I’ve had my fair share of ‘homie’ directed at me and it makes me feel good to have my ethnicity misunderstood again. I like being of an ambiguous race that makes me a true citizen of the world. However, this homey I’m talking about is a bit different. I’m starting to daydream and long for things I never thought I would – this includes owning, adopting, purchasing, fantasising about things I haven’t thought of as a priority before.
I have changed my geographical locations every two years on average, and have managed to fit in a tonne of travel in between those times. I have also managed to live half off a suitcase, being only half unpacked in the two years I have been in this ‘new’ location. And when things got a bit stressful, I’d lose myself into a deep internet rabbit hole of exotic locations I could make my next home in.
Over the past few months, though, I find myself daydreaming of a proper kitchen where the walls aren’t white and you can indulge in a fancy bread tin without worrying where you’d store it. I find myself wanting a shelf to store all of my negligible personal belongings (most of these belongings are in the form of books, letters and postcards). I long for a nice table where I can assemble wind or solar powered robots or do my 3000 piece puzzle. Mostly, I find myself looking at animal shelter websites and going through their portfolio of pets up for adoption.
Is this what adulthood is supposed to be? Have I finally attained that magical phase in my life?
I write for a living. I’ve lost count of how many documents I edit, how many copies I churn out, how many marketing materials, product names, taglines, branding projects I’ve produced.
I’ve lost count of how many documents I edit, how many copies I churn out, how many marketing materials, product names, taglines, branding projects I’ve produced. Don’t get me started on the number of blogs and websites I manage.
And yet, when I stare at the backend of this blog, I draw a blank. It’s not that I don’t have stories to tell. I do. But I’m coming up empty. I have browsed writing prompt lists for 40 minutes now, and I find none of that inspiring.
This is the problem with writing for a living – you get institutionalised. Can a writing job knock the creativity out of you? I’m starting to suspect that it can. Don’t get me wrong, I can tell the difference between practice and practise, I know when to use an Oxford comma, and I know when to use a hyphen instead of an em-dash. I have all the technical aspects of writing down to an art, especially British English. My idea of a rebellion, nowadays, is to start a sentence with a preposition or to leave the period out at the end of a sentence.
But the ease with which I could write fiction is gone. I am no longer a story teller. I don’t know if it’s the TL; DR era we’re living in that has led to this or if I’ve just left my think tank to rust. I read at a ridiculous rate, I devour TV shows at world-record levels, and yet I am lacking the spark.
And yet, here I am typing at 300 words about a nothing sort of subject. So the machine works, how do you get an old beast like this up and running? What do you do when you are uninspired and wordless?
It’s possible you’ve missed this important piece of news on account of all the chaos Trump’s presidency has caused, and the social media explosion on account of Queen Bey’s twins. Good thing for you, you’ve got me.
Scientists (gosh, don’t you love them?) have discovered that completely locked-in patients, patients that have no control over their body, can now communicate thanks to this brain/computer interface that reads patients minds!
OMG, a mind reading computer. Right now, it can only read answers to yes or no questions, but … can you imagine the future?
One of the patients who was being tested had his daughter visit him, She asked him if it was okay for her to get married to her boyfriend. The answer came back as a ‘no’ 8 out of 10 times. What blows my mind is not the father’s really strong rejection of her boyfriend, but the fact that she did what all children do – she kept asking the question till he got tired enough to get a yes.
Funny how we can manipulate parents, eh?
Full report here: Completely ‘locked-in’ patients can communicate