Why I Write

Recently, I have wondered a lot about why I am writing this blog. It’s hasn’t exactly gone global, I’m not earning any money out of it, and it is keeping me from other jobs that, some might say, are more important.

There’s the egotism, too. Who wants to know about me? About us? About our life? Just because we are living in a rather unusual, higgledy piggledy fashion doesn’t make us any more interesting than anyone else. I don’t like egotism.

Yet here I am, writing once again about stuff that’s in my head, even moving away somewhat from the overall theme of the Four Little Seymours – this is their page, after all. So why am I doing it?
Maybe I’m a dreadful narcissist.

I have been thinking about all of this for a few days now. Especially after last week’s excitement where, for a moment, I felt part of the bigger picture – part of the wide world usually accessible only through the magic of television, books or the internet. And I realised that this is just it – I feel connections to certain things, as we all do, according to our tastes, our influences, our loves, fears and experiences. And with this connection, however tentative, comes a need to immerse oneself further in that world. I’m an awful daydreamer, and in the not so distant past, I’ve vowed to do, or imagined doing, so many things that are well outside of the realm of reality, simply because I wanted to be a part of the domain to which these things belong. Or because they scare me.
I have:

1. Promised myself I’d do a second degree in Veterinary Science.
2. Convinced myself I’d buy South Allington House in Kellaton, Devon and live like Rebecca de Winter there. Only I’d be alive.
3. Sent Jilly Cooper one of my Novelty Neddies, oh and a copy of my manuscript because I thought she might like it. She didn’t.
4. Looked into how to become an extra on Poldark.
5. Imagined (and indeed, announced to a French man) that I was Marie Antoinette in a previous life, and believed it, too.
6. Started a novel based in Ventnor that will incorporate all the places in the world that mean a lot to me.
7. Considered running a marathon, and imagined myself winning it, press conference and all.
8. Investigated taking up tennis, and vividly felt what it would be like to be Maria Sharapova. For ten minutes, I was her, accent and all.
9. Contemplated getting married to Keanu Reeves. ( I don’t even particularly like Keanu Reeves!)
10. Had a great time with Johnny Depp in Kate Bush’s house – we weren’t married.
11. Survived the Titanic disaster, despite clearly being in steerage.
12. Been burned as a witch in a previous life for my strange premonitions and magical powers.
13. Fortuitously passed Rik Mayall in the street just before his heart attack and then saved him from dying.
14. Found Madeleine McCann.

I could go on.

It’s daft. It really is. These are the kind of things you should really keep to yourself. I like to think I’m not alone in all of these mental meanderings – surely everone does it? It’s not that I’m delusional – I promise. I just like stories – pretending. Dreaming, solving problems and feeling things by proxy. Things that I don’t suppose I will ever feel, solve or do otherwise.

But here’s my other problem. I know things can happen. To quote Nanna in the novel, “The Long Room”, (link coming soon!) “…the unlikely doesn’t always equal the impossible.” This is something I firmly believe, and whilst I know that I will never win at Wimbledon, or sadly bring the legendary Mr Mayall back from the dead, other dreams I resolutely refuse to give up on.

What I can do, and am doing, is writing. Writing brings me closer to things I can’t touch. It throws up possibilities that aren’t otherwise there, it enables me to process situations that need clarity, and it takes the pressure off my aching brain. And this blog helps me to practise my writing in a way I’ve never done before – out there, where people can see it. It has the potential to be embarrassing, but I’m way beyond that now. I think…

Just because I’m forty, it doesn’t mean that I am about to give up on my dreams. Reality is sometimes hard, and dreaming about things in a free and child-like fashion can, I’m sure, have physical benefits. A vivid imagination allows me to see past The Shed in which we live, and know that one day, the Funny Little Bungalow will be home once more.

Sometimes, dreams do come true. Years ago, when I watched Goran Ivanisevic play on the telly, I longed to be able to go to SW19 and see all the action. Now, I have! In the most exciting way. And when I first wrote to Jilly Cooper, I didn’t think she’d reply. Bless her, she did! I’m still not a vet, and I haven’t run a marathon. I haven’t found poor Madeleine McCann either, but I continue to hold out hope that somebody will. Neither Johnny Depp nor Keanu Reeves know I exist, but I bet they can’t build houses like Big Seymour can, anyway.

The Four Little Seymours, though, are my finest achievement. Apart from a lack of brains, there is a reason why I didn’t become a vet – I just wanted to have babies.

And as for the writing? I’m writing! So I am a writer. This online account will be a real memory-jogger in the future – a diary to look back on. It’s heavily censored – if I told you all of the things I’ve dreamed about, I really would be embarrassed! The daydreaming will continue, and hopefully, stories will follow.
Perhaps, one day, one of them might even be published!
I’ll dream on.

But in the mean time, I’d be ever so grateful if you’d share my page! The links are all below.
Merci buckets!
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