This week, so quietly that I didn’t notice until it was almost over, an anniversary slipped by. The 31st of January this year marks four years since I opened my computer, set up a website and started typing.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything here, but that wasn’t really deliberate. Over the past couple of years, I’ve seen a lot of bloggers fall out of love with blogging, become disillusioned with the whole thing, taking “digital detoxes” that stretch on and on until their sites quietly disappear. That’s not what happened with me. Maybe it’d be a better story if it had. But the truth is much less dramatic. I was focusing elsewhere, working away on other things.
I signed with a literary agent last year. I expect if you’re here, you already know that. We spent the better part of last year working together on my first book. We sliced enormous swathes from it, polished other parts until they gleamed. She showed me how to be ruthless with my edits, gently rebuking me, “Fiona, this is you trying to show how clever you are. That’s not what’s important.”
And I learned to laugh as I snipped away at the manuscript, because she was right.
She unearthed the gems of the story too, showed me how to weigh them in my fingertips, how to hold them up to the light. Four full months after we began working on the book, we were finished. It was transformed, immeasurably better than what we had started with. I had worked so hard and it had paid off. We’d spun straw into gold.
No one wanted to publish the book. That’s sort of the thing with writing, I guess. You have to start fully in the knowledge that no one might ever read it, and you have to pour your whole heart into it anyway. And that is the scariest thing. But also, eventually, it’s a comfort. Publishing is the goal, of course it is. I’d be lying to myself if I said that it wasn’t. But it’s not the purpose. Becoming a writer seems to be learning that lesson over and over, the gradual teasing apart of process and outcome until every pinprick rejection hurts a little less. That the book might never sit on a stranger’s bookshelf doesn’t make me less proud of it. It might not have hit that elusive goal, but that doesn’t make it a failure. In fact, it is my most resounding success. To work hard on something, to put a whole piece of myself into it, to produce something that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt is good, that’s the success. That was the purpose.
This month, we start work on the next book. We dust off our scratched knees and we try again, because writing is in me, rooted deep within my heart. I can’t help it. I write, words upon words tumbling out of me always, even when no one else sees them.
Which brings me back, in a clumsy sort of way, to the Escapologist’s Daughter. My beloved little corner of the internet. I’d apologise for the tangent, for the tangled story, the strange way I’ve gotten us here but four years in, my darlings, I suspect you’re well used to that by now.
I’ve never fallen out of love with my little website. Four years after my first post, I’m still as fond of her as ever. And I think that’s because, just like with my books, it’s all about the process. For a while, at the very beginning, I tried to become A Blogger. I was sent makeup and moisturisers and tongue scrapers, and dutifully wrote about them. I learned about SEO. I tried every single week to force myself into a blogging schedule, to schedule my tweets on the bus to my office job. I attended blogger meetups in swanky bars and dealt with the fallout when glossy, gorgeous bloggers realised that the quirky oddball that shone through my writing was actually just who I was.
When you read those years back, you can hear my voice straining, cracking under the pressure of trying to become something. When really, me and my blog, we didn’t have to become anything. We just had to be. This website, just like my novels, just like my endless, countless pages of scribblings in notepads, it’s mine. It’s only mine. I can write about travel and mental health and Harry Potter. I can write poems about sexual assault and instructions for election day and post photographs of me wearing outrageous lipstick. I can be a thousand things, noisily celebrating my multitudes and thumbing my nose at the idea of having a niche. I can use a thousand commas per post and mix my metaphors and write sentences so twisted, so meandering and complicated that sometimes, you have to pause and think, wait, where did this thought start out? I can post on Mondays, or on Saturdays, or Wednesdays. I can post three articles in a week. I can leave it untouched for six months, knowing that when I’m ready to come back, it will be there waiting for me. I can do this because this space, this writing, it’s mine, and I built it brick by brick for me.
Despite all of this, maybe because of all this, the blog and I, we’ve grown. You are here – hello! Somehow, inexplicably, despite my ramblings and my breaks and my self indulgent sentences, you allow me and my words into your lazy Sunday evenings, your Tuesday morning commutes, your lunch break. And that, to me, is the basest form of magic.
I’ve gone on far too long, god, aren’t these things always too long? But before you go, I’d like to share one more story, one more tangent about these four years.
I turned twenty six this year, and a funny thing happened. Every single person I saw on my birthday nudged me knowingly and said with a smile “Nearly thirty now, eh?”
As you may have noticed, I don’t really buy into the idea that your life is supposed to look a certain way, or follow a certain path. But even so, it’s hard not to see thirty as a deadline. With all the will in the world, I haven’t quite succeeded in drowning out the significance of thirty as a milestone. After all, if I don’t make a thirty before thirty list, what’s the point in continuing?
I am, of course, exaggerating for dramatic effect, but there’s no denying that the idea of hitting a whole new decade, of leaving my twenties, is going to force me to stop and take a look at my life. And since turning twenty six, that milestone feels like it’s coming at me faster and faster. Four years, after all, isn’t that much time. How much can I really do in four years?
And then I look at the little blog. The little blog that started as a ramble, as a way to deal with feelings I couldn’t even acknowledge I was having. That started out with 3 pageviews a day, all of which were my dad. Four years ago, I had never been paid for a piece of writing. I had never written a formal pitch. I had never spoken in front of an audience of strangers or marched in a protest or been on TV. I had never finished a piece of writing longer than a couple of thousand words. Me and the little blog, we’ve come a very long way in just four years. And I love you for coming along with us. Who knows what the next four might have in store.