I AM TRYING TO LIVE A CREATIVE LIFE

Deleting thoughts instead

I haven’t been writing much. It’s frustratingly the opposite of what I vowed to do a few months back. My goal for next year to complete a big writing project, and I pulled together a creative retreat in Denmark for the sole purpose of writing. Of course, that weekend became more about the food we were going to eat (homemade pesto pasta and salad; roast miso chicken with potatoes and a big salad; chickpea soffrito soup; endless amounts of boiled eggs, rye bread and cheese, in case you were wondering). We sat around the table and spilled our guts and talked about families and first loves and kids and grief and loss and pride, and we drank three too many bottles of wine (although is there really such a thing?).

1500 words were written. That’s a white lie, seeing as what I wrote was more of an edit from previous musings. Three more ideas were sparked. None of them are particularly good, although I presume that’s what most writers think. I’m struggling with what I want to say. A lot of second-guessing. Endless editing. Endless deleting. I keep deleting messages. Have unsent a few. Am editing thoughts on screens as much as I do in my own head. Uncertainty is a tornado and I’ve been swept up in it for as long as I remember. Things I am certain about: the vacuum is broken, the grilled octopus at Argoe, flowers on the bedside table, grief is inevitable, rice over pasta.

My instinct is to pour out my insufferable insecurities onto this page, which is why I haven’t written in a while. Too self-indulgent (so I must apologise for this). I have a feeling I might need to go to therapy before I can write something meaningful, because all I want to write is pitiful sentences about feeling like a failure, or like I have no purpose, or what to do when the purpose you thought you had, actually isn’t something you have the ability to fulfil. Think about opening a wine bar once a week, but know I never will. Think about writing a book once a day, but know I never will. Think about getting married and having kids and running around the woods with a dog of my own, but assume I never will. Self-flagellation shit.

Not entirely sure what I’m doing on this corner of the internet these days. Everyone writing about food is passing me by. I don’t have anything meaningful to add to the conversation these days. It all feels too earnest. Too sincere. Gathering around the table feels good, we know, we know. I am fizzing with something that’s not quite frustration, not quite sadness, not quite anything. I want to cry, and remember it’s just my hormones and then get angry that women have to deal with ‘just our hormones’ for our entire lives.

Angie McMahon’s voice is playing out on the speakers. It’s okay, it’s okay, make mistakes, make mistakes. She repeats this louder and louder and I want to sing it out but I’m not sure if I really believe it for myself.

What if I just let go of the idea of being a writer? What if I just stopped writing altogether? What if I didn’t write a list of goals I want to achieve next year? What if I don’t achieve anything? Will I be valuable? Would I be happy? Could I stop wanting it? Do I even want it? I want to scream, I AM TRYING TO LIVE A CREATIVE LIFE, because that’s what it sometimes feels like. Like I am screaming it, like I’m willing it into existence, but not really doing it.

I forgot about the clams. I’m making spaghetti vongole, except it’s linguine, and none of us are all that hungry. Earlier today I insisted on making coffee in the cafetière that’s been threatening to break on me for three years. As I pushed down the coffee grounds – too much, far too much – I could feel it resisting against me. Ignoring it, I pushed harder, and finally it cracked beneath the weight of me. It went all over me, and the floor, and the table I covet so much. My parents, who are staying with me, helped me clean it all up, as I kept apologising and trying to make a joke about it. Reminded me of that thing my friend told me when she was giving me acupuncture; about how she felt like my energy was a tightly coiled spring ready to release.

So I’m soaking the clams. I like how their shells look like the brindle of a lurcher. How they’re all closed up until the heat loosens up their lips. I’ve opened the bottle of riesling that Joel recommended – a little salinity to go with the clams. My parents are watching me expectantly and my mum keeps asking me if I’ve locked the back door (I haven’t). The flames are licking the glass and there’s not much more to say than, it’s time to cook, it’s time to eat, it’s time to drink.