The plan was to hop bookshops, cafes and write. So far I have a sore shoulder, a headache, bought no books and haven’t written a word.
There is something magical about writing. The illusiveness of creating something that wasn’t there before. To shape something that inspires readers with tools that everyone uses every day. It makes you feel like a wizard.
In reality, writing is hard work. Creating magic puts a pressure on you that is not easy to lift. In fact, drinking tea becomes more important than why you came to the cafe in the first place: to write. If you’re reading this, it means that I succeeded and wrote. But is it magic? I’m not sure.
When I first started writing as a teenager, I wrote because I wanted to share how I saw the world. I had stories in my head, and I shared them unfiltered. I wasn’t afraid if it was good enough, or if other people would care. I wrote, and I wasn’t afraid. In many ways that feeling got ruined not only by adulthood but by social media and peer pressure. I would even go as far to say that it’s the reason why I stopped writing.
Ok. You got me, I didn’t stop. I write for a living. I’m a content creator, a storyteller and a blogger. I write every day. I get paid for writing, and that helps me to keep the lights on. According to Stephen King that makes me a writer: someone pays me to string words together. But writing at work is all I do. I can hear you gasp in horror. Yes, I only write during work time. There I said it, and I don’t like it.
See, I fear the blank page. I fear that no one gives an actual shit about what I have to say. I fear that I’m not good enough and I fear that I suck as a writer. I can be honest with you, right? Dear stranger on the internet whom I have never met, we’re all friends here.
So in many ways, I long back to the uncensored 14-year-old who was always writing. How can I get that girl back? Here comes the tricky part (and I know you already know this): write. Sit your ass down in a chair and write. And that is why on a cold October afternoon in Dublin I find myself on a sofa that I’m afraid I’ll never get out of. And I’m writing. There is something magical about this city. It makes me feel comfortable enough to take the gamble and write again. I can borrow the magic of the city to not have to conjure it up on my own.
And while I’m swooning over the Irish accent and hugging guys from Amnesty international. I’ll indulge in bookshops, and I can’t help but wonder: is travelling alone the way to get the magic back?