Remember the last time you went bungee jumping? You were younger then, you did things for a laugh, you had no qualms at all about doing something so far out of your comfort zone it should have scared the pants off you. Oh - you don’t remember bungee jumping? Because you never actually did it? Maybe you wanted to, maybe you thought about it, maybe you were even in with a chance of getting on the plane once - but you never got to jump.
Hold that thought.
Swap bungee jumping for being ‘in love’ with someone. Swap signing up for the chance to try ‘dating’. Now put me there instead of you.
I haven’t ‘dated’ anyone this century. There were a few - a very tiny number - of close encounters that didn’t last longer than an evening. But after the last one, I realised I had absolutely no interest in the game whatsoever.
Friends don’t pressure me. When I say “I’m happy by myself”, they accept it and move on. It’s great, actually. But am I? I mean I think I am - when I think it through, the whole going-on-a-date thing and the whole charade of what is basically interviewing people with a view to occupying the position of new-best-friend-whom-I-also-shag, I just feel tired. I don’t like it. I haven’t done it in over fifteen years. It’s not in my wheel house. It’s not something I know anything about, or in fact care for.
So why do I feel like I should? Like perhaps I’m missing something? Is it like discovering a show you never knew existed - but once you see it, you have to watch the entire show, and it becomes a constant cult thing in your head, your life? It’s so good that once you’ve given the finale six months, you have to watch all the seasons all over again? And then you introduce it to your friends, and your family, and it gets to live with you on your shelf next to all the other blu rays? It’s like that, right?
Fucked if I know.
I think I’m just a little bit bored with my life right now. Work is slowly driving me insane with its soul-destroyingly predictable routine (not the actual day to day routine, but the drama that happens because of situations that are left to develop). I’m seeing patterns in shows and whilst I watch them anyway, I’m also checking tumblr on my phone. I can’t seem to write anything, even though I’ve had two really stunning ideas in the last twelve months. Why is this?
Inspiration. I just want to be inspired.
Sadly, everything is lacking. I’m in the throes of searching for alternative employment. I’ve changed hairdressers’ (and therefore my nail technician). I’ve gone through the sales and bought new workwear. I’ve been through all my old works and archived them, cleaned them off the virtual shelves, blown away the dust.
It’s not working.
I had an absolute belter of a Christmas and New Year. Three epic nights out over a week, and more fun than I could shake a stick at. It made me look at the rest of my winter and think “bloody hell, I’ve really let things slide”. Not in terms of me, or myself. But in terms of what my life used to be like when I lived in The Bright Centre of the Universe, as opposed to now, when I’m living on the If There’s A Bright Centre of the Universe, Then You’re On The Planet That It’s Furthest From. Yes, I know, I bang on about my old life abroad all the time on this blog. Yes, I get depressed thinking about what I’d be doing now if things had gone differently and I was still over there, having got the job I applied for. But why waste all that time and effort?
I haven’t been to archery in over six months. Mostly because I can’t get out of work on time. And it’s not like I can down tools and leave, not with the job we do. If I don’t finish something, it gets dumped on the person next to me to solve, causing them to leave even later. And so it goes.
Maybe that’s what’s grinding me down; I can’t take charge. I can’t do what I can clearly see needs to be done to get things moving. It’s holding me back. And I’m itching to go to two potential interviews for positions with better prospects. But again, I have to wait. And hope.
Then there’s writing. The total number of agents who have knocked me back so far (for one novel alone) is fifteen. The next wave of letters and submissions goes out when the Gollancz Publishing submission window has closed - as I’ve just sent it off to them for their kind rejection. That’ll be about March, and then the next salvo goes out and I start the wishing-and-hoping cycle all over again. But at least I’m doing something.
Boredom. That’s what it is. That’s what makes me open a beer when I get home, because it makes everything a little more amusing and it takes my mind off the banality of life. I keep the vodka for weekends. It’s more fun that way.
I still watch films and TV. I still read comics. I still people-watch as I’m walking to work. I just can’t seem to find anything on this planet that generates any excitement.
I just want something new, something I don’t know inside and out. Is that too much to ask?