Category Archives: Life Lately

I wake up
every morning and I’m writing. I have a coffee in my hand, shampoo lathering in
my hair, the sun creeping up through my window. Every moment is like a 90’s
romcom playlist blaring in my head, but instead of songs it’s words. Words I
create myself, be in in a form of a poem or an investigative piece; the dots
come together and it’s a moment of pure genius. These things I’ve tossed around
my head suddenly, and vividly, make sense.
Yet, this
again changes.

A sentence mulled over and over until it loses
meaning. A phrase at first so delicious and perfect, becomes stale and
dismissive. The lust becomes lacklustre. The chase ends at a disappointing

writing scares me, for reasons I haven’t quite grasped yet. I think of the
weight in each word as I put them out into the world, thinking “is this the
right way? Could I say this better? Does it even make sense?” I fear expressing
myself wrong, wondering exactly how writers manage to make things just so, finding the most suitable phrase
without rambling. How they condense. How they don’t get scared on people not getting it.
Even when
I’m not physically writing, pen on paper or fingertips on keyboard, I’m
writing. I’m always writing; scribbling words out in my head, drawing lines
through sentences. It happens most when I do the mundane tasks, like cleaning or
being at work. By having my body busy, my mind has time to process fully and
luxuriously what it’s been desperate to do. It increases by tenfold when I have
someone as a muse, writing phrases I never once understood but then I do. When
I think of them, it all makes sense, be it a romantic or a platonic
relationship, it all makes sense. Tossing ideas back and forth before chucking
them overboard. Sometimes I write and write, letting it flow. After I feel elated,
I couldn’t be happier. But then I stop.
I stop
doing the things I’ve only just spoken about in my writing, as if immortalising
these habits kills them off. The gears stop. I don’t know why. It seems as
though the more I confess, the more lost I become. I cannot find salvation in my words, for I’ve given them over to
someone else. They’re no longer mine, but something that can be read on a
screen around the world, picked apart and ridiculed. Something that can be used
against me, or something which creates a division between me and a partner. And
it does. They dig. Find out more than they should. And I’m the one who loses,
because sometimes people cannot really understand the need to have a space in
this online world for only yourself. And this is where it becomes tricky.
It’s like
when I think about something I desperately want to happen, I imagine a person
maybe or an event, every conceivable thing happens to stop the one thing I want
from happening. I stop liking the person as soon as I see they again, even
though my heart tells me how much I miss them. I pass over an event which could
lead me into the event I want to experience. The dreams I dreamt up shatter
before my eyes. The lust is lost. The desire dissipates. Is the Universe
playing a big YOU THOUGHT on me, rising my hopes so high? Does the consistent
let down make the words stop being how they were?

I cannot find salvation in my words, for I’ve
given them over to someone else.

You see, I
adore the connecting on the Internet. I’ve met some very special people through
Twitter, as well as strengthening my relationships with people physically in my
life through social media. I love my life, the people I share it with, those
who make me laugh more than possible so I’ve just got to share that happiness. I want everyone to see. I want to say ‘look!
Look and how funny and fantastic this person is! Appreciate them! Because I don’t
think my appreciation is enough, because they are so bloody great.’ I will snapchat silly moments with friends, I’ll
take videos of those I care for, because I’ll be sitting down one day and it
will all feel more difficult than I thought possible. Those moments of
happiness, of simple silliness help ease the pressure off my chest when it
feels a little harder to breath, to think, to focus.
I think it’s
the confessional nature of my writing; I use my words to connect to people, to
show how we all feel the same at some point, even if it feels like we don’t. I’ve
yet to implement a strong enough filter, to grappled with who is my confidants
and who is my audience. At this time, it feels as though the World is walking
on Her tip toes around broken glass. She feels so fragile, like there are
splinters across Her happening we don’t fully comprehend. And that’s a reason I
struggle with writing, because there’s SO MUCH out there. So much. Every time I
click on my Twitter feed it feels as though I’m being swept away by the news,
by the fears and the panic. I don’t want to add to it sometimes, I can admit
that. Why add onto this fragile system, of panic and worry piled on top of each
other like Jenga blocks?

