Bloody hell.
There was a good period of time where I forgot clean about ever having participated in any form of amateur journalism.
If there's anything I've learnt in my 3 month writing hiatus it's that's I'm exceptionally good at procrastinating things that I enjoy doing with shittier insipid activities; such as, becoming assistant manager of a luggage shop, losing my iPhone and making a fresh post-it every morning for the past 12 weeks pledging to myself a fresh blogpost.
Your find yourself in a vicious cycle of promising yourself you will endeavour to produce a piece then finding a seemingly more important task (mine ranged from knitting a long mint coloured scarf, bumping into Matt Bellamy on a south Devon beach, gutting my bedroom, cutting my hair, painting the spare room, the list goes on) and losing faith in yourself upon the failure of completing the task in the back of your mind grinds you down. As a result you ultimately lose the passion for what you were doing in the first place which is weird, because I sure as hell enjoy the act of writing. It's odd, you just find yourself totally slumped at the though to of sitting down at the computer, and every time I saw another published article go up I just think 'what's the point?', a sickening sense of inadequacy at the inability to even produce a few hundred words. I suppose in essence I lost track of what I wanted and people took priority.
Yet we persevere, life is swimming merrily along and months have sailed away. I find myself in the gap year rut of working, soon to be, three equally dissatisfying jobs in pursuit of a month volunteering in Kerala, Southern India in February followed by some weeks of aimless wandering. Then to Sweden? It's all rather vague. Roll on Goldsmiths.
I guess this is quintessentially part of the entire 'finding yourself' cliché. A kick up the arse and a stern 'ELINOR GET BACK ON THE HORSE' because I'm telling you now, I'd hidden the goddamn saddle.
Here's my pledge of a piece a day, let's see how it goes.
