20 Things I'm Learning As A Twenty-Something

In a couple weeks, I won’t be 24 anymore.

I’ll officially be a quarter of a century old. Which is to say, not very old at all. But still a wee bit lot older than I told a barman the other day – he asked for my ID; I was like ‘sheesh I’m eighteen already fool.’ Then corrected myself... ‘I mean, I’m really twenty-twooahuh-four. Twenty-four. ’ And he looked absolutely bewildered. Let’s pretend that’s because he was Australian not because I was talking nonsense.

This past year, I feel like I’ve done an awful lot. I finished my Masters, graduated and left university (finally), interned, moved back south, became employed, started really paying taxes, dated, discovered Crobar, got promoted, dated some more, taken up climbing, taken up boxing, learnt how to make vegan haggis, decided to never date again, lost touch with good friends, reconnected with old friends, made new friends, joined a London music society, and a book group, and a writing group, been lonely, been happy, been excited and mostly just been busier than ever.

And I’m finally in London. London. The city I always knew I needed to live in. The city I love the way a crow loves a murder and a plot loves a twist. The city that I’m sure will churn me up and spit me out like it does most everyone, but where, in the mean time, I’m content to figure myself out.

It’s amazing. It’s scary. And how the hell am I nearly twenty-five?! Anyway, seemed like a good excuse to jot down twenty-four things that I feel I’ve kind of learnt in the last twelve months. Or am learning. Everything these days seems more process than revelation.

At first, it’s all about being independent.

You’re out! You finished. You did the thing! Now there’s a level of independence that didn’t fully exist at university. There you were at least looked over by the system. Now there’s a sense of self-reliance, using your own reason and resources. Sort of. Some of the time. Mostly anyway.

It’s exciting! It’s novel! And still an itsy-bitsy-teeny-tiny bit terrifying in a big way.

YEYYYYY we’re freeeeeeeeeeee. Now we can have adventures! Or not. We have the choice to adventure or not! Also discovering the joys of living in a clean, tidy house with no risk of contracting a disease every time you make food is The Best. There are suddenly really big questions and uncertainties and you think you’re looking for something but most of the time you don’t really know what that something even is.

Which is why it’s really great to be in touch with your family.

Sometimes you just want a hug, or a no-nonsense phone call, or someone to give you £10 for taking the train to visit them. Of course not every family is perfect, for some it’s the family you chose not the family you were born into that fits into this role, but having those reliable people who are always there when it matters – they mean the absolute world.

Because finding your feet takes time.

It can feel like you’re youth in desult. Ok that was actually a silly reference to one of my favourite humans and his blog – which is literally about this EXACT feeling. Do you want to be in business? Do you want to be a tattoo artist? Are you even using anything you learnt in your degree? What on earth are we even doing with our lives? Does anything have any meaning? What's the point?! Was there ever a point?!

And not having everything figured out is ok.

Really, it’s totally fine. There’s no magic shuttle to success and even the folk who look like they’re totally sorted, probably don’t feel that way all the time either.

Even when it comes to finances…

Doing things like figuring out your tax code and translating your pay slip might take a moment or two – especially if you’re going from one tax bracket to another. On the other hand, if you’re like me and you’ve moved from the super-cheap and affordable North to London’s cocktail of failed dreams and extortionate prices, sometimes it’s as simple as realising your weekly shop is no longer £15 that makes your head pulse.

And saving money? No one does that anyway (wait really, is anyone doing this?!)

There’s an option to start putting money into a pension at work. You probably have friends that have them. It sounds very sensible. Put £200/month away for the next few years and you’ll be able to go on at least one and a half cruises to the British Virgin Islands in your 60s. But right now, you’d probably rather use that couple hundred quid for a boozy weekend in Bruge or put it towards buying a new coat for winter.

At least money isn’t as hard as dating.

I go on about it (sorry not sorry) but dating gets weird after university. And not only are there the six lads you’d totally find in a Taylor Swift song to consider, there’s also this whole dating like an adult shindig. It feels like part Darwinism, part job interview. Or if you're in a relationship: people start talking marriage and babies. Pressure much?!

But at least it’s good to see the back of the hanging out vs. hooking up conundrum…

There are definitely days where the simplicity of meeting up with someone in the library or lounging around drinking tea whilst whining about your creepy professors, coursework and other students will be thought of with dreamy nostalgia.

