I have this thought, something I want to blog about today, but I’m struggling to pin it down. Maybe I haven’t allowed the sentiment to fully settle in my own mind. It’s there, whirling around but not quite taking shape. How to mold it. How to not be afraid of what it becomes.
I’m listening to a university lecture and I wonder what I will do when I no longer need to. I wonder what my answer will be when people ask what I do in my spare time, as though the productivity and vagueness of study is worth more than spending my time creating worlds and characters and dialogue that are also pieces of me, pieces that I can equally understand and be surprised by, pieces that I can find shame in but also rejoice with.
There’s an idea I’ve spent the last fortnight working on, just occasionally, usually when I have a cup of tea brewing and the sun is no longer filtering in through the windows. A novel I am trying so hard not to place pressure on to be the novel. But it’s hard not to dream, it’s hard not to hope, and I wonder at what point these dreams become foolishness, or unnecessary pressure, or too early to tell if this is even going anywhere.
I wonder what will become of me when I will no longer have uni to act as a filter between my reality and my dreams. What will happen when I no longer have this obvious bubble reminding me I’m moving forward, taking steps in the right direction.
This time next year, I’ll be finished uni. I have forgotten who I was before it, I don’t yet know who I’ll be when I’m through it. All I know is right now, I have an answer when people ask me what I do with my time.
I write. And I write. And I hope to God it goes somewhere.