A post that got a bit carried away with itself...

How is it possible that it’s taken me 28 years to realize that a) I love writing and b) I’m fairly good at it? Why has it taken this long for me to understand that my brain needs to be challenged and that writing challenges it in the right way? I wish I could talk with my 17 year old self and tell her not to be such a wuss – to demonstrate some self belief and to try for the scary things. I’d also tell her that dungarees are for decorating only, that straightening irons are going to kill her hair and that it’ll then take 3 – 4 years to fully recover.

(This is where this post goes awry -  totally wasn't originally heading in this direction but it turns out advising my former self is kinda fun)

18 year old self: Loosen up. Alcohol won’t kill you and you can afford to read a few less books about WWI. Realise how good you've got it, try and be cooler than you are and learn to drive dammit.

19 year old self: yes he says the right things but it’s all hot air. And seriously, that hair, those jeans? It’s not a good plan. Also, 19.75 year old self, don’t go chasing Americans across the Atlantic. He’ll come to you and then you’ll be a heck of a lot less neurotic and will get lots more sleep (leading to less neuroses). You’ll also have more money.

20 year old self: Stop being so neurotic. Clearly he loves you. Chill out and stay away from the other one who doesn’t love you but says he does. Bad bad news.  And don’t make decisions on housemates when drunk.

21 year old self: International Relations, while interesting, is a completely impractical degree. If you will insist on studying in America, do something that might actually result in a job. People who study international relations go on to be diplomats, economists or security advisors or other things that involve travel to scary countries and statistics. You are ill equipped for any of these things. And for goodness sake take your passport with you when you take the GRE test. Otherwise your poor choice in housemate will have to go through your laundry (because of course that’s where you’ve left your passport), hand it to a friend who will then have to take a train into london and you’ll be very stressed, poorer and embarrassed.

22 year old self: learn to drive and, failing that, buy a puffy coat. They’re not pretty but they’re warm. Also, tell Jeremy to turn on the darn heating.

23 year old self: steer clear of housemates who dictate what shampoo you use and watch out for bed-mice. Everything will be fine with Jeremy so relax, invest in that travel-card and join the gym.

24 year old self: Seriously, everything’s gonna be fine. OK it might not seem that way but trust me. And you need a thicker duvet - there's no insulation in that flat whatsoever. Also, stop wearing ballet pumps out in January. Your feet get wet and cold and do not help the situation.

25 year old self: See, I told you so. Now don’t go insane over visas and, I know the idea of paying off your overdraft and sleeping on couches sounds like a good one but…

26 year old self: You’re doing ok. Homesickness fades, although it never completely disappears. Not too too long til you get a house and a cat.

27 year old self: in a year’s time you’re going to live 10 minutes away from that job you’ve been offered… consider this before you start throwing ultimatums around.

28 year old self. This probably counts as talking to yourself, which isn’t generally seen as a good thing. Remember to pick up milk on your way home.

29 year old self: Anytime you wanna drop me a note on what not to do, feel free.

I’ll stop now…

what sort of a parent...

I hug my hot-water bottle tight, rub my feet together to encourage blood to flow and wait for my 13.5 tog duvet (brought over from the UK because despite their sub zero winters, I was unable to find a decent duvet here – and even if I did find one there was no way of knowing b/c they don’t use any sort of warmth rating) to start doing it’s job.

*crash smash meow* “Stupid *$#!ing cat” 

(This from the dining room.)

I wait, wondering whether I can pretend to already be asleep or whether I need to get out there and defend my kitty.

I get up.

“This can’t go on. He’s out of control. I’m shutting him away.”

“He’s young. He’s bored. We need to play with him more.”

“He’s a cat.”

“He’s young. He’s bored. We need to play with him more.”

“He’s staying in this room for the night”

“No he’s not.”

I sweep and vac and do my best to hide the evidence of kitty’s disgrace. I then fetch him from the cold cold room meanie Jeremy has shut him in and take him into our bedroom (which is also cold but there’s me, my hot water bottle, 13.5 tog duvet and electric blanket for him to snuggle next to).

"There’s still glass on the floor out here."

I feign sleep. Jeremy, after grumbling a little more about just how much glass I failed to vac up, comes to bed and, as per usual, ignores my feigning and starts to talk to me. 

“He needs discipline.”

“He’s a cat – he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong.”

“We need to isolate him and teach him a lesson.”

“It wont work – he has about a 5 second memory”

“What sort of a parent are you going to be if you can’t even discipline a cat?” *

“It’s not the same” I mumble, letting kitty snuggle into me and moving my fingers out of hunting-reach”

Who, me?

*disclaimer: I'm not pregnant. 

Home Improvement.

"Be optimistic — assume that the paper is dry-strippable. Lift a corner of the paper from the wall with a putty knife. Grasp the paper with both hands and slowly attempt to peel it back at a very low angle."

Then, as it shreds in your hands, avoid the knowitall gaze of your husband and pretend that your decision to start on the main wall rather than a 'smaller section where if it all goes wrong and you get bored and give up it would be less noticeable' was absolutely the right one.

