N.O.A

I remember it was dark, although most probably it wasn’t. Memories have a way of exaggerating themselves to seem more dynamic – this is probably one of those. I was crouched up, knees bent, with a notebook resting on them, and pencil in hand. For some reason I had retreated to under the stairs. My Mother had asked me to write a story, and it felt like the right surroundings. I started to write, joined up like they teach you to do, and neatly on the lines. Words just flew out of me. I didn’t necessarily have to think about them, they just appeared from the tip of my pencil. It wasn’t too long until the pencil needed sharpening.

I was seven years old and playing ill to get out of going to school, like we all did from time to time. Mother probably knew this, which is why she asked me to write; in her mind, if I was at least writing something, if I was doing something productive, maybe then she didn’t feel so bad for letting me off from school. Or maybe I was in her way, following her around too much when she needed to work, either way, I don’t think she thought too much about the task she gave me. She definitely didn’t think that that small task, “go and write a story gorgeous,” would affect me in such a way. If you ask me what the story was about, I couldn’t tell you. I remember there was a tree and a young girl, but that’s as far as my memory will stretch. It’s as if the story itself wasn’t important then, but it was telling that story, that was important.

It was the act of hiding away, me and my notebook that I loved so much. The expression of telling a story through words that kept me writing. When I didn’t have stories to tell I would write about my life. I have notebooks filled with everything from the idiotic ramblings of my first love to the semi-prolific lines of a young adult. I keep them as they make the perfect anecdotes to begin my short stories from. I even base characters on people I once knew. These diaries were once an outlet, a way of releasing pent up emotions on to paper, yet now they are my own creative encyclopaedias.

It was my creative drive that took me to New York. A place of pure inspiration and allure. I loved how New York had such energy, that I just felt I was being dragged along and it was my job to keep up. I spent the summer after I graduated writing for a Newspaper in Brooklyn. I had been to Manhattan many times, but never ventured out that far. My first task was to explore Williamsburg, so I walked around, sat in different cafes, in parks, watched a local independent film and wrote a feature on my first impressions. The editor loved it and gave me my own daily column, which was published online as a blog. This became my New York diary. I would scout out culture, fashion, film and art; learning new things everyday and then turn them into my own little stories of experience. A young aspiring writer couldn’t ask for anything more.

This was when I started to branch into the world of journalism, blogging and other forms of writing. I learnt that I could tell other peoples stories through my writing. One of my favourite pieces I wrote was about a struggling writer and poet who lived in the neighbourhood. He was very true to his craft, embodied every word. This belief in himself only gave me the drive that I needed to make my writing real, to get people reading. To tell my stories I have to be dedicated and true to myself. So this is what I try to embody – a true sense of self-belief and passion. This sense of truth I had never really thought too much about, considering fiction was my starting point. I had always manipulated, twisted and regurgitated the truth. This Brooklyn writer taught me that sometimes the truth can be more powerful.

I took what I learnt in Brooklyn and have translated it into my own blog. I look for things that inspire me. Which can be anything from a film, a book, a band or a designer’s new collection. I am passionate about all forms of culture and so I feel limiting my creative voice would be wrong. On my blog I don’t necessarily review the things I find alluring, instead I discuss and tell people about them. This act of telling takes me back to that dark place under the stairs. It may be a laptop now instead of a notebook and pencil, but that initial purpose is the same. I’m still just writing stories.