Back on the treadmill.

Yesterday, I finally forced myself to go back to the gym, after what must've been a few months off, while I was stressing over the end of uni, deadlines and wandering into the real world. 

Nobody told me thag I would be at a disadvantage if I had a degree. Not one person. Admittedly the job hunt wasn't as pro-active as it should've been to begin with, but now it's in full swing. At the age of almost 22, I am unemployed with a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. I want to break into that discipline, but living in the north east of England, it seems relatively impossible. I can see people trying to conceal their eyes rolling into the back of their heads as I announce 'I want to write.' Frankly, if I had a £1 for every time someone had said to me, 'so are you just going to teach?' I wouldn't even need a job. Credit goes out to those who see that as a life they want, but I'm not one of those people. I lack the patience, the desire or the determination to teach. My passion lies with writing. Picking up a pen, or in this case, my iPhone, to blog. It's soothing writing down my thoughts, even if I'm editing them all as I do so. 

I've been pretty down about the job hunt, as well as some other things lately, but yesterday I powered through. I set my alarm, got up, had breakfast, put my gym attire on, grabbed my keys, a water bottle and some headphones, and I was off. Although I struggled through the hour I was there, I felt better for forcing myself to get out of bed and exercise. It was a step forward. It was something pro-active, and until then, I don't think I'd considered it so. Whether I used to like to hear it or not, my P.E. teacher used to tell me that, 'exercise relieves all your stress, Eleanor' and yet, despite her prevailing, I hated it. I walked into my physical education lessons, entering via the changing room back doors, and while all the other girls were chatting away, I didn't say much. 

I passionately hated PE. 'I can't do it,' was my favourite excuse. In case you hadn't noticed, I have a strong, stubborn negativity about me at times. Even at the height, I was a 16 year old who was very self conscious, and didn't believe she was sporty whatsoever. I'm still not. I still have that attitude. I will probably never run a marathon. I will never be on a sports team. But I figured out early on, that was because I didn't want to be, rather than any capabilities I did or didn't lack.

My point being, the exercise that once scared me half to death, actually does make me feel better. It's a stress reliever definitely, for me anyway. When discussing this with my boyfriend via text the other day, I just happened to drop in a relevant Legally Blonde quote, and he had no idea what I was saying, having never seen such a brilliant film. I'll leave you with the quote, that is seriously relevant, very daft and almost always puts a smile on people's faces. Even after what can be described as a really shit few weeks, or even months, I know that getting back on the treadmill makes things fade away for a bit. 

'Exercise gives you endorphins, endorphins make you happy, and happy people just don't shoot their husbands, they just DON'T.'

-Elle Woods, Legally Blonde.

Stressed: take two.

The first semester of final year is quickly coming to an-all-too-frightening end. I have two more seminars and one more lecture to go, before the Christmas holidays begin. As of December 5th, I'm free for six weeks or so, to panic and ponder next semester's modules and the finality that comes with finishing your degree, a prospect I was never sure I'd ever arrive at. 

I'm proud, worried and anxious. The assignments are mounting up, along with the pressure, and the looming deadlines appear to taunt me. The uncertainty of my life after May 2015 is scaring me stiff. I'm absolutely bricking it. The outside world. I've never been into the proper outside world before. At the age of 21, my feet have been firmly rooted in education since the age of 3. It's all I've ever known, passed from pillar to post, nursery to school to university, from institution to institution, without a care in the world. I've sat countless exams, cried unbelievable amounts of tears, and written a hell of a lot of words in that time, but maybe I'm about to make it. If only I can make it through these next few weeks of deadlines, I'll be able to breathe again properly without a tight chest and a worried, pallid face expression. 

Here's to hoping. Holding on tight, 2014 is coming to an end. Better go out with a bang. 

"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. 

"I want to write."