So what’s
the solution to this? I dig deeper. I
find out what exactly it is I want to say, I edit, I create my art primarily
for myself. I get back to my roots and I
centre myself there.

The drought
is over, because I’m saying it so. I believe this to be a new Era. Let it be


Lou x


I hope 2017
is everything you hope it will be and more, filled with success, happiness and
good health. I’m still riding high after seeing the Women’s March tweets,
filled with love for all of the nasty women who marched. For everyone who
walked the walk, after talking the talk. Who showed up and made it know we won’t
stand for this, not in 2017. If there’s one thing that’s going to happen; a lot
of noise is going to be made.
Oh god, it’s
been a long time since I’ve done this, hasn’t it? I feel like a toddler precariously
balanced on two feet; grabbing at tables, sofas, legs of adults. Hello. It’s
been a while.
I think it’s
fair to say 2016 was a big ‘un in terms of progress for this girl, as well as
the world as we know it. Or did know it. Now I’m not so sure, feeling once
again like a toddler feebly attempting its first steps. This progress has both
moved me forward and brought me back a good few steps. I’m tentatively getting
back in to the everyday grind of New Lou as I lovingly refer to her, gosh it
feels good. Today I picked up a book on not giving a fuck, but my friend Tori
told me to put it straight back down, because I might as well have had wrote
the book. So I still give no fucks over things. Although new developments have occurred
in my life which do use up a lot of my fucks for that day. An allotment of
fucks. It’s a good system to have in place, do you have one? Do try it.

And I’m now
finally with a desk to write at my new flat (four months later, oh god has it
been so long?). My last post was on Rising Back Up after the world had the last
bit of stuffing knocked out of it by 2016. At this point, I was still going
back and forth over a lot of things in my life. Uni in 3rd year has kicked me
down more times than once, the deadline stress has at times been, frankly,
unbearable. And it’s so easy for me to put myself down over being stressed at
uni, because there are people with much faster paced jobs and those doing their
4th year dissertations (you’re very much in my prayers). I don’t
think of uni as my ‘job’ even though I’m a full time student on my concession
card, and really I should be dedicating as much as my time as possible getting this
degree. Otherwise it’s a waste of time, something I muse on regularly. I subconsciously
put the stress of uni on the back seat, when really it’s so bloody stressful at
times. Especially once you factor in jobs, money, the economy, politics,
President Trump being a THING, the whole disappearance of the climate change
and LGBT pages from the US Governments website, the planet dying. Can you tell
I’ve had a lot on my mind?
This last
year has shown me how malleable everything can be, how fragile our world is.
Decisions have been made over things I never thought I’d see in my lifetime and
the stark living of Adulthood has me staring down the barrel end of mother of
all messes. Its not how they tell you in the movies.
There is a
but though.
But even
through this, I’m finding solace in how easily it is for things to break down. Make
things more manageable. It gives me a wider view of all of my options, my wants
and desires. The stuff that is my own and not anyone else’s. It gives me
freedom to know things can change tomorrow. It gives me power. The
ball is in my court now. It always will be. Even if I think it never will be
Right now I
think this semi-hiatus of blogging is disappearing. Like a muscle I haven’t
moved in so long, I’m thinking of my words with an audience in mind, editing
the best I can because 2017 is one I’m pulling together and will be making progress. Real,
tough, unrelenting progress in whatever shape it takes. Words that have been
scribbled on till roll at work and stuffed into pockets, the words tentatively typed
into note form on my phone. They’re all coming slowly together and finding a
place to set themselves down. I’m finding my voice again; on the stuff I really
want to say. And I’m thinking of trips I want to take, friends I miss so much,
clothes I will buy unashamedly and how much I’m loving the silent confidence in
the way I carry myself. How it’s all coming back together once more.

