I mean, when I got incredibly average grades, were they disappointed in me? No. They told me to find something I believed in and trust my gut. When I come home without a man at my side do they comment? Tell me that I’ve failed them? Tell me all about how much they want grandchildren and blame me for my failures to ensnare a permanent semen injector into my life? No. They tell me that there is strength in my independence and salute me for not settling.
God, they’re great. I wonder for a second if I should text them, just because really, but quickly decide against it. I’ll text them later, because Ellie is right: I did say in January of this year that I’d write for two hours a day every day, and given it’s September, I think I’m about eight and a half months behind on that target.
My laptop, freezing cold from neglect, sits waiting for me. I open the lid, type my password in, and open up Word.
I look at the blank canvas that is my screen.
I love writing, I do, only what I’m doing now isn’t writing, it’s thinking about what to write, and that completely sucks.
Once I have a spark of an idea it becomes the most important thing to me. When I’m in the heart of the drama, twisting the plot around like a candy floss stick, gathering depth and flavor, I’m never happier in the whole world, and yet right now, I’m at a complete and utter loss on what to actually write about.
According to Ellie, I needed “more of a routine.”
“It’s how I completed my PhD,” she said, which inspired me greatly because if she can write eighty thousand words on Epidemiology and Outcomes of Psoriatic Arthritis without losing faith, I didn’t see any reason I couldn’t write the next Bridget Jones.
She said writer’s block was just a mentality to overcome and that I needed writing to not just be spur of the moment but something I did daily, like yoga. Not that I do yoga daily. Or at all, actually. But I get the point so I promised her.
Fucking inspiration. Where is it? What is it? How do I get it and why, when I’ve had so many ideas through the years, have all of them disappeared into the void as I stare blankly upon my clean white Word document before me? I have a whole world to explore, whole new characters to conceive and shape, and a whole new plot to delve into. Right now however, it looks very much like a blinking cursor.
In search of a spark I look up to the picture of my parents, propped up against a book spine on the corner of the desk.
I don’t know which one I’m more like. They’re both as ginger as me, which amuses people no end when we’re all together. My old teachers used to call us the “Weasleys,” which my mum never really understood because she wasn’t a big fan of Harry Potter. She never really bought into the whole thing, which makes sense once you know she’s a Slytherin through and through. My dad’s more of a Hufflepuff, which I think should make me a Slyther-puff hybrid, and maybe I am, but it’s very mood dependent for me.
Maybe I should write about them?
I look at my screen once again, my fingers poised over the keyboard.
One Lemon Cake for a Lifetime of Happiness
I write.
I sit back, trying to work out what angle I should take. It doesn’t need all too much dramatizing, to be fair—it’s already something of a romantic fairy tale even without embellishment.
My parents met at school—at school! It’s unheard of that those who met at twelve years old can still be as happy and as perfect as they are but it’s true. By sixteen they were childhood sweethearts, bonding over chemistry lessons and English essays until, one perfect Christmas in their early twenties, my mum gathered all of their friends and family together, baked my father’s favorite lemon cake (that’s important—it’s the detail that’s never missed in any retelling for it is, to date, the only food item my mother has ever made that didn’t burn or give someone food poisoning), and dropped down on one knee.
“One lemon cake for a lifetime of happiness,” that’s what they say. It’s the most romantic thing I can think of and that’s been the romantic story I’ve had to compete with all my life.
All through secondary I was just waiting to have an epic encounter in the library that would change my life forever. Turns out I only kissed one boy in my school years—at Sarah Evans’s thirteenth birthday party—and his gluten intolerance and (quite soon after) coming out meant that both the lemon cake and the wedding proposal was off the table for us.
So school came and went. University passed me by. A boyfriend or two lingered in my early London life but faded into insubstantial nothingness quite quickly until we reach now, a time where the whole of England’s capital seems coupled up with me as the third wheel to all its (according to Ellie) nine million strong population.
Actually thinking about it, I’m not in the mood to write out any love story, let alone theirs. Not while my own is so terrible.
I quickly hit Ctrl+A and delete it.
Not a romance then. Okay, that’s fine. So what else should I write then … what else …
12
After a while, staring at the blank screen just burns my eyeballs so instead I take out my phone and do the usual rounds. Martha and her big-nosed wife are on holiday in Dubai. When is she not on holiday? I see a post from Rachel about a new promotion at the job she can’t stop posting about—Jesus, it’s so unprofessional to use Instagram for job updates. Does she not have a life? Or LinkedIn? A few annoying baby pictures from Rich and Lucy, a depressingly lovely countryside scene from Ricky, and front-row seats to see some indie star I’m not cool enough to recognize for “I-chose-law-and-now-I’m-a-millionaire” Freddie and his current highly successful businesswoman girlfriend. On Stories I see a few meals prepared by some fitness blogger I started following at New Year’s and who never really inspired me more than just made me hungry. Ronnie’s had a night in last night. Cara had a night out. I scroll through them all thoughtlessly, sipping my tea slowly until a dog video makes me laugh enough to watch it again. I check the user—Marty Mathews.
Of course it’s Marty.
I flip onto messages.
26 Sep 10:17-Me
You coming tonight?
I wait a few minutes. I check the time. It’s still early. There’s no way he’s awake unless he’s on call.
I scroll back onto Instagram but get bored pretty quickly and search my apps for some inspiration instead. My finger knows what I’m doing before my brain kicks in and I watch on, helpless to stop it as Mirror Mirror loads up its home screen with a mystical puff of smoke.
For what it’s worth, I like what they’re trying to do more than the usual generic dating sites.
Because the fairest of them should be the right one too, say the words in a fairy-tale font across the screen.
Okay, so their marketing copy is a bit crap, borderline racist when taken out of the folklore context, and completely female skewing. It’s a complete wonder that anyone would sign up to something this juvenile sounding, let alone any decent London male. I reckon they’re relying on gals like me, brought up on a healthy diet of Disney, and if an app can get enough girls to sign up the guys do follow eventually, I guess. Still, the tagline is way too cringe. I could do better, but that’s because I’m a writer. If I was in charge of their motto it would be something like: