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. 

"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

Let's be dramatic.

I've come to the conclusion that my writing is sparked by drama. Not the methodical act of drama, or drama in a worrying, chaotic kind of sense, but as in something dramatic. I write when I'm feeling, well, passionate. Yes, that's it. My blog is full of posts full of happy thoughts and gushing enthusiasm, as well as those on the other end of the spectrum. Those sad, tear-soaked posts. The pieces I write at 3am when I'm feeling upset or angry or distraught or just totally numb. Passion helps me write. None of these neither-here-nor-there feelings; the days that I'm "just okay" that are of no consequence, and just a week later will blur into the background and become a forgotten memory. My writing seems to, I've noticed, flares during emotional times. I write to illustrate my life, document an event or just to simply get a thought off my chest. My happiest pieces are usually written when I'm wearing my best smile, while my negative, upset pieces are composed when I'm wearing a deep frown and even maybe shedding the occasional bitter tear. It's took me a while to realise, but I'm just not one of these people who can write something brilliant on cue. (That's probably not a good thing to admit when I'm studying a creative writing degree, but y'know!) I feel like because I tell people "I want to write" they immediately think I should be able to whack out a bestseller in my lunch hour or during the adverts of Jeremy Kyle, but quite the opposite. It takes time, inspiration and patience (something my mam keeps telling me I need more of, and yes she's very right.) So, my ever-increasing dramatic life may actually give me some content for my "novel" but whether my personal life thrives or fails, well, it remains to be seen. 

Alone-time.

Sometimes all you want to do is disappear. For a few minutes, hours, days. To be alone, in your own company. To spend time with yours truly. The one person always with you, the friend always by your side, the keeper of your brain, emotions and conscience. Your personal confidante, your physical being, the shadow always one step behind you.

Days like these, are underrated. Not that everyone in my life isn't wonderful, but everyone needs alone time every so often. To think things over. To make your own decisions and deal with your mistakes. To shut out everyone else, and enjoy not having to give a damn.