, but do not convince her. This wasn’t a journey she wanted to take. Today, she didn’t look forward to bathtime.
Before you light your pitchforks and organise a mob to tackle me to the ground until I surrender my wifi connection and laptop so that I may never blog again (I know your game) – Just hear me out. Now, if you guys haven’t heard of Made in Chelsea; I congratulate you. You have more strength than I. MIC essentially follows the richy rich rich Richards and Richitas of Chelsea as they sashay around SW1. Their ‘social’ lives mainly consist of awkwardly blinking at one another (either in horror or indifference), throwing drinks at each other (either in horror or indifference), or having weirdly short meetings where they arrive at the cafe, order a coffee, get the gossip out of their system and then leave all before their drink arrives.
DOESN’T IT SOUND AWESOME?!
YES, MARTHA, IT MOST CERTAINLY DOES (replies my little bloglets – that’s you)
So, I’m under the impression that MIC is a work of literary genius. If I had written it, I would be congratulating myself right now with a pat on the back and maybe a crumpet or two. For reasons I am about to reveal, MIC is up there with the literary greats. Prepare to eat your words, you cynics!
1. It’s formulaic – Literally the same thing happens every week, except the characters switch round. Here is an analytical breakdown of the MIC secret formula: Continue reading
What an ambiguous title. Blimey, this post could be about literally ANYTHING.
Since last we spoke/silently communicated through a mutual exchange of words over the Interwebs (*delete as appropriate) I realised something ridiculous about myself. This happens more often than I care to admit. I know that it’s not just me. Well, I really, really hope it’s not just me.
I say ‘sorry’ all the time.
It’s like a curse! I don’t know when or why I picked this habit up, but I can’t stop it. It’s like I’ve been genetically programmed to apologise for literally everything I do. Maybe it’s because I’m British and we’ve done a lot of stupid stuff in the past, so now we’ve just evolved into these blithering idiots who can’t say a sentence without atoning for the sins of our ancestors.
Yes, maybe that’s it.
You guys must do it too, right? Guys? Where are you going?
So, I thought it would be fun to keep note of all the stupid things I’ve apologised for this week. And I tell you, this is just a selection. ENJOY MY AWKWARDNESS, PUNY HUMANS!
Writing, rewriting, writing etc. 