This was going to be a space for me to put out pieces of writing that were too long for Instagram. But it’s been a while and I’ve still not written anything long. I’ve tried but I just don’t enjoy it. And whenever I do write something long, something that’s trying to be a traditional short story, I hate it. And then I tear it apart and bone it out and end up with a single, condensed paragraph. So I’ve decided to use this platform for something else. More of a journal, but a public one, because I don’t tend to make or write for myself, but for others. I’m embarrassed about it, but that doesn’t change the fact.
So yeah, please don’t expect anything great from this. It’s not trying to be great. It’s literally just me getting into the habit of writing without any pressure or expectation. It might be boring but you can unsubscribe and I won’t be upset.
I’m writing this whilst Grace by Kae Tempest plays on a loop. It’s my favourite song off their latest album and when I listen to it I dread its end. Hence why I loop it whenever I put it on. And I know I’m risking ruining it, but I do it anyways. It’s rare that something has a really strong, positive affect on me. So whenever I find something that does, I obsess over it.
I miss being constantly obsessed by things. I was obsessed with Tumblr at the same time everyone else was. And remembering that period of my life is remembering how it felt to be obsessed. Reblogging the things that I loved. The lyrics and the film stills and the songs and the pictures of people who I either wanted to be, or be with.
During that time I was sharing a bedroom with my sister, and we had one of those bunk beds with a double bed on the bottom and a single on the top. I slept on the bottom, and on the wall next to me, closed in by her bed above, I wrote all of my favourite bands’ names in oil pastel, decorating the spaces between with love hearts and music notes. To be fair I think I just wanted to make myself seem cooler than I’ve ever been. I wanted to be different. The bands were all alternative. But regardless of whether or not the obsessions were sincere, I still lived them. Sometimes it feels like I’ll never get obsessed with anything ever again. I’ll never be a fan of anything. I’ll just take everything in like a fog that I’m walking through and the only thing I’ll ever feel is hatred diluted by indifference.
Then I come across something that reminds me what passion feels like. Grace is an example of that. And so is Little Women, the film directed by Greta Gerwig.
I watched it last night for the first time after a friend said it was good, and I realised it was quite mad that I’d not yet seen it because I love Greta Gerwig. Mistress, America is one of my favourite films. And now Little Women is, too. I think I thought that because she was the director, it wouldn’t be the same. But somehow every character carries a little bit of her in them. Something about the way they speak. The dialogue. It’s very Greta and I love it.
I love period dramas generally at the minute. I loved Bridgerton. It’s escapism that I didn’t know I needed. My usual escapism of choice is reality tv. I binge it like nothing else. I’ll watch literally anything in reality tv format. When Netflix brought out a BBQ cooking competition show thing, and I said I might put it on, my boyfriend laughed. I’m a vegan, and don’t like looking at raw meat, but because it was in this format, it was something I wanted to watch. I never did, in the end.
I think watching Little Women, one of the main things I felt was a longing for what the characters in it have. The family is so strong, so connected. The sisters are best friends and there are conversations between mother and daughter that, to me, feel like could only ever exist in a scripted scene. But then the fact that the whole thing is so far removed from my own reality, the fact that every element, the entire reality of their world, would only ever exist in a scripted movie, made those conversations somehow easier to take in and to believe. And in that sense they really affected me.
It’s not like watching one of the obviously scripted scenes in Made in Chelsea, where I find myself refusing to feel anything except entertained. I think that’s why I love Greta’s writing. There are bits of dialogue in her films that find a perfect balance between believability and fantasy. They’re conversations I want to have, the kind that play out in my head between one private thought talking to another. So the things being said are believable, it’s just that you wouldn’t expect them to be said aloud.
And in that sense, it’s inspiring. It makes me want to change the way I talk, the way I speak to other people. I want to re-watch it and to use it as a manual. A guide on how to be a better and more interesting person. Makes me want to say fuck it to whatever inhibitions I have when it comes to conversation and to just say something that means something. That’s not to say that nothing said ever means anything. Of course it does. I guess there are just a lot of conversations I haven’t had that I want to. Ones that I’ve kept in my head.
I re-read Tenth of December by George Saunders recently and there was a bit in the introduction, I dunno who wrote it can’t be arsed to get up and check, but there was a part where they describe what it’s like to talk to George. They say that he’s such a generous spirit that it feels embarrassing to behave in a small way around him. I’m obsessed with that idea. I can’t get it out of my head. I want people to say that about me. Is that really weird? I feel like it makes me sound conceited. But I’m not saying it’s what I’m like. I’m literally the opposite, a shell of a person when I’m with others, until I’m either drunk or really comfortable with you. But surely all of us would aspire to have a compliment like that paid to us.
It feels like there’s a massive gap between who I am and who I want to be. And an equally massive gap between what I want to do and what I’m currently capable of doing. I know what kind of writing I want to write, what kind of affect I want it to have, and I know it’s not that good yet. But for the first time in a long time I feel willing to work towards something, a goal. It’s frustrating having to share things that I know aren’t as good as they could be. But like I said at the start of this waffle, I struggle to do things for myself, so I can’t just sit and work quietly towards my goal without sharing any of the progress. I just put it out there anyways and hope it’s liked and hope people want to stick around whilst I try to keep getting better.
This is actually really nice. I feel like I could keep going forever and ever but I won’t. I’m gonna stop. But one last thing: I finished reading my year of rest and relaxation by ottessa moshfegh this morning. It was pure entertainment, the kind of book you struggle to put down because you need to know what the characters do next. I can see it becoming a TV series or a film. Maybe that’s already happening, I haven’t checked. I hated the narrator, but that’s what makes it so hard to put down. Maybe it’s because we love to hate things. Or maybe it’s because the worst things about a person are the ones we relate to the most.
That’s what George Saunders says in some video on Youtube. He came to realise that the parts of himself that he hated the most, things he’s embarrassed about, like being jealous, are the things that people relate to the most. And I guess it’s nice to feel less alone in your own hideousness.
Bye.
This, I absolutely feel the same way xx
More please :-)