The answer I always give every time a friend, relative or stranger asks me what I want to do with my life. My response causes multiple reactions, but the one I've come to recognise perfectly is this; the vague look, the confused creases at the side of your mouth, eyes darting from side to side, and then hover somewhere over my shoulder as to avoid my gaze altogether. "Oh.." someone mutters, as if I've gave a response that did not fully answer the question that was put forward. "What, like books and stuff?" Yet again, the gaze is bored, disinterested. It's as if my answer has put each and every individual way out of their comfort zone. I mean, don't get me wrong, there are people who are supportive of my goal, but I know it's kind of met with a bit of resentment. I know fine well my grandparents would feel a lot more comfortable telling their friends that I was studying Law or something at university, or that I wanted to be a teacher. "A writer? That's not exactly a career." Well, I beg to differ. I've been shot down a thousand times, told I'm not putting myself out there enough, and simply being far too narrow-mindedly ambitious expecting such a naive career prospect to spark from a few dreamed-up scribbles. But I really, honestly, hand-on-heart, indignant face expression worn, don't care. If you don't try, you'll never know. That's how I feel. Writing is my only passion in life, and I'd rather shoot myself in the foot than channel my literature degree into teaching. (I'm not slating this choice, I just know very well that this path would not be for me, as I'm just not that way inclined.) With a severely open mind, a brand spanking new pen at my disposal, and some fresh ideas on the horizon, I've started writing creatively for the first time in ages. Maybe it's because I've finally realised that it's something I want to pursue, regardless of what other people think of it. It's like, I know I can write. It sounds silly and somewhat overconfident, but I can. In the same way that I am aware of my weaknesses, I also know my strengths, and that one of my biggest strength lies in my ability to write. Getting my words down, on screen or paper, is important to me. I want to be heard, I want my writing to be read and acknowledged. Even if it's hated, great. Brilliant in fact. After all, I always think there's a reason behind loving or hating a piece of writing. If I hate something, it's kind of a positive. Maybe it's a personal belief, a wrong sense of style or something totally different, as long as my writing has affected someone in some way, I'm happy. I've been blogging for around 9 months now, and I've come across many other talented writers along the way; Gracie, Hannah, Lucy and Amy, to name just a few. Blogs I follow constantly, admire and react to. I learn from them and try to adapt and change my writing with everything I discover. So, if you're reading this, send me a message. Send me your blog URL in a comment here, or probably more appropriately, on twitter: www.twitter.com/eleanorward_ If you've got something to say, write or shout about, I want to hear it! 

X

A shot of caffeine and you can conquer the world.

As fancy as you try to say it, no matter whether you use an Italian tongue or an English twang, Black coffee is, and always will be, black coffee. My saviour, my ultimate pleasure, my serious obsession. I'm a coffee junkie. A 19-year-old caffeine junkie. Self-confessed, and proud as punch. I drink a serious amount of it, and rely on it to get me through difficult times, early mornings and later nights. A hangover kick, an early morning wake-up and the greatest refreshment in the world.

The man in my local Starbucks knows my name and exactly what I want as he sees me push open the door. A smile, slightly funny, and a recognised nod, and my thick, black, strong coffee is placed delicately in front of me. It opens me up to a myriad of possibilities. A coffee in tow, and I'm capable of anything. I feel accomplished, prepared, ready to face whatever the day may throw my way; good, bad or down-right horrendous.

This is a particularly suitable post today, after seven cups of industrial strength coffee, I still don't feel prepared to revise like hell for Monday. D-Day is approaching at a somewhat dangerous speed, and I'm not at all ready for what that might mean. I've done countless Literature exams, but I guess at degree level, it matters the most. Don't get me wrong, my course is everything I could want it to be, as well as a whole lot more, with a group of wonderful people, especially a little mention for my favourite girlies- Laura, Sarah and Jenny (who will probably be reading, hey girls!) who are just brilliant and hilarious, and the only kind of people you'd want to spend 9am lectures with and not want to commit a horrific kind of crime. The revision, however, never gets easier. Baracading my bedroom door, hiding my phone and arming myself with a heap of Literature-related quotations to memorize  I think I'm overestimating how much my brain can take in, but I'll try my damnest to pass this bloody exam. It will all be worth it, the late nights, the hard graft and the aching wrists, for the end results, and sooner, the mental celebrations that will occur Monday night, when we can jump up and down, scream and shout and discuss how the hell we managed to get through Year One.

So, for everyone who tolerates my bad moods around exam time, motivates me and believes in everything I can do, I love you all. A very special person always tells me I can achieve anything I set my mind to. Every time I'm about to sit an exam, I receive a text message from my grandma, simply saying:

"you can do it, Duffy Moon!"

It means more than I can ever say.