Persevere. Act as if you're not bored already and thinking about making a snack or whether the next episode of gossip girl is available online. Soak the wall in wallpaper removal solution. Wipe it up off of the floor. Look around to check knowitall hasn't seen. Scrape the wall. Remove about 2% of the wallpaper. Reapply solution and consider reading the instructions.

Repeat for all foreseeable weekends until the hideous wallpaper has finally disappeared and/or Jeremy gets fed up of waiting and decides to do it himself.

It's been a while

… but here I am.

I haven’t blogged consistently in an epoch. This is because:

• I seem to be bad at blogging when there’s actual stuff happening in my life. 
• When I get home I don’t want to look at a computer
• I have a cat to play with
• energy needs to be conserved and put towards warmth

But, I’ve been told that I need to keep it up and I’m also finding that I’ve been missing it. Blogging means you pick out smaller aspects of life to relate and analyze – and in doing so it makes the whole feel that much more manageable. That said, I’m currently stuck not knowing where to re-begin. Maybe I should recap.

Since September I have:

• Got a job (non-profit volunteer management…familiar territory which has proved a good way of reacquainting myself with that old ‘friend’ work.)
• Started driving EVERY day INTO the CITY, often at 6.30 AM in order to avoid RUSH HOUR. 
• Got a cat… this has been the highlight of my life to date. He’s incredibly cute until he gets tired of being cute and starts attacking. He will likely feature highly in future blog posts. He doesn’t have a name…blame Jeremy. 
• Discovered that my new and wonderful house does not have insulation. This is also likely to feature…
• Become a master fire-lighter
•  Hosted a three course house-warming party for 50, Christmas for 14 and had eleven friends / family come to stay for nights / weekends / fortnights
• Watched a best friend get married
• Watched my little sister get married
•  Met with my agent (face-to-face for the first time) and a publisher who loved my book but not enough to publish it…yet…(she says, fingers crossed and recrossed behind her back)
• Begun to re-edit my book in the hopes that said publisher will love it more.

 Consider this as line drawn beneath the silence and I shall henceforth re-start blogging about all the minutiae that make life meaningful. 

They haven't all said no yet.

They haven't all said no yet.

But they almost have.

Four scary publishers (who do not heed deadlines) sat upon a wall.

The Nos I've had, as Nos go, have been very friendly Nos. Most have said that I can write, that they love the voice, the concept... not enough of course, but one year ago having publishers tell me I could write would have seemed monumental. So I'm clinging to that.

Today is Columbus Day, which I assume means we're celebrating the discovery of America. I'm celebrating the fact of a day off and am going to spend at least a portion of it writing. Because if / when they all say No, I need to have already reminded myself that I love writing, so that I keep on doing it in the face of the collective No I am anticipating (but still hoping against of course).

In other news, I still love my house, the new job is pretty cool and my parents are visiting at the end of the month. Life is good.

Waiting

Somewhere out there, there is a swarm, a scraggle, a torment of publishers on whom's desk / in whom's inbox lies my manuscript. They have 9 days remaining (8 in England, which is where they are, but shhhh) in which to read and respond to the submission. Two have already responded (and have responded No), leaving Ten.

Ten scary publishers sat upon a wall...

I try to forget, but my heart leaps every time my email pings. And I thought I'd escaped that feeling when I finally got a job.

Pah.

Watch this space - I may well be crying in it 9 days from now.

Here I am

No, I haven't died or stumbled off the face of the planet (which, I assume, would amount to the same thing), I am resolutely and definitely here, it's just that when life gets going, blogging kinda drops to the bottom of my list of priorities (which means, I imagine, that I'm not and never will be a true 'blogger').

Anyway, in the past month I got a job, hosted a housewarming party for 50 people (and fed all of these people a 3 course meal), submitted my novel to a swarm of scary publishers and started my newly attained job.

I'm tired.

But I'm also feeling thankful and very humble. I started this move to America with a list of necessities - things that I felt had to happen in order for me to settle and feel properly at home here. These were:
- Proper friends who, if and when necessary, I could call at a moment's notice and demand wine and a hug.
- A home without mold in the bathroom and a spare bedroom for visiting friends and family
- The ability to drive
- A job where I felt I was contributing something to the world and which gave me sufficient time and flexibility to visit England.

I have been given all of these things and more. My marriage continually surprises me in its capacity for joy. My house has not one but two bathrooms without mold and three whole spare bedrooms for visiting Englanders (and new yorkers / norwegians / californians etc etc). My friends are people who will be friends for ever more, no matter which continent I live on. And somehow in the midst of all of this I've managed to write a book which is this very second being appraised by people who may well reject it, but also might not.

I am blessed, and in my moments of anxiety and fear I run through this list in my head to remind myself to trust and believe and be calm. I do not mean any of this as a boast or a 'yay me' - more as a phew and a thank god, as well as a thanks to all of you for your patience with my moaning. It's nearly winter so no doubt there'll be some more to come.

x