I might
have paced back in forth in terms of progress in 2016, but I’m intact. Whole.
And I think there never will be a day that I’m rocked back to a shell. I’ve
faced worse. So have you. Right now everything is yours for the taking. The
life you want to live? Have it. Take it
for yourself. It’s yours.

It might
sound cheesy and far too simple, because it is. There’s effort behind it. A whole
fuck ton of effort you’ve GOT to care about. But here’s the catch – You’re going to spend your whole life doing
stuff, so putting effort in will occur over and over again. Make some damn
peace with that. It’s not going to change.
You’ve just
got to ask yourself – do you want it
Hell yes
I fucking do.

Lou x

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Pic; @teenvogue/instagram
In light of last weeks’ Presidential Election, I’ve
suffered from a slump I wasn’t fully aware of suffering from.
 It was an act of
mitosis; every grieving American, and woman, became part of me. Their
frustration was my frustration, because it felt like Brexit was happening all
over again, but on a larger than life scale. This was America. Obama’s America.
The country of self-confessed freedom and greatness. A nation that elected a
black man as President for the first time, and the second time after that, and
it felt a lot like progress. Of doing what we are meant to do. Now there is an
ache. An ache of ‘what-could-have-been’. There seemed to be no way to move this
ache, this loss of glass ceiling smashing and love winning. Nothing to
remove the feeling ‘maybe we were asking too much’. And I thought over and over
what exactly it is that I felt.
An instagram account and poet you must follow – Nayyirah Waheed.
But mostly? I am tired. I am overwhelmed. I am
disappointed. But I will not let this envelope me any longer. Hell no. Instead,
I want to fight. I want to educate
myself further, because being tired and disappointed and overwhelmed are words
that do not hold enough gravity to what I feel. Frustration does not match the
way my whole being is on edge, realising how ill-timed my optimism was. How
wrong it was. How much I’ve lost, how much bigger the fight is.
I still
want more.
I want numbers and statistics to flow from my
tongue, like the way water runs down a stream. Smooth, easy, calm. I want
knowledge, all knowing smug knowledge, smirking knowledge, because feelings no
longer matter. Who cares how someone might feel? Feeling is not knowledge. It
does not make moves, it does not pass bills and legal documents, the way
knowledge and words can. It can be flimsy. It can be easily backed into a
corner without knowledge.. Unless they feel the same, deep down, then nothing
will change. It’s the way things are set; how one can make an argument and
deliver it will grandeur, convince you yes
we’re right
. It’s a numbers game, a game of manipulation, of deceit, of
downright politics at its core. I want to be calculated. Cutthroat.
Self-aware. I want to be your angry feminist nightmare, because if you thought
I was bad before, you’re in for a treat.
I do not want to be cushiony and understanding,
cheering for ‘positivity only!1!’ because at the end of the day, your friends
‘beliefs’ can be, at its core, erasing another persons’ being. And I won’t have
Soz not soz, and all that sweet cheeks.
It’s not happening. Didn’t you know it’s 2016? We
don’t do racism, homophobia or misogyny in this day or generation. It’s not how
we live our lives, because love wins and
the future is female.
There may be a hierarchy and a need for people in
power, but those ‘below’ are not dogs and will not be pushed around as if we are
bits of gristle on your plate. We are not blind, nor stupid, nor naïve. You’ve started a fire you can only add
gasoline to.
You might feed on who you are, what people think you are, how
much dollar bills you’ve got in that bank. But we are rising and believing and
fighting to have a better future. A future we want. A future of freedom and
greatness, of freedom in our bodies and our decisions, of love and unity, of
building people up, not building up walls to keep them out. The future is ours.
And we will have it how we want it. We will.
Because love trumps hate, and I’ve always been good
at card games.
Remember that. And bring your argument next time
you try to let hate win, because I’ll be bringing mine. And like Annalise
Keating, I’ll know my shit. So make sure yours is water tight.

Lou x

“I don’t always write the way I feel. Sometimes they are just residual feelings that show up again due to lack of closure.”

