Moving Up?

If I were to have a bunch of counters, let's say like the pieces you use in Connect 4, and then stacked them up for every week I've had since I last wrote anything here, a yellow one for every good week and a red for every bad week, it would probably look like this;

Y
Y
Y
Y
Y
Y
Y
Y
Y R
Y R
Y R
Y R
Y R
Y R
Y R

... or something like that. Which is good. (I know that isn't the right number of weeks, but you get the gist.) I changed jobs. I've office-hopped to a new place. It's better. But not ideal. The money is definitely better which is a big Y, and I feel we get paid well for the skill set required for the job. I'm working with smart 40-somethings with diverse interests and a lot to say about most things. That's a definite Y.

Then there are the Rs. That stack has been rising fairly steadily of late. Quite a lot of these people seem to be very unhappy and several are in the midst of a divorce, which is sad. At least one person in my office has cried for about 75% of the time I have been there. One day 3 different people cried. They sent around an email last week to say someone's husband had left her and she wanted the manager to let everyone know so she didn't have to explain to tell everyone herself (even though I had heard her telling all her work friends through whispered tears that same day). I thought it was strange that I was included in the email because I don't actually want to know those details about a person who scarcely says hello once a week and, honestly, doesn't seem to like me that much. That doesn't mean I can't be empathetic, it just means I don't actually want this information. This is my just my job.

I started thinking about an email that I might like to have the manager send out about me. 'The Daydreamer has asked me to send this email to annouce that, despite having only recently joined us, she is currently grappling with the black dog at her heels as the winter eats her up and she continues to die a very slow death on the inside. With all that said, she hopes you will all respect the fact that she would like to breeze in and out of the office with a smile on her face and would prefer no-one mention her gradual disintergration, gross sense of hopelessness and constant desire to scratch her way through the office walls to an imagined outside world where there is no-one lying in rubble or getting stabbed on the way home from work. Cheers, Beverley.'

So, it's better. But it's not ideal.

It's Been A While

It's been a while since I last wrote. (Seventh point of underachieving - Inconsistency, followed by guilt.)

I could reel off the reasons for that (Eighth point of underachieving - Have an excuse for your inconsistency, in order to appease the guilt), but I won't. (Ninth point of underachieving - Feel constant guilt.) Let me just tell you what's been going on. Since 'you' actually means 'no-one', you won't mind if I just keep to the facts. No jazzing it up. You'll notice I don't have a lot of jazziness about me today. I hope you'll forgive that.

I haven't been running for weeks. I took a holiday. On that holiday I took my running shoes. I didn't run. I had a great holiday. Sun, beach, good food, my boyfriend, Scrabble, and hot weather sex. Idyllic is how they would describe it in the brochures. And it was. But there was no running.

I started a new book. It's not by Richard Yates, but I wish it was. I miss Richard. I googled him the other day. It came as no surprise to hear he was a heavy drinking, chain-smoking man with a history of breakdowns and god knows what else. I don't mind, though. I don't love him any less. This book I'm reading is probably very good. I can't say because I am so caught up in the fact that the sentences aren't crafted in the same way as Richard's, and the story is not set in the 50s. It's set in our time. The main character is flawed, so that's something, but I really don't care about him. So far he has been in hospital for an undiagnosed bout of agony, and he has also been hit by a car. I can't help thinking I wish he hadn't struggled through either. I don't think I'm supposed to care about him, and that makes it all the more confounding. So what's the point? Anyhow, I'll push on because I'm told it's a great book and I should stop being quite so narrow-minded. Not everyone can be Richard Yates. This one is by A. M. Homes. It's called 'This Book Will Save Your Life'.

It's been raining a lot. That is the unfortunate truth about English summers, and one that I will never quite accept fully. I am yet to find a way to stop my morale from taking a nose dive whenever the clouds gather. In the midst of winter when it's as miserable as can be, I can cope. Usually. I can cope because that is what is supposed to happen. But summer? And now I am blogging about the weather, which leads me to...

Lately I have been feeling absolutely devoid (can 'devoid' be qualified by 'absolutely'?) of inspiration. I met with a friend in Blackheath the other day. We went to the pub and drank 3 pints. He's a budding photographer. He's really talented. He's an interesting guy because he's not like anyone else and he doesn't mind that. (I think Richard would have liked him.) I like that he is his own person, despite telling him often that he should be different. What I really tell him is that he has to believe in himself more and indulge his creativity more, not that I actually want him to change, because I really don't want that. Anyway, he typically tells me the same thing back. I find that hard to take. It's hard to take because I know he's right but I much prefer telling other people to be told these things. So after our 3 pints, it was decided that he should have a photography exhibition, and I should write more. Neither of us really wanted to listen to the other about that stuff (because we both know it already) so, chances are, neither will happen in the immediate future. Still, we had a good time and it's good to talk about those things with him. Maybe we both just need time.

Some Days Are Better Than Others

Some days are better than others. We all know that.

Yesterday was a bad one for me, as somene who identifies as an underachiever. You see, there is a fine line between simply knowing you are an underachiever, and the acute, all-consuming, painful self-awareness that occasionally grips you, and leaves you feeling imprisonsed by your own lack of success.

It started when a workmate asked me how many days are in 8 weeks. I told her 56. Then she asked me how I worked it out. As she clearly was not joking, and because I am not, by nature, the kind of person who rejoices in making people feel stupid, I resisted the urge to point out that she was stupid. A thing like that'll leave me reeling. Not the fact that the poor girl doesn't have the aptitude to calculate the simplest mathematical problem, nor that her father wasted his money on a private education. It comes down to the fact that we work in the same office. Granted, we do different jobs, and I earn more money, but I just feel so impotent there, sitting next to people who see shopping as a spiritual experience (that's a whole other conversation) and don't know how many days in a week. On days like these, I can't bear to be reminded that I am confined by my own choices, and clueless as to how I can move upwards and out of my self-imposed rut. Which decisions were the wrong ones? And how can I make them right? (Fifth point of underachieving - Knowing you can do so much better, but feeling powerless to improve your position.)

