It seems that this blog has become a distant memory in my mind. I do this a lot: pick up a hobby and drop it just as quickly. I have always been the kind of person who gets very bored very easily; it is an unfortunate trait passed down to me by my mother. I never set out to quit but it does seem to be an inevitable part of my life. This blog appears to have fallen into that category recently which is a shame because I do love an outlet.
It has been said by many, but mostly by me, that I spend far too much time on social media. I spend an awful lot of time tweeting or sending snaps. This is because I spend an awful lot of time alone. Since leaving university, where it felt like I had friends on tap at some points, I seem to spend most of my non-working hours sat on my bed with Netflix on and an intense game of Sudoku open on my phone. Occasionally a somewhat ‘interesting’ thought will spring into my head and I will feel that intense need to share it with somebody. But who? Who is interested? The correct answer is ‘nobody’ but, alas, once a thought is in my head, I must share it and so, there I go again, opening Twitter and sending a sprawl of nonsensical, random and completely-uninteresting-to-anybody-who-isn’t-me tweets.
I don’t think my constant use of social media portrays me in a very positive light. This is partly due to the fact that it makes me look like a capitalist robot but also because it makes me seem incredibly antisocial because, lets face it, what is social about social media? We sit behind screens talking to people instead of meeting people face-to-face and exploring the world with them.
Don’t get me wrong: social media is great for an array of reasons. It gives us the ability to meet people that we otherwise would not have. It gives us the opportunity to learn about new things that we would never have stumbled across in everyday life. This is all positive and an excellent result of the internet age but the negatives often seem to outweigh the positives. Or perhaps I am just a pessimist…
It is ironic that I sit here, on social media, complaining about it. Please do not think that this is the case. I am not complaining. I am simply bemused (and slightly frustrated) by my own use of this new text. If I am completely honest with myself, I should probably get out more. I should go for walks and explore this town that I have been away from for three years. I think I use the excuse of the time of year not to do this. I don’t drive and I leave work when it is already dark. Walking around town in the dark is never a sensible option so I let myself stay home until one of my friends asks to do something with me because I never ask them to do anything, under the assumption that they probably have better plans (which, more often than not, they do).
Funnily enough, this post has taken a very different turn to what I had originally set it out to be, yet, in some ways, I have stuck to my theme.
I came here tonight to discuss the fact that I love writing yet have nothing to write about. Growing up, I told everybody that I would be an author when I grew up and that love of writing has never left me. What has left, it feels, is that vivid childlike imagination that I had when I was young. I could come up with a story to tell in an instant. I always had something to write and, though my ability to get so bored so quickly would usually prevent me finishing my projects, it was all I would do.
Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-one, I find myself in a constant state of Writers’ Block. Or is it? I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t have the talent I did when I was younger. That happens to a lot of people as they grow older and accepting your failures is always difficult, especially when you fail at what you once soared at.
I feel like I am trapped at a crossroads. Do I continue to write for the sake of writing? Post meaningless texts about insignificant topics? Jeopardise my ‘artistic integrity’ with futile information that nobody wants to read because it satisfies a craving?
Perhaps I should become the British Gossip Girl. After all, in the land of gossip, there is always a story. Or perhaps I should write what I know, and immortalise the tales of what it is to be a twenty-one-year-old graduate with an addiction to food and caffeine and a tendency to sit down for too long. What is it to be an average girl, who knows more about global politics than fashion and has a sense of humour that is only shared by roughly three people? Does anybody want to read that? Do I want to write that?
Coincidentally, this post reads much like the possibilities I have just noted. Am I writing only nonsense?
I suppose we shall have to wait and see but I really hope not.