When I write, I don’t always mean the now. No writer always writes in the now, even if what they’re talking about could be happening in the now – some parts connect to the past and things they remember and stuff they wanted to say back then.  I don’t write always in the now. I write of the past, of things I remember and work through, seeing my past in a new light and coming to a new conclusion, a new lesson. Sometimes things link up, past and present BANG inspiration strikes.

My hurt is my hurt. And I can use it when and where I see fit.

I may write flowery word and speak about boys, but that doesn’t mean I’m talking about the High School Boy, because it’s been nearly three years and I’ve been with other people, I know this might be hard to understand, because I don’t have it strewn across social media the same way my clothes are across my bedroom floor. 
But I have. And I’ve loved every minute, because each time it taught me something, even if it wasn’t in an outlandish ‘coming-of-age’ style, it still mattered. Because it mattered to me, I experienced it. Me and me alone, not you who thinks you know my life from tweets you read when I don’t even know you.
I’m tired of talking of what I want and people attempting to figure out what I’m saying, decoding my words like they’re cryptic egyptian symbols, when really I met someone today and I started thinking about how he could stop the cynic in me. How he smiles down at the ground and I like that, the way he thinks before he speaks and measures out his words, and isn’t that enough? Does it have to be more? Can’t I just write about that?
And when I talk about this, I don’t mean that High School Boy I haven’t spoken to in so long, who I don’t want to speak to, because life moves on and don’t you understand that? How people move on, how life travels fast, how girls aren’t always hung up on their ex? What a vicious stereotype, to think girls are clingy on their first love, when boys snapchat you after six months talking about ‘no work tomorrow’ and frankly, what am I to do with that? Why should I care?
It’s the same way people harp about Taylor Swift and her break ups, or Malia Obama playing beer pong in college. I don’t care I don’t care, don’t you get that?

I hate being petty, my drafts on Twitter are filled with some tweets that will never surface, because anger is a moment and I don’t want to immortalise it for the world to see. But that doesn’t mean I don’t tire; tire of strangers attempting to find symbols in the words I write and feelings that aren’t present, because my hurt is in my past and they’re both mine, so I can write about and whenever I please.  You don’t control my hurt. It’s mine.
It may be easy to put things in boxes in your head, label them the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’. I get life can be difficult, I have nearly 21 years and experiences many haven’t been through, stuff I don’t want you to go through, so I get it. But at the end of the day, most of life is grey. You don’t really know everything – especially of those who don’t know you, who only know you exist because you tried to start drama, you tried to wiggle in between their words and into their brains, but didn’t you know at the time you were going the wrong way?

Please know that while I write this – I am not angry. Not at all. I’m simply passionate about this, because this quote on residue feelings and not writing in the now is what I’ve been wanting to say for so long. I fucking love that quote. I felt something shift inside me when I read it, because it’s it. Everything I have been wanting to say. To explain how I write. 

Anne Lamott has a famous quote on writing, saying

You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.”

I love this because you need to remember as a writer to be free with what you say. Never to worry about the implications, until your wrists ache and the words stare back at you. Then you figure the  rest out. 
But sometimes, both people behave badly – the writer and the writers inspiration. Both parties can be equally guilty. And the stories you read will always be biased. But just because you might upset people doesn’t mean you shouldn’t write about it. Nor should you hold your tongue around a writer in fear of what words they might say; we are still human, we’ll still fuck up. We just own that fuck up. I read a book called Becoming by Laura Jane Williams and I’ve mentioned Laura’s downright amazing book before, but it’s worth mentioning again. This whole ‘claim your hurt’ thing? started with Becoming and will be right up your street.

“I don’t always write the way I feel. Sometimes they are just residual feelings that show up again due to lack of closure.”

Own your hurt. It’s yours and yours alone. No one gets to tell you how to talk about it, no one gets to be the person who gives you permission to talk about your hurt. It’s yours. ONLY yours.
Own your hurt and talk about it if you want. Talk about it for you. 
Just remember to be doing it for you.

Lou x

Want to send an email? Contact
Twitter; @LouiseRamsay_ click here 
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