When I started this blog I was 23. It was 2013 and I lived with a flatmate near Clapham, working in a job I didn’t like where I had nothing to do all day. I found blogs through an equally bored work friend – The Londoner first. From my grey desk in grey London I stared jealously at these endless glossy photos of beautiful girls in bikinis and make up on marble trays and I thought, cool, I could do that. I’ve always liked writing – my degree was in English Literature – and I like make up and clothes as much as the next person. Most importantly of all, I had so much time. Nothing but time. So I set up a blog. This blog.
I filled it with everything – restaurant reviews and make up reviews and so on and so forth; I ran competitions and gained followers and learnt about photography and updated my template and so on and so forth. In the background, I grew up – slowly, without noticing. I moved in with my boyfriend, we got engaged, we got married. I made new friends. I got a new job and, recently, I got a promotion. I played it out across these web pages – my life, in snapshots, little pieces of time. When I read them, I remember who I was in those moments. When I read the ones from 2013 I am startled by how far away from the girl in those posts I am now.
And now – now I have less time. My job is a real job and I have to remember to schedule posts the night before, but the trouble is that the night before I also want to go to the gym and paint my nails and make dinner and watch House with my husband whilst eating homemade lasagne. I want to take photographs of my dinner but I also want to talk to friends I rarely get to see anymore. I want to take selfies but I feel a self consciousness that my 23 year old self wouldn’t have understood. I want to write, but I feel an impossible pull to write seriously.
My blog is – has always been – frivolous, and that at the beginning was part of the charm. I used to say it indulged the side of me that wanted to write for Vogue. But over the years, it also got lazy. I didn’t focus on polished writing or even think about what content I was putting out there, into the world, with my name on it. I wrote for views, I wrote about things that I knew would draw people in, likeTopshop dressing gowns and Pinterest-perfect cafés and pink make up. I’m not saying I don’t like those posts – only that I don’t feel like the person who wrote them. I feel like someone who has something to say, somebody who wants to write and be respected for that writing – whether it’s about my political views or about make up, it doesn’t matter.
So I’ve been in a bit of a rut, but I think I’ve finally figured it out – it’s not the content, it’s the creation. You can write about whatever you like so long as you’re putting your best effort into doing that – not just churning out crap because you might get some free make up in the post. And therefore I’ve decided to get excited about blogging again – hopefully, you’ll enjoy it too.