At the start of the year (2014) I wasn’t writing much, couldn’t think of anything, had something heavy like an anchor pulling me down into the ocean of no ideas. It’s just one of those things as a writer and you just have to free yourself of it somehow, and the only way to do that is to write. I was about a year into my latest project and I couldn’t take it anywhere. It was very annoying to say the least. I knew the whole premise of the story but couldn’t write a small scene to progress it. So I began writing short stories and poetry. They were just half-hearted pieces I probably haven’t looked at since, but that’s okay because they act as practise. Another exercise I was doing was a journal. I’ve tried journals in the past but I usually end up not writing in them for months and then obviously forget what’s happened in my life and so they seem pointless.
This time (from December 2013) I was in the middle of writing about the day, no matter how mundane or boring, and I was doing this everyday into January. It was only meant to last a few days but I thought it could be a challenge to keep it up for as long as possible. Turns out I wrote about every day of the entire year of 2014, which I’m quite proud of. It also turns out 2014 was quite eventful. I met my girlfriend, became a driver, finished my novel. I did so much and I not only recorded it, but I recorded the small bits to the year too.
In 2014 there were still wars being fought, people homeless, people falling into darknesses. As well as many people in the world susceptible to mortal downfalls, as did the supposedly immortal celebrities. Robin Williams, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Harold Ramis, Richard Attenborough, Bob Hoskins, Peaches Geldof, Maya Angelou, etc. What’s interesting now in 2015 is that it doesn’t occur to us who’s going to die or anything negative. Nothing yet has been recorded and so 2015 means a lot to us. It’s there to be written.
Right now in my life I’ve an idea of what I want to do with my life. It’s taken me a while but better late than never, as they say. And I begin the year in a state of perpetual choice. I can choose like I’ve always been able to. I can choose not to sell my car, to go back to university or college, study marketing, I can choose to work hard, to write, to make my girlfriend happy, to understand where I belong. I have begun 2015 being able to write. But that’s stupid. I’ve always been able to write, only now I choose to do it. (I’ve just noticed now as I’m writing this that my novel is about making choices).
I began the first hours of the year with my older brother on Crosby Beach and on the sand dunes. We talked about terrible things that have happened to us in our lives and how it had been difficult. We’d not spoken in months because that’s how things are sometimes. We were best friends growing up but he got married and had kids and left. I told him I was angry at him for leaving all those years ago, but how could I be angry at him for living his life? He told me I’m too laid back and I let the days fly by. He told me I take others people’s problems upon myself. I’m not, apparently, living my life. Why 2015 means a lot to me is because I’m turning thirty this year and it terrifies me. Also because my brother put my life into perspective and I felt okay. I told him about my girlfriend, whom he hasn’t met. I stood on a rock and looked at the lake in the darkness and thought of her. I imagined she was asleep by this time (6am). I hoped she was asleep because she hadn’t been sleeping well recently. I thought I should let go of all the other darknesses. I’m my own worst enemy. I’m afraid of failure. But I should think of what I can achieve in the future.