Part of that nostalgia will also be for your friends.

You’ll notice that your friendship group will shift. People you used to see everyday are now people you barely speak to. With others, your interests may change and take you down different paths. You might move to different countries and never see them again. Some people are in your life briefly and some people forever, so be prepared for those changes and don’t worry too much about it – it’s not just you.

Moving city, whether it’s London or anywhere else, can be lonely.

You may be biggest city in the world or a leafy suburb, fact is sometimes being home alone on a Thursday night feels like the end of the world. That the bars are full and you are the only person left all alone, that no one loves you now and never will, that the diary will never have another plan put in it, that your heydays are over and the world will forever turn without you. The best thing to do in this situation is to call someone else. That way you can feel alone together. 

It’s ok to grieve a little.

Things change. You’re turning over a chapter. You’re saying goodbye to parts of your life you never thought you’d lose or leave. So yes, of course it’s ok to go through the many stages of grief. But not too much.

Especially since it’s not like you lose EVERYONE

You might fall out of touch with some people but the friends who go through all this with you, who go through the same or similar experiences, they’re so important. They’re part of the process, weird and wonderful as it may be.

Better yet, not only is making new friends not impossible but you might find yourself reconnecting with old ones.

People will surprise you. Sometimes complete and total strangers will be the ones to stick their neck out for you, or at least be the ones who end up brightening your day. Similarly, you’ll be stunned just how many people you’ve lost touch with would secretly love it if your paths cross again. So if you know one of your old friends from prep school is in the same town or that someone from university is passing through – send them a message, see how they’re doing. You’re finally moving in the same direction again. Plus it’s really fun to play Sherlock with them to find out what happened to everyone else.

Work is still work.

Unless you’re extremely lucky, you’re not in your dream job with the dream salary. You might be en route to that dream job, but you’re probably not famous or CEO of your own independent music label or running an antiquarian bookstore just yet. That’s ok. Work is called work for a reason and whilst there will be bad days where getting up at 6.30am seems too much and people grate on your nerves, there will also be amazing days. And then there’s always the weekends too.

Living for the weekend kinda means you learn to use time wisely.

Buy a diary. Even better: a Filofax. Staying in touch with people means learning to schedule in days when you’re all free. Especially since it’s easier to go to Edinburgh than to figure out the right tubes to Zone 4 half the time.

Although the hangovers genuinely are worse than when you were 20…

The recovery time from drinking, staying up late, or dancing the night away is so much longer. And apparently it only increases with age. Same kind of goes for the weird aches and pains you start experiencing when out running…

Let’s not even discuss work hangovers.

Even though they’re kind of inevitable. Like on a Tuesday after spending a whole night singing Elbow in a pub with four people that used to be strangers.

Which is why there will be days when you’ll not-so-secretly feel pretty smug, all cosied up at 10pm.

Sleep and ‘off time’ is so much more precious than it ever used to be. So whether it’s a good book and a glass of wine, Netflix and tea, or just an early bedtime, don’t worry about appreciating those evenings.

There will be days you are totally unprepared for.

You will never be prepared for everything, especially not the big changes and decisions you have to make. You might become stuck for a while, then have an awesome opportunity drop in your lap. Don’t freak out and panic just because it’s sudden. You might have hell descend. Punch it right back, no one escaped by cowering in the corner.

Days when the real world sucks a lot more than you expected

Once upon a time, you looked forward to being a real adult where you go to a fabulous job from 9-5 and attend events every week where you meet Interesting And Charismatic People who invite you back to their penthouse parties. NO. The real world is a cold, harsh place. And you are just thrown into it blind and completely unprepared.

Days when you really don't like yourself that much.

These days are the worst. You might doubt yourself. Be angry at yourself. Be sad that you've gained a few pounds or upset that your new grown-up hair cut makes you look like the bad guy from that independent film set in Mexico. Fact is, bad days don't stop because you're not a teenager anymore. However, being in your twenties is amazing, so shake it off and remember the longest relationship you're ever going to have is with yourself. So make it a good one. 

Just remember: you are not stuck.

Change is fine. Change is good. Change is what brought you to where you are in the first place. It’s also ok to change your mind. It might not seem possible at the time. It might be hard. But there will be situations that you really find yourself stuck in – so if you have the choice and you’re unhappy and you can change your stars… do it. Some of the best people I know have already done this (in one case repeatedly) and it’s only been for the better.

