Words

Writing is not a chore for me. It's a pleasure. It's just a pity I don't get around to it at night when I want to report what's been going on. It's only since I've been in Holland that I feel like writing again, that I feel the urge, and need to use words like tools. It thrills me to the core that writing has taken back its rightful place in my heart. You see, we had a nasty breakup and it totally devastated me.

As you might or might not know, I have a Masters Degree in Creative writing, before I which I obtained a Diploma in Professional Writing and Editing. And I'm going to go back to uni to start a Masters in Communication, with a focus on book publishing. So you might gather from that that words are pretty important to me. But about halfway through my Masters, my words broke up with me, they just packed up and vacated my life leaving a gaping hole and a missing I cannot describe. It really was like being deserted by someone you love. I experienced severe heartbreak and struggled through the rest of my Masters alone.

Words used to come to me with such power and force that I had to write, otherwise my head would explode. I used to carry a notebook at all times. Poems just came poring out of me. I felt comfortable with my words, it was a happy marriage. And I thought they would be my future. I was convinced that I would be a writer, making money with my words. I thought they would always be there for me. But when they went, I lost all my confidence. I will not call it a writer's block. It wasn't that, it didn't feel like that. I didn't feel blocked. I felt freakin' empty. And it hurt.

I started writing in my early teens, a release for my over-active imagination, a place to let my emotions run wild and do their thing. Words really were there for me through my adolescence, I could always express my feelings in a journal, or a story. I have many stories I wrote back in my teens and they are shockingly bad. Really terrible. I cannot read them - too cringeworthy. But they were a stepping stone. A path I knew would always lead me home. And I thought that perhaps, I could make money doing what I loved. Slightly naïve, I know.

I really enjoyed my two years doing the Prof Writing course, I had moved to Australia, started uni, made friends, it was an amazing time. I did spoken word performances, was really into poetry, and found my love for young adult fiction. And good god, I learnt so much about writing, about style and building stories and everything important I needed to know.  It inspired me tremendously to talk to my classmates about writing, to workshop our pieces, to get to class and leave the room so much richer. Two years were way too short. So then my teachers and I figured that I could perhaps try the Masters, another two years of study which would also allow me to stay in Australia.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. I had no idea what a Masters was, I had no idea what I would really be doing, and how. It just sounded like a good option. Had I been properly informed, I would have chosen another course. The Masters was by research, which meant no classes, but just me and my laptop at home, a meeting with my supervisor once a week, and a monthly workshop with my classmates. I lost all my support there, and it was me and my crazy thoughts and insecurities at home. I had to write a creative piece and an exegesis, which is sort of like a thesis but you compare your creative piece to other published works and that was a freakin' nightmare, as it had to be written in academic English, which I had never learnt to write. The combination of solitude and the challenge of writing something I had no idea how to write and kept being told it was wrong, that's what drove my words away. They felt they weren't good enough. They couldn't do it. They were pretty and imaginative, they were lyrical and flowing. None of that is allowed in an exegesis. I was so not ready or educated enough to do a Masters and I feel RMIT uni has only ever accepted my application because I was an international student and paid lots of money. I had no support there, no Mum or sister or anyone really, who could support me emotionally. It was so hard. That's when my words went. And I don't blame them, not anymore. I was asking too much of them. I was asking too much of myself.

And I felt so alone. I wrote tons of breakup letters to my words. Begged them to please come back. Not to leave me with this task I couldn't complete without them. I did complete it, though. After a six month extension, I handed in an exegesis I felt no love for, no pride, just resentment and disappointment. My creative part of the Masters, a novel in free verse for young adults, was the easy bit. That was the fun bit. But it took me no time at all. Then, I had to fiddle with it and edit it endlessly, and I started thinking it was bad. I couldn't read it for years. It all left such a bitter taste in my mouth.

So, after several failed attempts of entering the publishing world professionally, and with no confidence at all and no words on my side, I gave up. I gave up on words being my friends, my source of income. I felt seriously angry about it all. The amount of energy I had put into it, the love I had felt for it, the money my mother paid to make my dream come true. It was all in vain. But I felt that maybe, it would come back one day, that I would write again.

And then I became a nanny, just because people told me I was good with kids and I needed to make money. A happy job, with room for imagination. It's something that comes very naturally to me. I love kids. They are so easy to talk to, they love stories, they love imagination. I felt happy again, felt like I was doing something useful with my time. And my creativity came out in other ways than words, I made bags, sock puppets, cards. I called my little design ideas 'Two for Joy' - after a nursery rhyme my friend Simon and I always took to heart, and it also meant something to me because I've been quite into the band 'Counting Crows' and it's in one of their songs. To me it was always about crows because of that, but supposedly it's about magpies and it goes as follows:


One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret never to be told.


Si and I always have looked for a second crow, whenever we see a lone one. I just read on wikipedia that if you see a lone crow people used to say 'I defy thee' three times! 


Anyhow, I gained the confidence that I would one day return to writing. And here I am. I love writing again. It's not all back to the way it used to be, but I feel happy about my words returning. I will not give up on them again. I have lived and learnt since then. And gained some grey hair, too.