Dear reader,
As the title suggests, this is the start of something new.
To be honest, I feel like I’m about 15 years late to the writing sphere. Everyone I know at one point or another has decided they wanted to be a blogger or a poet or a novelist or a sci-fi writer, it doesn’t matter what genre, anyone with a pulse and the faintest glimmer of an imagination thought they could be a writer.
Any blogger who started in 2003 with writing as a side hustle has scaled their writing to be a six-figure salary that comes with a doting husband and a golden retriever named Bella, or Charlie or even worse, Bailey.
Where can I squeeze my small self into all of this? Can I be worthy of your attention, dear reader?
However, despite my significant doubts as to whether or not I can do this, I’m shoving that all into a box that I will later deal with and I’m declaring 2022 as the year I finally try to be the driver of my own life. While I have been saying this since I graduated college, since the pandemic shut my life down for a little over two years, I’ll forgive myself for not grabbing life by the balls and being my own #BossBitch icon, Yas Queen.
So, what’s my story?
Writing is the one thing I’ve always done. I've just never shared it publicly; it’s mostly the fear of the unknown, the crippling self-esteem and possible burning, crashing and explosion of failure that has stopped me. No big deal though.
I write when I’m sad, I write when I’ve got an idea that I think is genius but likely has already been there, done that. I’ve got small notes saved in my phone when I feel a tiny bit of inspiration strike, I write when I’ve imagined a fake conversation drafted to a story I would never get around to writing, I’ve got half a dozen half filled journals littered with personal essays reflecting on memories and moments I’m afraid I might forget and pages of just me venting when I felt like I had nobody else to talk to. I can’t get rid of these journals since each holds specific feelings felt in that space and time that I won’t ever be able to rewrite again.
Without a doubt, this will eventually culminate with me living with and forever having to take with me a giant white box of dusty faux leather bound and tied notebooks (I thought the leather made me look edgy as I aggressively scribbled in it; However, I caught my reflection in the window of a train as I wrote some thoughts down and I felt pretentious as fuck. You’ll now find me scouring a dimly lit, dodgy WHSmiths for a decent page to write on).
So, here we are. I’ve taken to the ~digital~ space to share my thoughts on life, love and everything in between. It is a total leap off of a very tall cliff into what I believe to be the darkest abyss possible, but it’s a leap nonetheless. Cheers to me.
Therefore, I truly welcome you to my writing space. If you’re interested in dramatic reenactments of my mundane life, self-reflection stories and cynical rants about this thing we call life, then join me for this roller coaster ride. I can’t wait to see where this goes.
All my best,
Natalie x
Keep writing. You’re doing great.