You're just a twenty-something.

So you don’t have a jaw-dropping job, a wicked salary, your own flat, a relationship, and tons of cash saved. Your life is so far off track it’s basically the Starlight Express. But don’t stress. Just because you had this grand scheme and thought all the keys were ready to slot into place, it’s ok if they don’t all at once. Be patient and trust that things are going to work out as they should. Be weird. Be as far off track as you like. Be a twenty-something.

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 

SCRIBBLER

Of Books & Blogs (or how to get over a bad writing day)

Spending the weekend out of London to look after the family dog, my plan was also to spend some quality time writing. I figured I’d get out my typewriter - there’s no where really to keep it in my flat (and the walls are definitely too thin) meaning it currently lives at my parents – so I lug it downstairs and set it up in the kitchen.

I make a coffee. I stack my notes up next to me. I turn on my dad’s epic sound system prepped to blast the soundtrack I’ve put together. Then sitting with a happy dog at my feet, I ready the page, my hands hovering over the keys. And I can feel them: the words at the corners of my mind, so close I can smell the ink… my fingers twitch...

And nothing happens.

Like having that ‘tip of the tongue’ feeling, the words buzzed, blurred and faded before they could become sentiment or sentence.

I tried. I probably wrote two or three pages of first paragraphs and outlines, odd bits of dialogue and random incomplete phrases. But nothing concrete found its way onto the page.

How people write has always fascinated me.

Gore Vidal established the now inevitable coffee/writer relationship, swearing by a ritual of ‘First a coffee, then a bowel movement and then the muse joins me;’ whereas Balzac scribbled furiously for fifteen hours every day (he did succeed in writing hundreds of novels) and fetishised every sentence in editorial. So when it comes to the living, sometimes I desperately wonder: Where do your ideas come from, Mr Gaiman? How did you find the link between birds and brains Mr Powers? What made you want to write, Ms Atwood? And for that matter: what keeps you going?

What keeps them going, what their ‘fix’ is, what’s really going on behind the invisible wall of the page – it’s intriguing as much as it is, perhaps, a little voyeuristic (would you really want to share your bestworst habits with curious minds?).

There’s a book I received, I’d like to say for a birthday, about exactly this ‘Secret Life of Authors.’ Illuming the trinkets and rituals that inspire some of today’s writers, it will one day make excellent toilet reading with each insight coming in page long snippets. Will Self, Ian Rankin, A.S Byatt, Jonathan Lethem, Nicole Krauss, Tash Aw – they all have ‘things’, ‘hobbyhorses’ that inspire or trigger that avalanche of thought.

When I was younger and writing was easier, I never understood why The Adults complained about bleeding into their writing.

Couldn’t they just exist there in the words? All I wanted to do was write: at break time, lunchtime, prep time, dinner time, after dinner, after lights out. I had some great teachers. My French teacher – who you can see giving a TedXTalk – was an Oxford man who used to let me write in his class because if I cared more about words then his lesson, then I should follow that passion. Another, now more commonly know as author Virginia McGregor, even started up a creative writing group in which half the time I’d sit doing my own thing because prompts have never triggered much for me. She allowed it, mostly.

Now, I can sort of see why people who want to write become bogged down. After all, there I was, ready to write, notes at hand, perfect music, perfect day, perfect, perfect, perfect. And nothing. Not an inkling. Not even a hint of an inkling. Stilted. Broken. Blank.

Perhaps I overdid it – there was such a sense of preparation about being on the farm, with the typewriter and the music and the old dog. It was like scheduling a romantic evening then realising it feels like a funeral with the dead flowers and candles and mannered conversation.

So I stopped writing. I turned off the music. I pulled the pages from the typewriter, stacked them on top of my notes (who knows, maybe a flake of genius is in there after all #hoarder). And I went outside with the dog to finish my third coffee.

Right now, I’m sure there’s a few readers shaking their heads.

What’s the first rule of aspiring novelists? Keep going - write – write anything – just bloody write.

But I hate that rule.

I don’t write because other people tell me to finish. I don’t write for the sake of writing. I write for the sake of me. Because when I don’t write it’s like when a hangry person hasn’t eaten.

