Is there anything as exciting, inspiring and intimidating as the first page of a brand new notebook? Despite my fierce love for, and dependency on gadgets and technology, when it comes to writing I’m a lot more old fashioned. Anything that makes it onto my blog (and many more that do not) is first written on paper. Sure, it makes the process longer (I can type a lot faster than I write), but there’s something romantic about being able to flick through a book full of ideas, opinions and stories that is impossible to replicate sifting through the archives of a blog.
I’ve been contemplating what my next step should be. I need something new to aim for. Moving back home was the last big goal, and we achieved that. I need something fresh to set my eyes upon. Starting the blog back up again has rekindled my love for writing. Looking back, it’s always been something I’ve enjoyed and excelled at, even as far back as Primary School. I’ve been toying with the idea of Journalism for a while and I’ve spoken to Robin about it at length, garnering his full support. But it’s something that took me completely by surprise that has made it the only thing on my mind.
I don’t make a big deal out of my blog in my everyday life. Since I started again, I’ve only posted one story to Facebook, and while I got a huge amount of positive feedback, when someone brings it up, I find it a little embarrassing. When I write, I write for me. I’m not looking to impress anyone, change their opinions or receive any comments. I don’t even mind if it gets read or not. It’s something I love to do and that’s enough. My writing is un-apologetically me, and as a result, it makes me feel vulnerable. To create something – anything – and put it on a platform to be viewed by all, judged by all, is a terrifying thing to do. It’s scary enough when readers are just pixels and strokes of a keyboard, but the terror is amplified when you know people reading are real life humans that you see and interact with in the flesh.
Every Monday my family gets together for lunch. It’s time I cherish, and something I missed when I was in Sweden. Last Monday I was helping my Granny with some errands (perfect Grandson that I am) and she mentioned she’d been reading my blog. That familiar feeling of embarrassment washed over me and I thanked her for reading it and asked her what she thought. She told me she’d seen a post on Facebook by the BBC about a training scheme for new journalists and she thought it was the perfect opportunity for me. I’d never spoken to her about Journalism before.
Throughout the week I’ve bounced the idea off a few more people, and they’ve all come to the same consensus. It’s something I should do. It’s given me the confidence to go for it. It’s a high bar to aim for, but with my determination, stubbornness and the support of those closest to me, it’s a bar I know I can surpass.
Today my Granny bought me a brand new notebook (it’s seriously gorgeous) and I’m promising her right now, because I know she’s reading, to fill it with words and stories that will one day lead me to be the journalist that I, and everyone around me knows I can become. I am no longer writing for me. I am writing for her, for Robin, for my Mum, for my Aunts – for anyone that has ever had a nice thing to say about my blog. Support won’t make me vulnerable any longer – it will make me better.
Is there anything more exciting, inspiring and intimidating as the first page of a brand new notebook? I don’t think so, and I want to spend my life filling them with words.