It was supposed to be fiction blog. Laurie’s stories. But, inspired by a number of blogger friends (whose blogs I shall advertise when I figure out how), I have decided to make this an EVERYTHING blog. I was thinking about changing the subtitle, but then I decided against it. This is still a blog of Laurie’s stories; some of them might just be a little bit more fictional than others. I will try to categorise them accordingly.
The blog has been badly neglected since its creation. This is because I’m lazy and easily bored and I generally feel like doing nothing rather than being a productive and interesting person. Don’t get me wrong; I work hard. Extremely hard. But in the past, this has probably been for all the wrong reasons. My life up until now has been tangled in academics. At first it was a case of fresh little green tendrils curling themselves around me and feeding me interesting stuff. That’s not the case anymore. I’m not growing, I’ve grown and now I’m getting bark and things are building nests on me. The tendrils have gone all thick and woody and they’re choking me to death. I need a chainsaw to get free. This extended metaphor has to end now so that I can get to the point. What is the point? The point is that I’ve worked very hard and turned myself into a tree, but I’m an alien tree, like a pine tree (but with tendrils?), planted for lumber, and it’s time to chop me down and make planks out of me so that – OH GOD what am I writing…
Let me start again. I worked hard for the wrong reasons. In high school, I wanted to be the best. I saw greatness in my future. It was a vague sort of greatness, and I didn’t have a clear idea of what would make me great, but I knew I would be great and successful. By “successful”, I don’t mean rich. Back then, “success” meant achieving things, being impressive and having the respect of others. Recognition. Accomplishment. Superiority. I was (secretly) fiercely competitive with my work. I was my work and my marks were a reflection of my self-worth. This obsession with success and fear of failure went with me to university. I worked hard. I did well. I don’t regret anything. BUT… I’m over it. I don’t know what changed or when exactly it happened, but at some point I decided that my main ambition in life is to be happy and that being “successful”, in my original interpretation of the word, is not necessarily what I need to achieve this happiness. Not anymore.
So what do I need? I’m busy figuring it out. I know I want to travel the world. I’m saving up for that. I know that people make me happy. Love makes me happy. Humour. Animals. FOOD! The sky. The wind on my face. It’s a pile of cheese, but it’s true. Sometimes, when I’m walking to campus and there are birds tweeting and the sun is twinkling through the trees and I get greeted by a stranger and I see a motorist singing in their car and everything smells like jasmine flowers, I think FUCK AMBITION. (Not all ambition, of course, just the unhealthy kind. The all-consuming kind. The kind that makes you into a sick, stressed, depressed, frizzy, spotty, eye-baggy mess.) If I manage to go through my life being a nice, useful person, who works hard for the right reasons, who loves and is loved back, then that will be just fine. If I never publish a novel, then I never publish a novel. If I never become famous or renowned for anything, so be it.
For reasons I don’t feel like including in this blog, I’ve been thinking a lot about mortality lately, about how everybody dies. It’s a pretty mind-blowing thought. It doesn’t come up in conversation really, but wow. We’re all going to die. So… I’m done fucking around. Instead of working towards being “successful”, I’m going to work at what makes me happy. Maybe this blog will be one of those things. Maybe it won’t. Whatever. But hopefully when I’m about to die one day, I’ll be like “Hey. Life was pretty awesome. Yeah. *gurgledie*.” So yes. Let’s be happy! But obviously not all the time. That would be annoying. 😀
PS: Jesus Christ, I can’t remember how to blog.