Writing silence.

I can't believe it's been so long since I've posted on my blog. It's like my baby, and I've neglected it and just shoved food under a crack in the door rather than commit to any proper regime whatsoever. Stupid analogy but who cares, I am pretty stupid at times. So, why have I been gone? 

Well, I could rhyme off a long, convoluted list of excuses, or instead, explain where I've actually been for two weeks or so. I'm not sure which of those I intend to fulfill but here goes. Between finishing uni for the summer (minus a deadline and an exam, niether of which have even been considered, never mind completed) and sleeping, basically all I've done is drink and laze about and channel blind avoidance with regards to my uni work. I have a 3,000 word creative piece to write that is due soon (I honestly can't even remember the date, it's sometime before May!) and I'm so desperately uninspired. Stuck in fact. An idea is blossoming in my tiny little mind and yet I'm unable to really run with it. Preoccupied with alcoholic outings and socialising with my friends, as they gradually creep their way back home to not-so-sunny Chester-le-Street (it's Newcastle way-FYI.) from various locations for uni. Tonight will be my third night out in five days. I haven't done this in ages, so the air is filled with hairspray and excitement. 

Let's go get drunk. Basically. Drink too much and laugh so much our stomachs ache. Oh, and of course, prepare ourselves for Sunday. Yes it's Easter, and for some people who are religious this has another significance. But, it's also Bank holiday, which for me and my ever-expanding group of friends, means lots of laughs, and even more alcohol. The celebrations start at 8. I'm counting down the hours. 

"When are you going to... Write something?"

The infamous cry of my close-knit family echoes through the hallway. I sigh. I bite my nails so they look all stubby and raw. I sit with a downturned expression and doubt my capabilities as an even-just-aspiring writer until my knees feel like they may collapse under the weight of my negativity. I've completed 2/3rds of my degree now, and for what? It's a literature and creative writing degree and I've got nothing really at all to show for my shining ambition to be a writer. 

"What do you want to write?" People keep asking me and watch the vacant expression appear on my plain face. My eyes widen in desperation. My shoulders slump somewhere around my ankles. My mind goes blank, I'm absent from this. It's all so distant in my mind. It is my want, my ambition, my dream, oh so cliché! But it is, what I want to do with my life I suppose. That's what the answer is. I want to write: words. Strings of sentences and phrases and dialogue and action. Tears, tantrums, desires and opinions. I want to write... Something, anything to get my voice heard and my persona out there. Although I've kind of come to the end of the road, inspiration-wise. I'm surrounded by people at uni who have different aspirations, more concrete goals and agendas, and I see promise for them. But then, where's mine? I can't become a writer (however you even do that) without a lot of hard work and sleepless nights, stress and torment, and ultimately, dedication. I am that. But at the same time, I'm kind of lost. I don't feel like anyone really takes me seriously. I need pointing in the right direction. 

Private Practise.

Okay, I never really do this, but today, right now, I am. Evidently. Sorry, that was deadly obvious. Literally, seconds ago, I watched the last ever aired episode of Private Practise. It's kind of broke my heart, and left my chest with a gaping grief-ridden chasm where all my favourite characters used to be. For anyone who doesn't know, Private Practise is a US medical drama, originally marketed as a spin-off from Shonda Rhimes' very successful Grey's Anatomy. I first started watching Grey's by accident, but then, I fell into the trap. Someone mentioned Private Practise and I just became obsessed. More intimate than its counterpart based in Seattle, Private Practise is set in sunny, dreamy LA, where the sun always shines, and there's a constant backlog of patients for the doctors involved.

I won't give anything really away, because I hate it when people do that. With a PASSION. There's nothing worse than someone who is very adamant that they need to spoil your favourite television programme for you. I could stab those people in the eyes with very sharp pencils, and they still wouldn't get their just deserts. All I'll say is this, it's more than worth a watch. It will draw you in almost immediately. The storylines are brilliantly written, the characters are unbelievably well thought out, and honestly, I've seen every single episode, and each one leaves me with a different feeling, and yet, a more familiar one; every time the shot fades, the camera pans and the credits roll, there's something I always think:

'I wish I'd written that.'

 

 

With every ounce of my being, I love this programme. It's like my baby, my happy place and the thing I go to when all I need is comfort and to shed a few too many tears. Admittedly, it will make you cry, it will make you laugh, and more than likely, it'll make you go through a 'I want to be a doctor' phase, (but then again, I went through all that in my Grey's addiction.) So, it's brilliant. And my one true talent in life seems to be gushing about things I love (hey, could be worse, couldn't it?) As you can guess, I'm feeling a bit lost now. The final credits began to roll and I wanted to shout out and scream a negation of sorts, something to stop the end, cling onto the characters and envisage a new, perhaps more fitting, more satisfying ending for me. I can't remember the last time I was so attached to a programme, or so invested in it's characters. Private Practise has at times, been my salvation, and other times, my suffering. Lots of snacks, black coffee and tears later, through six whole seasons, two name changes, thousands of confessions, tense moments and happy celebrations. Here we are. The end is nigh. I'm blank, numb, empty. This is how all the best shows should leave you feeling; if they don't leave a bitter taste of nostalgia in your mouth, they haven't been worth the time.

