An arguably unconventional blogger.

I really do try, you know. I try to do things by the book - reviews, reads, recommendations, unknown locations, did you know?s, secret snippets, buzzy lists - but it doesn’t always hit right, nor stick. I’d say my most conventional blogging has happened under the bluest moons and even the most basic content has been rather niche; Amsterdam’s best vegan spots, charity shop book-buying habits, fun facts that are becoming more and more off the wall now I’m 50 posts in and grasping for ideas… 

Photo by Erin Veness.

I’ve never been a typical blogger. Since I built this funny little safe haven for myself in the endless ether of the internet, I’ve been creative, honest and chaotic. It’s been my playground, and my therapy. I’ve thrown my heart out with wild abandon and hastily hauled it back in again; I’ve pulled people up and pissed them off, made connections, created narratives and set them straight, released and retrieved my deepest darkest thoughts and feelings. I started when I was 15, and now I’m 30. I’m wrung out, but still going. Can’t quite stop just yet. As I said in a previous post, my relationship with writing has been strained and splintered in recent years but I’ve clung on. I think that’s why I struggle so much to write quippy topical content on this platform, my happy little creative space where I’ve honed my strange craft, hollowed myself out and ripped my sleeves every which way. Normal is outside my comfort zone here. 

You may have heard, I’m writing a book. I’ve written stories since I was very young; in pristine little notebooks and the back pages of Pukka Pads, on scrunched up scraps and the library computers at lunchtime. It always felt normal to me, like the thing I was meant to be doing, and I remember being baffled when I found out that not many of my peers spent their spare time the same way. To this day I’m still surprised when folks I know - socially or through work - express a disinterest in or even hatred for writing. Saying I’m writing a book is often met with sounds of excitement and wonder; it makes me happy and dizzy saying it out loud because that means it’s real, but also like a complete impostor, a silly dreaming fool. When will that feeling finally ebb away? Maybe when it’s finished, and in someone else’s hands. Let’s see. 

Photo by Erin Veness.

I’m writing from my new desk setup, right now. Pro tip for my fellow writers/Sims 4 obsessives - move in with a handsome nerd who finds obscene joy in building computers. My monitor looms large and I love seeing my clusters of windows - all my different Google profiles/personalities - scattered across it. In my last few homes I’ve told myself ‘this is it, this is the space where I’ll write the book, send the exciting emails and get the good news’, but it’s never quite happened. I think I just needed the perfect setup. A big screen, snazzy sound bar, bluetooth keyboards and mouses (mice?) - cohabiting with cute little cactuses I grew myself, a glowing salt lamp, a silly Billy bookcase and cork boards covered with post-its and polaroids. A tabby on the windowsill peering through the shutters, spying on the neighbours. Yes, this is where it will be.


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