I’m no longer 33…so now what do I call my blog?!

It’s been a while, I know.  I’m not going to make any excuses; in my mind I’ve written lots of blogs as things are happening in my life, although they never seem to get transferred onto the screen.  (If there are any crazy scientists/tech-types who can find a way to get my brainwaves onto WordPress without me having to lift a finger, I will love you forever).

So yesterday was my 34th birthday.  A while ago, my mum asked me, as have other people been asking me since, what am I going to call my blog once I turn 34?  On the one hand, I am no longer 33, therefore that has to be addressed.  But am I still lost in life?  My answer to that has to be…yes.  I think so. 

However, I know I am not the same person as I am when I started this blog, six months ago.  The day my blog was most read was on February 14th, Valentines Day.  I think that tells you something about where my writing comes from. 

A lot has changed for me during 2012.  Yet nothing has changed.  I have come on in leaps and bounds while at the same time feeling like I’ve taken three steps back. 

This birthday was particularly poignant for me.  Four years ago, just before my 30th birthday, came the epiphany of what I had always wanted to do with my life.  Like a neon light, the word America lit up, like a beacon calling me from across the Atlantic.  I realised that I had always wanted to live and work in the States.  I’ll be honest, and say most of that comes from watching TV and films. But how else can you get any experience of the great American landscape?  This great country that has skyscrapers and tumbleweed, snowy ski resorts for the rich and homeless people on white sandy beaches, successful executives and just-as-successful housewives.  Well, for starters, you can visit.  I have been lucky enough in the last four years to visit the US twice on holiday, to have lived there for six months and to make two soul-searching pilgrimages, the last one ending in a tearful call to my mum telling her I just wanted to come home.  I wanted to give up.  Not on life, but on the life I was chasing.  Right there and then, as I sat in a New York coffee house on a bright February day, where the sun’s rays leaked through the window of the first floor where I sat, whispering to me that here I was in New York, the place so many people would give so much to visit, crying to my mum, and then my dad, over Skype, telling them I had to come home.  I wanted to come home, and forget about becoming a writer.  Forget crazy ideas about moving to America.  Leave behind the desire to be a radio host, or interviewer of rock bands, of jet-setting traveller.  I would come home, get a proper job (meaning an office job, just like I had the previous 16 years), and wait for my future husband to find me. 

I slept at JFK overnight, being unable to book a flight any earlier than two days after.  But I am thankful to say, at some point before I got on that flight home, something inside me flickered.  Like a phoenix rising from the flames, my hand pushed through the rubble of my life that had collapsed on top of me, crushing my hopes and dreams.  Slowly, I crawled out from under the debris, brushed myself off and spoke out loud, “If this is the life I will lead, then I do not want to live”.

A loud inhale, followed by, “but I do not want to die.  Therefore I must follow my path, no matter how hard or how long it takes.”

Since that day in February, I have been largely quiet on the writing front.  Looking back through my blog, I wrote several in March, largely due to the birth of my nephew, Jamie, on February 29th.  But since March, only one blog post per month.  And this is the first in July. 

In April, I read my very first short story, The Princess and the Epiphany, to a crowd at The Reading Room Live, at Lincoln’s Peforming Arts Centre.  It was an honour to read it to a UK audience, the story having made its debut at Juniata College’s Unlock Your Voice in April 2011, during my study abroad period in the USA.  But immediately afterwards, I was struck by the thought, I don’t want to be a one-hit wonder.   

So here I am, 34 years old and the only thing I’m sure of in life is that I want to be a writer.  But as I have been told, you want to be a writer?  Well then, write.  Between my heart and my mind, I have enough imagination and feelings to fill a million scrolls.  Time to put them down on paper, well, the 21st Century version of paper, for the world to see. 

I still don’t know what I can call my blog.  But I have a feeling it’d better be something more positive.  ❤


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