 

 

 



Dipping your toes in.

The way to my heart is through the neck of a vodka bottle, the gap between the front door and the local pub, my lips and a cup of black coffee at 6 in the morning, the soles of my shoes and the northern concrete, the space between me and you, the time difference between Newcastle and New York City, the thud of our heartbeats and the next touch of skin on skin. The feel of a fresh, crisp twenty in my hands, hot cookies, the smell of real leather on my shoulders and around my ankles, perfume that makes you remember something distant, the instant photos taken in a drunken haze, the screamed words and bitter slurs. The sticky mark left on the bar when the tequila runs dry, the murky puddle when the sun isn't quite out, the cold cup of coffee, the downpours, the black eyeliner and burgundy lipstick, the expensive dress only worn once, the paper shopping bags that are overfilled, the six inch heels that hardly ever see daylight, the bitten down nails, the karaoke music, the cheesy grins and the psychotic rages. The hearty laughter, the constant Friends repeats, the silly cravings and the mental notes, the feeling when you open a new book and the spine cracks a little. OCD tendencies, memorable quotes and sitting on curbs having tipsy conversations. The first breath you take when you're waking up and become aware of it, the summery daze drinking pints in beer gardens, the last words in your favourite song, the first time you meet someone, and the last time you feel alone. 

Firsts, lasts and always.

The rain taps ever so slightly on my window pane, traffic gliding past once in a while. I hear puddles being disturbed, silence being temporarily broken. It's almost April 2014. I know right? Where did the time go? Where did the beginning of the year creep off to? I honestly have no idea. I've become lazier than ever, at home, at uni, just generally I'm in hibernation-mode. I feel like I've not read or wrote anything substantial in months. I probably haven't done enough work for uni, and my energy is just drained by the cold northern weather, the long, sleepless drunken nights and the few boringly jagged days separating the time between vodkas. 

Somehow in the midst of the laziness I've pursued, I've managed to maintain something wonderful. A relationship with someone who is like my best friend. Yes, I'm a soppy bitch as of late, forever gushing about no longer being single, and my friends watch as the sides of my mouth turn ever so slightly upwards everytime I mention I start name-dropping or utter "boyfriend." You'd think I was 12 again, cringe. So the cramming must commence, I suppose. Seems like one thing starts and a hundred things end at once lately. I get caught up in the silly little things and zone out on big decision-making, important assignments and revision timetables. 

This time next week, I will officially no longer be a second year uni student (minus the fact I have an end of year exam to sit in May, but y'know, basically.) This scares the hell out of me. Module deadlines. Word counts looming. The days are being crossed off, counted down, reminisced over. I want to bury my head under my pillows and leave all the important decisions to someone who doesn't drink 62% proof rum on a Wednesday afternoon, or tweet thirty times a minute. Perhaps. Then again, I've made a couple of really good decisions to outweigh the bad. 

So indecisive, so adamant.

You don't mind me singing badly to Robbie William's greatest hits, or the fact I'm a tad neurotic and very, VERY high maintenance. The fact I can and do, on many occasions, quote Friends in real life situations. My caffeine addiction you seem to accept thoroughly. The way I can't walk past a mirror without checking my hair or touching up my make-up. Your willingness to let me get drunk and show you up, and yet you still pick me up when I fall flat on my face giggling. stop smiling Lukas. The days I don't want to speak, or get out of bed, or smile, and you let me do that if that's what I want. My stupid irrational shopping habits, my ambitious dreams, and my OCD tendencies. Knowing when to leave me alone, and fully understanding that sometimes, I just need to cry and have a massive hug. Knowing I gorge on stupid telly and will end up having an emotional breakdown every time something remotely sad happens in any programme whatsoever. [not that I ever do this, obviously.] You accept me drunk dialing you at 2am, and 3, and five. The fact it takes me about six hours to get ready for a night out. With a face full of make up, or totally bare. Knowing that I will go out every weekend, and moan about my hangover over and over until I can't take it any more. Staying up stupidly late with me because I just can't sleep. Coping with my sarcastic, bitter slurs at times, and banishing all doubts from my mind when I'm feeling really low. Telling me I look amazing, when I feel shit, holding my hand when I'm scared and encouraging me when I'm unsure of something. You are the reason my smile hasn't vanished in 78 days solid. The reason that 2014 is turning out to be one of the best, ever. The reason I wake up smiling and go to bed feeling content.

Gullible.

That's what I am, what I've always been. It's funny, it's silly and everyone gets a laugh out of it every now and again, but sometimes, I hate it. I hate the fact that I believe what I'm told. I'm trusting. I believe the people in my life, whether it's a big or small matter, because I have a tendency to lap up the information I'm given. Oh, and the obvious bit; I trust my people with my life. 

It brands me "blonde" and "hilarious" and just plain "stupid" at times, and I think I just need to give myself a shake. I began writing this piece a while ago, and then stopped, probably because I was hesitant. Until maybe, it doesn't really matter. Until there's someone who likes that part of me, and then, I guess, that's alright too.