writer's block as a lifestyle

Came across my lifelong dilemma, again.

My old university is now accepting applications to a two-year creative writing program run by two established authors.

Sounds like a DREAM. I immediately visualised inspiring sessions together with a tight-knit group of aspiring writers, passionately discussing literature and boosting each other's writing (preferably over a pint in a cosy pub, kind of like Tolkien and Lewis and that gang). Making lifelong friends and magically turning into a writer. I sat down immediately to write the three-page text sample necessary for the application, free choice of genre.

And realised that I couldn't. I can't write fiction.

It's not that I question my own ability, it's that I find it a complete waste of time. Which is very odd because I love reading fiction, basically read nothing else. But I want what I write to be true, or at least have a message to the reader. I can't seem to find a message. And as to writing the truth - well, the truth doesn't really seem interesting enough. I doubt that a few pages out of my blog will do for the application.

Dilemma: what do you do when you love writing but all you can manage is a blog?

so juicy you can't spill

And I heard the most SCANDALOUS story that will probably ever happen across my boring little life, the kind that would even make the headlines, and I can't tell anyone. Not even my best friend. Sometimes I wonder why I have morals.

urban joy

After a week in the wild, I feel as if I'm doing all the things urban hipsters do (or what I imagine them doing) - I go for  a run and afterwards dress in white and denim and sip something strawberryish in a white city apartment while browsing Pinterest.

Running (usually a painful chore) felt as if my trainers had developed little wings. I returned to my little flat in the sky bursting with strength and freedom.

I love the city, the sound of people's voices screaming and laughing in the distance even when I have shut myself in. I love being online again. But oh, was it ever hard to tear myself away from the stillness of a place where there are only trees and a quiet sea.

turns a meal into a feast

"Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend."
(Melody Beattie) 

I think I need this gratitude, whatever it is.

The world is an impossible place for atheists. To have gratitude, you need someone to be grateful to.

the usual story (never to be written)

A candle, something sweet in a glass, a head full of dreams and absolutely nothing to write about.

white roses are a warning sign

I read blogs to find inspiration. Someone I knew had a beautiful one, like a piece of art in itself. Gorgeous pictures that should hang in an art gallery, poetic writing, creative and tasteful layout.

Then I found that many of that blogger's friends had almost identical blogs. Other pictures of course, and clearly their own writing, but somehow so very alike that they could have been copy-pasted off each other.

Pictures of white roses. Pictures of a few lines of poetry on ancient paper, surrounded by props such as vintage books, a single flower (sometimes dead and dried), white linen, a Diptyque candle. The colour scheme always white with greyish tones, pictures often in black and white and with a shimmering, softening filter. The writing center-aligned with careful line breaks to make prose look like poetry, talking about the beautiful little things in everyday life - the evening light, the warm skin of a loved one, a mug of tea, a sudden realisation that happiness is just a breath away.

I used to find these blogs so beautiful, the pictures as well as the writing. Such a welcome relief after reading all these air-headed, girly blogs with dozens of selfies that show off "today's outfit" from every possible angle. After I found these beautiful ones, I saw the whole world through a golden shimmer for a little while.

Then I discovered that this is a trend, this vintage-artsy-minimalistic-photographer/writer blog. These creative blog writers were suddenly not very creative after all, but interchangeable. It kind of broke my heart a little.

this expression

"You had this expression on your face, like you weren’t quite sure you were supposed to be on Earth."

(Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You)

I feel this expression on my face every now and then. 

an American touch(down)

Summer in a tiny Finnish city: sunshine, ice cream and not a bad game of American football.

Actually, I wouldn't know if it was a bad game or not, since it was the first one I've ever seen. American football is not a big sport in Finland, although our local team happens to be a good one. But there were big guys throwing each other to the ground, talk of yards and quarters (which sounds strange in the mouth of a Finnish commentator, but he was very good at explaining the game to us ignorant Finns), cheerleaders (although very young and rather half-hearted) and some good music on the loudspeakers.

We were baking under the hot sun but the man at my side kept bringing me ice-cold cans of Pepsi from the concession stand. So no cause for complaint at all.

eyes on the horizon

I have spent so many hours of my life just staring at the sea.

What a wonderful life to have.