back up blog

There is an internet forum dedicated to shit-talking me. I didn’t find it on purpose. I found it because a particular link was sending hundreds of readers my way, and I was all, huh? Je ne understand pas. I don’t really track my blog traffic, because I think it’s too easy to get caught up in how many people are reading, over, say, just writing my truth and having people make of it what they may. That’s why I don’t have comments, either. Because I don’t want people’s perception of me to alter my perception of myself.  I’m not in the game of humanness to be likeable . I’m a fucking asshole, and exploring that is half the battle.   Getting caught up on the opinions of others is an easy thing to do - when it is bad, but also when it is good. Offline, where it counts, especially, but definitely online, where, even though it is as authentic a truth as I can make it, is still just a snapshot of a wider life. You know? I love writing online and the blog and all the social media that comes with

All I have ever wanted is what I have right now: to make money doing something I love, somewhere beautiful. And that’s… that’s everything. Seven weeks into the year – seven weeks since I got on a flight into my future – and I am slowly coming to understand that nobody is about to tap me on the shoulder to tell me okay, that’s enough. Time for reality, now. This is my reality. What’s more, it’s a reality I built. On purpose. Deliberately. I worked for this. And I don’t have to be shy about that.   I wrote for seven years, mostly unpaid, before I was able to make writing my primary source of income. For seven years I told stories, worked to find my most authentic voice, read everything and everyone that inspired me to be better so that I might be a little more like them, whilst still being me. Seven years of what must run into millions of words. Drafts, copies, so much deletedeletedelete and then even more re-write-re-write-re-write. A writing degree (that mostly taught me what I didn’t

I was the only person who hadn’t thrown up. The ferry lurched up and down on the water – gaping degrees high, and then thud, back on the wave. I’d had three hours' sleep that night, having travelled to the Malaysian coast by bus overnight, so fell into easy slumber almost as soon as I lay down on the boat. The motion of the ocean didn’t bother me, because sleeping anywhere is my gift. But I was awoken by the sound of somebody retching, and as I opened my eyes my gaze adjusted to the twenty or so other people in the cabin, all leaning forward into uniform black plastic bags, a chorus of vomit. And that’s how my vacation began. I’d been so grumpy about leaving Bali. My original plan for this trip – the plan before I decided not to go back to London at all – was a month in Indonesia then a month in Malaysia. That was for visa reasons, but also because my parents come to Malaysia every year, for a month (!) and so we all wanted to hang out together.   (How’s this for TOTALLY FUCKING C

You want more love. To be  in  love. In love with your life. You want more adventure. More chances, and with it the chutzpah to grab ’em with both hands, greedily and hungry, knowing you deserve to dive into every opportunity your belly aches for when nobody else is looking. You want to understand how it feels to try – really, balls-to-the-wall, fuck-it-all,  try.  To trust yourself in succeeding beyond your wildest, most inventive daydreams. You can’t even comprehend what is waiting for you yet: that’s how daring your future is. You want the security of self to demonstrate, without permission, without restraint, that your vulnerability is your biggest strength, and that your humanness is your greatest asset. You want to know - mind, body, heart and soul - that who you are is already exactly perfect, and so sod anyone or anything standing in your way: you’ve got a destiny to Columbus the  hell  out of. You want to be enough. I know that sometimes you settle for  less-than  because the