Halfway there...

So, I'm about halfway through my internship and well over halfway through my summer. I feel like all the things I wrote on my summer wish list are starting to seem more daunting to complete. One of my biggest hopes for the summer has been that I will create a routine for writing. I'd like to get to where I write every day for an hour or so. The tough thing is that at the moment I feel I need to devote my time to reading (part of which is research for my internship and part of which is philosophy that I'm reading for a class) before I do my own writing. I think there will always be that excuse, though. There will always be more books to read and more research to complete.

Sometimes I think that needing to read allows me to put off writing. I have spent a lot of this last year gaining confidence about my writing and think that I've really worked to hone my skills. Blogging has been one of the ways that I have experimented with tone, storytelling, and whatnot. Yet still I feel that part of me desperately fears writing.

It's strange that I'm feeling a bit vulnerable about my writing at the moment, but I think it is because I recently shared some of my work with a friend to get feedback. He was very encouraging and made some helpful comments, but somehow I felt laid bare by the process. Knowing that writing is something I really want to do means that I know I will regularly be sharing my "work" with others. I think my reticence about starting a regular writing routine is based in this fact. I think part of me is afraid that my work will not be well received or that perhaps I am not a very good writer.

Writing is the one thing I've been doing as long as I can remember. And, the more I write, the more I learn. I feel that each day I am finding my own voice and feeling more confident, but sometimes that comes in the form of feeling a little lost, a little concerned, and a little hesitant. I have to remind myself though that being fearless does not mean being without fear. The possibility of failure or rejection is real. To me, being fearless means facing my worst fears.

So, here we go. I am going to spend the next year crafting my writing skills, developing a portfolio, and looking for jobs that will allow me to write. The cat's out of the bag. I'm going to try my hand at writing. Come failure or success, I will know that I tried to do the thing I loved. And, in the end, I think I can come to terms with the costs.

I've spent a lot of my time on the train daydreaming about a quaint life. I keep seeing myself sitting at a window with my computer, writing while drinking a cup of coffee. My dear Ace curls up at my feet and I reach down to pet him. I lean back in my chair, sigh and feel content. A life of writing. I think I could get used to that.

So, I was wondering...

If you know me at all, you know that I incessantly ask questions. It might be about the flora flying by as we drive down the road and whether or not it is specific to this region. It might be about you personally or about your thoughts on love, power, or the Spanish Inquisition. The deluge of questioning I offer can sometimes be annoying to those around me. I understand why. In fact, as a child in school I can remember being told to allow someone else to ask a question. I can also remember being told to let someone else answer a question, but that's a thought for another time.

It doesn't take much to pique my interest and when I'm in a foreign country, my curiosity is at full throttle. I want to know if a princess can become queen even if she's a commoner. I want to know why the parliament and the government are considered to be two different things. I want to know what's so special about a crumpet. I want to know how to make tea the way Brits do. So, I ask questions. Tons. And, somehow my sister Tiffany and the supervisor for my internship, Jenny, are withstanding the barrage. The nice thing is that I'm a quick learner, so as I get into a groove my questions become more refined, though probably not less in number.

Even sitting alone on a train staring out the window, I find myself wondering what it is that makes someone want to become an conductor/engineer. Suddenly, I'll snap back to reality and realize I've been following that train (ahem) of thought for the last thirty minutes and nearly missed my stop. I really only need a moment of wondering to find myself wandering in a world of questions.

I love to think. I love people. And, I love, love to figure things out. There's something about this time here that is allowing me to do all these things in a gratifying way. It's like I can think a little clearer since I know I'm only here for a set period of time. And, in that clarity, I have time for adventure.

Walking on the wild...er, left side

There are many wonderful things about being in the UK: delicious tea, train rides, gorgeous accents, kind people, the list goes on. However, there is one thing I can't get over. Every time I am walking down the street or through a frenetic tube station (imagine the T with an English accent and a sense of punctuality) I run into people. I mean physically, awkwardly, nearly head on. Immediately after the collision, I mumble a sorry and am usually met with a sweet accent saying, "No worries."

It's not that I'm still a country bumpkin (though I am). No. I've learned how to blend in a little better than that since living in Boston. I've gotten pretty good at navigating crowded places. I've even managed to fine tune my subway etiquette, knowing when to call for a stop, how long to wait before boarding, etc. It's not my etiquette that's messing me up. Indeed not. It's that I cannot for the life of me remember to pass on the left (my left, their right). I've gotten to the point where I almost remember which way to look when crossing the street, and I walk to the correct side of the car, but walking? I'm an utter mess. The strange part is this comical fumbling reminds me that I am a foreigner, that I don't belong here. I am not bothered by this fact, though. It's not that the reminder resounds in the voices of angry villagers threatened by an intruder, but instead a gentle nudge, a soft reminder that this place is not, cannot be, my forever home.

I'm not sure what to make of this feeling yet. I've been thinking a great deal about what I should write. Yet the words just seem to not want to come at all. Or rather, they want to flood forward, denying any form or function. Who am I to demand order? So, I leave you with this to ponder on: As I sat in the train making my way back to London from Cambridge, I was struck by the fields of bright, red poppies. The flowers demanded my attention and my admiration, as if they were a thousand six year olds in fine red dresses playing at tea time. How can such a lovely thought filled with images unfamiliar to myself not bring into clarity the foreignness of this place and the places that remain foreign within me?