Obviously, if you want to be a writer then time has to be spent writing. Because if only you’d stop talking about your novel and start writing your novel, because if only you made time for your novel instead of complaining about your work hours, because if only you’d just put one word in front of the other and finish what you’ve started then maybe – maybe – you’ll be en route to being an author.

But it shouldn’t mean sitting with half-formed things twisting beneath your fingers that aren’t ready. Forcing words out for the sake of it shouldn’t be the first titbit of advice to give to anyone writing their book.

Sometimes, that approach can be more damaging than helpful. It can make you resent the work, want to neglect the idea.

Personally, the feeling of Presque Vu is usually because I’m worn through and I need to do something else. It’s not writer’s block (where the blank page is winning so hard it hurts and it really is a matter of writing anything to defeat it), this is the feeling of otherness that comes from too many expectations and pressure. When my head is in it but the rest is pure automaton.

So here’s what I do if writing feels like falsehood.

1. Write something else. Blogs are good for this and they often relieve some of that pressure.
2. Make notes. Draw plans. Draw characters. Draw a tree or a map. Whatever, do something with your hands.
3. Read. Books are good for the soul, make you more intelligent, stave off dementia, and are the blood of good writing. Just ask Hemingway.
4. Watch a film – I’m not talking a Netflix binge. Watching something challenging or a documentary that ties into your book can help.
5. Drink - coffee, tea, whiskey, Hangman's Blood, pick your poison and have a cup of your favourite brew if you think it'll put you in the zone.
6. Talk to yourself. Struggling with dialogue? Act it out. You might look like a lunatic but ask Nerd Cactus and you’ll find at least one of them finds this central to her creative output.
7. Talk to someone else – not about writing. Leave the book alone.
8. Go for a walk. Go enjoy the outdoors. Get on a bus and go somewhere. Sometimes we spend so much time inside four walls, it’s just not healthful. Visit life.
9. Do something you enjoy – whether that’s singing like no one can hear you, dancing around in your underwear, or throwing fruit off a rooftop – go find your happy place.
10. Don't beat yourself up over it. If you're writing regularly and not just talking about writing regularly, these days will happen. It's a bad writing day. They're there to make the good ones even better.

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER

Of Astronauts & Authors (or why writers dream big)

Recently, I’ve read a lot about the role of the online world in the lives of writers. At the Writer’s Digest Annual Forum 2015, FutureBook were there on stage talking about writing and the community, assessing the impact community has had upon the way we write and the way we publish literature.

“Once,” they commented, “writing was the most solitary of professions; now it’s the most social.” 

And that made me think. Who would I be today if not for the initial spark of encouragement to write? Who would I be without my community, my writing buddies like Nerd Cactus, or more recently my boxing partner who spars with ideas as much as her fists?

 

Until I was about eight, I wanted to be an astronaut.

I was born the year the walls came down and the webs went up. It was the last year of the Cold War. The first year of the Internet Age.

My dad had a mobile phone that looked like a defibrillator and our little family of three lived in a many-storied townhouse in Wandsworth. It was at least a decade before it became fashionable to live there. At one end of our road was a school for badly behaved boys and at the other an ageing hooker worked the corner, flashing sagging lingerie and raw gums to anyone who stared.

A few years later and the family had grown – the twins had arrived and the dog was given away. My brother and I pushed my sister down some stairs (I don’t think it was deliberate). We moved out of London to an old farm with far fewer staircases. Out there, in the countryside, you could see stars. I don’t think I’d ever seen them properly, living in the city, and I remember spending hours with my dad staring upwards with him pointing out Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Orion’s Belt and Sword, Cassiopeia, Gemini, Draco.

At the time, no one realised how crap I was going to be at maths and physics – or that I’d turn out to be terrified of flying – but there it was: whilst everyone else wanted to look after fluffy animals or was fussing over their Barbie’s latest car, I was organising Beanie Babies into rocket ships and sending them off to Mercury. I’d imagine them running around trying to find the cold side of the planet the same way you chase the cold side of a pillow.

Even as pre-teens we knew the basics of computers – how to cut, paste, copy, undo, and how to take part in online games. The sound of dial-up modem added a beep-beep-boop-whirligig tone to our childhood.

Then I had The Teacher. A title that here refers to one of those fizzbubbling educators that make you enquire within about everything. She set an assignment: use alliteration, similes and metaphors in a one-page ‘fill in the blanks’ exercise. Me being the precocious and loquacious brat that I still am, handed back a three page story ‘TBC’.

She replied with a bumblebee sticker and offhand reassurance: you should write a book.

So I did.

I started straight away. Finished it when I was thirteen. It was god-awful. Every chapter introduced a new character or someone got kidnaped. I invented mythical beasts called Raziguls that looked like a kraken drawn by a clay-brained, knotty-pated fool (aged 13 I liked to think I was good at art but I have about as much talent for it as Katie Hopkins does tact).

My parents were kind. They were nice about my new hobby. They indulged me as I turned up the volume on Dark Side of the Moon and spent hours scribbling.

They also let me use the Internet. From 6pm onwards, when dial-up was cheaper, I was allowed to go online and browse. I quickly became part of my first online writing community: Stories.com (now Writing.com).

Writing was like the lights turning on. I started typing tales with other people, posting and sharing my work, giving and receiving feedback.

Dreams of going to the moon simmered away as I realised, with words, I could go to any planet I wanted and take other people with me. And all those constellation, they had stories to tell. Writing became essential. To feel the body electric.

Stories are the first and most primal virtual reality. They are inherently social - blurring and blending the boundaries of self and other. We might construct them as individuals but they are shared spaces, interactive spaces between reader, author and text.

Think of it this way: through fiction, life becomes like a house riddled with a thousand secret passageways to other houses, other dreamscapes and landscapes and worlds. Through the Internet, those metaphorical spaces become even more extensive and multi-dimensional. They invite you not just to walk through other people’s houses but to help build them.

Moreover, as the Internet has grown, as computerized, multilinked writings that are as integrated as any social network have extended, the nature of the literary has only expanded to become more inclusive, more allusive, more virtual. And this, from where I’m typing, is closer to the social mind than ever.

Flash forward a few years.

It was around university when I started to become disillusioned with larger communities online. There was so much pressure to be involved with everyone else that I'd forgotten about my own work and ideas. And whilst I appreciated the odd pats on the back from strangers, I relished the feedback that was brutal, honest, insightful. I hated the platitudes people offered: ‘Buddy, I’m so sorry your story got rejected – I’d give it 1000% out of ten, ignore the haters.’ There was so much of the Simply Positive attitude when what I needed was someone who’d help me kill my darlings. Even if they just whispered over my shoulder whilst I pulled the trigger.

From where I was sitting, editing had fallen into a rut. Editors are supposed to edit: well, of course. What else should they do? But the turning wheel of the publishing industry made it seem that publishers no longer read like writers. They read like accountants. Where were the Claire Walshes or the James Woods or the Gertrude Steins? Where were the editors – not the publishers – who’d tear a book a part and then give the writer a needle, thread and an outline by which to stitch it back together again?

So I took a step back. Not a big one, but enough that I was able to focus more on my own writing and on offering to others the kind of feedback I thought was valuable. I started reading like a writer. Editing. It was 2011. Jonathan Franzen had just had some trouble with his book, Freedom, which to his utter dismay was launched in bookshops riddled with errors he’d thought edited out weeks previously.

Today’s social landscape is shaped by the pervasive influence of digital technology. It’s created a paradigm shift in the way that we live, interact, think of others and ourselves. It’s transformed writing and publishing. It has the potential to do great things for literature. And is doing them, in some places.

The digital has not destroyed writing, or relegated editing to the cemetery of forgotten talents. It’s just taken a little while for the literary business to balance out again with literary art. Dig below the surface, innovators exist. Dig deeper, communities can be helpful (see Writer Unboxed), provide support and genuine feedback.

I’ll never regret being part of online culture or writing circles.

Writing is solitary. To have a group that understands your problems and will have those peculiar conversations about writing can be stimulating and may even help when it comes to marketing and selling your work. Through it I’ve met people I admire, people I adore, people I'd play my part for if it'll help them succeed. They're adventurers too. And I suspect a fair few of them wanted to be astronauts back in the day.

So whilst I resent Team Follow Back, I also respect it. And whilst I roll my eyes at automated content, I understand why there’s a need. And whilst I’d rather be on the periphery of a writing community, I will always make the effort to take part.

Fact is, I’m an inevitable creation of the Internet. A digital native. Comfortable online and offline. Aware that IRL is as imaginary as Hogwarts.

And if you’re reading this, most likely, so are you.

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER