A letter to my teenage self

*Warning, this post may have triggers around thoughts of suicide and self-harm*

Dear Stupidgirl45,

I see you, aged 15, sitting on your bed, wondering if you'll always be this lonely, unable to imagine a life past school, a life as an adult. Feeling invisible, as if you might just dissolve and no one would even notice. I see you doubting whether you are likeable, or clever, or pretty. Wondering if popularity is all that matters. Itching to be accepted but wanting to be different. 

I see you wishing you had the guts to kill yourself. Contemplating pills or razor blades. Researching the correct way to cut, wondering if you could swallow *that* many tablets. But not wanting your family to find you and also, the humiliation of the possibility of failure. Of people knowing that you were so useless, you couldn't even kill yourself properly. Feeling like you lack the guts to try, not knowing that your instinct for survival is stronger than you think.

I see you cry, I feel your pain, I watch scars from cutting heal up as if it never happened. I know you wonder, is this really it?  can I ever hope for more? will i always be on the outside looking in? and finding it hard to believe that the lives you read about in books really happen to people. I know you think you're worthless and ugly, of no value or importance, that it terrifies you to speak to people - to strangers, to order a drink in a shop.

I see you, I hear you and I know you. I am you and clichéd as it sounds, I promise it gets better, You will learn to apply liquid eye liner. You will grow boobs. And one day, to the right people, to the people that matter you will be really very incredibly important to them. But mostly one day you will have some confidence and some shreds of self-esteem. You will survive this, this nuclear landscape that your social life is now. You will not be a pariah forever, and things that matter now - about being a homogeneous clone - will drop away. 

The things that make you different now, that make you value yourself so little, will become what makes you distinctive - apart but apart on your own terms. You'll learn, again a cliché, that being different is good - and that it takes strength to be different, to strike out on your own and form your own identity and thoughts. And not give a fuck.

You won't die, you won't dissolve and you won't give up. You didn't give up on life back then and now you treasure it so you don't give up on what matters now - relationships, passions, work. You fight, and it might make you tough but you're soft where it counts, not just round the middle but inside where it matters. You might be building up those walls now, but in time, for the right people, you can take them right back down again.

So don't give up, don't despair. Life is out there and when you've finished surviving, you're going to be grabbing it with both hands and hugging it to your scarred heart. Winged eye liner, boobs and all.

Thank you and good night,

Stupidgirl has left the building

PS This post was inspired by this very touching (and much cheerier) post by @jumprunscrap about her dreams for her daughter. It's very good reading.

Facing your fears and all that crap

So, let's just get right down to the point of this blog. I originally started it, way back when in 2009, as a way of encouraging myself to just please, do a little bit of writing, in the hope that I might eventually write an actual book.It would be good to keep the people off my back who have, since I was about 15, been asking me when I was going to write a book. To which my answer was always "Okay just because I love reading, does not make me a) able to write a whole book or b) even good at writing." as this paragraph neatly demonstrates.


However I figured, what if I wrote a book with the proviso that NO ONE EVER SAW IT. Cunning plan huh, write a book, stick it a desk drawer, mission accomplished. Who cares about whether it's readable or whether, if I kept going, my next book might be readable. 


Note - being readable is not the same as being published.......(cf vanity publishing)


So here we are a couple of years later, with a few blog posts under my belt, some lovely people who actually read this blog AND a nearly finished Nanowrimo novel. Hmph, well what about that then. I still can hardly believe it myself but the evidence is on my hard drive - 50k words of a VERY UNEDITED and PROBABLY CRAP  and DEFINITELY NOT commercially viable novel.


In fact that sentence holds the key to what holds me back as a writer - the words `commercially viable`. I think they probably make any author's heart sink to be honest and, having spent 5 years working for a major bookstore and then two of the biggest book publishers in this country, they make my heart sink too. 


My book is based on an idea that I love - and has characters that I love and who do unpredictable, crazy-ass things that were not in my book plan - but whether it'll fit neatly into the supermarkets top 50 is a WHOLE OTHER QUESTION. And not really one with a positive answer, I think. But I still keep on writing it under the premise that NO ONE WILL EVER SEE IT. 


Um, small confession; I have shown some snippets to some friends. I think this was easily the most terrifying thing I've ever done - more so than rock climbing. I have learnt that I am QUEEN OF ADVERBS (sorry is the capitalization annoying you...) and maybe I should cut some/all/99% of them.


But showing it to people made me think about whether, as  writer, am I really challenging myself and being the best writer I can be, if I am not putting my work out there for criticism and feedback? How am I going to develop myself and my style without this and also, by facing my fear and eek, showing my writing to people, isn't this helping me grow a little as a person too - to have a teeny tiny bit of self belief?


So in the name of sharing below is a small excerpt from a project I started (and stalled) working on early last year. I never plan to do anything with this, hence putting it on here. It is COMPLETELY unedited - there may be heinous typos but I make no apologies, this is my writing, warts and all, in public for the first time.


PS The inspiration for this post came from 2 other supercool bloggers: Julie C Gardner and Graffiti Living 'Please Don't Read My....'


Except From StupidGirl's Untitled Project - Feb 2010

“Our time together is running out.” My voice in the silent room makes her jump, “try to work with me on this, it can only help.” Every session to date has been the same. The flickering lights, the chewing of the lip, the sullen stare. No amount of pleading, logical reasoning or brutal imagery has caused her to speak. Shocking events can cause involuntary muteness. But I do not feel this to be the case with her. She is deliberately holding back and, at times, I feel as if she is waiting for me to say the correct word or sentence and suddenly her long held silence will be unlocked.

I gather my papers and the clippings together. It is almost the end of the appointment and I can see that, yet again, we are going to get nowhere today. I could simply copy and paste my notes each session; such is the lack of change each time.  And then something happens that makes this one session different.

Looking back, it seems almost funny that something so simple could trigger such events. But isn’t that always the case – butterflies wings and thunderstorms as they say.  I bent down to grab my brown leather satchel and as I did so, some trick of the wind outside caused the crows flying past to caw and rasp loudly. My patient speaks “One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl and four for a boy,” she intones solemnly, her voice raspy and low from lack of use.  At this point, after hitting my head on the desk in shock at hearing her voice, I am sat bolt upright, scrabbling for the digital recorder.

“Five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told.”