So it was a long day, a bad day, and then I came home.

I spent a lot of time on my balcony that night. That's not unusual. It's where I think. Or don't think. Whatever seems the order of the day. This night I didn't want to think.

The Thames was summer's-night-silver. Mostly silver, but with amber puddles where the lights on the far side of the river spill over. London's skyline wrapped the horizon, like a cardboard prop, against the blue-grey sky, ringed (in parts) by unforgettable pink-stained clouds. Even if I had the words, I couldn't describe it to you. You really have to see it.

My view is superb. When I sit on my balcony at night, looking out, it helps me forget that some people don't know how many days in a week, that Richard Yates had something I'll never have, that Haruki Murakami can run further than I ever will, that I am an underachiever. With this view, I just feel lucky. (Sixth point of underachieving - If you're going to be a daydreaming underachiever, make sure you are a daydreamer, first and foremost, and things don't seem quite so bad.)

Richard Yates Had All The Right Words

When I was running the other night, especially when I was running in the rain, I started thinking about what I might be good at. I started thinking about that because I have decided I have to do something about it. The run wasn't long enough to come up with more than one thing. (Third point of underachieving - Self-deprication.) Honestly, though, I think there is only one thing.

I've always been told I write well. Since writing is something I love to do, it feels good to be encouraged. Still, I guess a large part of me always thought people just said that because I wasn't good at much else. I'm not saying I'm stupid. I know I'm not. I'm just saying, I was never good at sport or music or whatever else kids are naturally gifted at. But I do love words, and could quite happily sit up late every night and write. Because of that, I have always thought that people have encouraged my writing because they know I like doing it. Not because I am a particularly good writer. There's no harm in that, though. Everyone should be encouraged to pursue what they love.

So, while I was running, I decided that it doesn't matter if I really am good or not. What matters is that I love it. And since I love it, I have to do something with it. Then I started thinking about Richard Yates.

The last 3 and a half books I have read have been by Richard Yates. I started with 'Revolutionary Road', then 'The Easter Parade', then 'Distubing the Peace', and now a book of short stories called 'Eleven Kinds of Lonliness' (I am reading Murakami between these stories so I can string it out for as long as possible.) I find his writing awe-inspiring, and his studies of people as imperfect and fallible and vulnerable and ordinary and fractured turn me inside-out with envy. Love love love him as a writer.

Naturally, I wish I had his gift. Where did he find his words? How did he manage to silence all of those distractions around him to commit to writing as he did? Where did he sit and how did he prepare in order to get the best out of himself? Could I do those things? I don't know. (Fourth point of underachieving - See others as limitless and one's self as limited.)

I so enjoyed thinking about Richard Yates and how he had all the right words. I'm going to run tomorrow, too, so I can think about it some more.

Haruki Murakami Must Be Right

I started reading Murakami's 'What I Talk About When I Talk About Running' today, in my lunch break. I started reading it because I'm thinking about doing a 10k run in September. (First point of underachieving - Self-doubt.) What I mean is, I am going to run 10k in September.

10k is a long way for me to run. It'll be the longest run I've ever done, and I really want to do it. What comes to my mind as soon as I think about it, is whether or not I can actually do it. Can I? More specifically, the thought that lies beneath that is I can't.

So I am reading Murakami's book a) because I think he's a brilliant writer, and b) because he runs a marathon a year and, without fail, 6 miles 6 days of every week. I am hoping this will dwarf my challenge of finishing 10k. I am hoping it will over-ride the part of me that is envisaging me walking part of the way, or changing my mind about it. I'm hoping it will help change how my mind works. I hope I will start thinking I can do it.

I'm going to go for a run tonight, not too far, but as far as I can. I'm not sure I'll go if it rains... (Second point of underachieving - Lack of discipline.) Let me try that again.

I will run tonight.

Even if it rains.

Does Our Potential Ever Expire?

There's a little girl in a pink dress, skipping through the park below my eighteenth-storey flat. She's about six years old. Beyond her, out to the horizon, the clouds have conspired into a matted darkness, leaving only a sliver of space for the sun to slide through, splaying it's rays through the distant rain. It's clearly a wet Sunday afternoon on the other side of London, but the little girl is oblivious, as she skips along the park's path.

Then there's me. Sitting on my balcony, on the 18th floor, wondering about this little girl and her potential. Surely, in this moment of time, in this modern day, there is nothing she couldn't do, or be. I was her once. I must have been.

Now, I am weeks away from my 35th birthday, nestled in the midst of mediocrity, feeling pretty lost and lamenting whether or not my potential has expired.

Potential is a word I know well. I have heard an infinite number of times from teachers, lecturers, family, friends. I still hear it now. Friends of mine, who have managed to level their feet on higher rungs, constantly say they don't know why I'm not more successful. They don't say it with malice. They say it at times (usually after we've emptied several glasses) when I have become morose and hard on my self and lost, and they say it as a way to motivate me, and to resurrect my flagging self-belief. Everytime I hear it, I wonder the same thing myself. Why haven't I achieved more?

It's hard to know when my fear of success became so acute. Even harder to know how to change the thought patterns of a lifetime. Somewhere between being the girl in the pink dress skipping through the park and a (nearly) 35 year old daydreamer watching her, I learnt that it was much safer to keep my 'potential' locked away, like a private treasure, than to attempt to unravel it and to fall short, or worse, achieve.

But now, after all that time, I am starting to feel differently. I am starting to feel I can get there, and I might just be ready to engage my potential. Is it too late?