The truth is perhaps a little more complicated than that- An Essay


Recently, I have been unabashedly declaring That “ I am a writer that hates to write”, it’s too much work, I wanna float around.
Woe is talented little entitled me.

The truth is perhaps a little bit more complicated than that.

Writing has long been my passion, I mean, truly, I always had notebooks and little scraps of paper hidden inside my other very obvious loves, books and/or CD cases.
Reminders of things to write a poem about, reminders of my otherworldly, world changing wisdom, proof of my own sense of brilliance.
Thinking myself the next great voice of my Generation, if not, at least the best voice from Stoke-On-Trent.
As I ‘grew’ to adulthood, quickly it became apparent that with all the other crap life gratuitously throws at you, whilst it sure makes good material for my next poem or novella, it sure as hell does take up way too much of my time too.

Truth is…
Life IS work.
Love is even harder work.
Throw in the creative, back at school Husband… Well, “Work, Work Work, Work, Work, Work, Work” is pretty accurate.

I don’t hate to write, I really shouldn’t say that. I have to write, It is pretty essential to my existence, I hate that I don’t have time to get to it and when I do, I am so exhausted I fall asleep at the keys.

What I hate, is the tips, the tricks, the encouragement that just amplifies my “failure” and makes me feel like never writing another word.

Yes my ‘writers ego’ is fragile, I am a very good actress of the ‘tortured artist’.

I hate every idea I ever had that held so much promise, that became nothing but more and more aged pieces of paper that withered, ripped or just plain got lost.

I hate every idea I developed for someone else’ dime, at the loss of mine.
I hate that I live in a country, whose language I speak and write, but I can’t be “Natalie” in, I don’t have all the words, all the vitriol and most importantly all the spade-to-the-head bluntness.

I feel like I will forever be the chump writer for hire for the crappy jobs or jobs I pick up freelance via my own little thing because I can be automated in Portuguese and its what is hired these days.

I hate every poem lost that I destroyed in one of my grief riddled fits of rage.

I hate every blog I had attached to my old email and no matter how I try I can’t find them, I wish I was as scrupulous a ‘backer-upper’ back then.

I hate every essay I wrote but felt was too personal… or not personal enough.

I hate my own doubt.

I hate that I allowed my own creativity to go on the back burner to my( admittedly brilliant) husband and I took to caring for him and his process at the expense of mine.

Life, thus far, has treated me pretty fairly, I have been through lots its true, death, disease, poverty the pretty big hurdles of the human condition I have experienced.

I have experienced the great blessings of the condition too, love, laughter, travel, education, passion, acceptance.

All, however, experiences that took me away from my words, took me away from my true love.

Either I am too much in the moment, caught up in the sights, sounds, laughter, sex, booze, movie, music.


I am so deep in a  ‘I hate the world, must eat all the foods’, cycle, that I have no free hands to write in-between ‘fries-in-mouth-stuffage’ ergo my only chance of catching the moment would be if it tried to nick one of my fries.
I’ve cried, I have binged I have held everyone up when they couldn’t anymore, I became a very good copy of my grandma, a role I was bestowed with at the ripe ol’ age of 16.
I have been ok, not been ok and come out being awesome again, or quite the opposite.
But so little of this I have immortalised.

In that life has been unfair.
Mostly, I hate that I am still so bitter about it all, that I had to put in the work to get it out.

But, ultimately I guess I am not a writer that hates to write.

I shall try and rectify it, but we shall see what becomes of that.. I’m a magnet for distractions.


Friday Feminist Ramble: Three

What the hell can I possibly say?
What is there left that hasn’t been said before, what of our struggles are somehow different than they were 100 years ago?
Yes, we may be allowed to vote, but that certainly doesn’t mean we are being represented. I am perhaps more represented as a white, hetero girl.
But black girls, latina, transwomen, most members of the LGBTQ community? All Governors worry about is where they wanna pee, or what country they arbitrarily were expelled from a birth canal in.
Whilst rights get slashed, whilst our elderly have their meals taken away from them, whilst women and the poor have their healthcare removed, whilst they sit with your tax dollars covering their care.

What else is there to say?
The world is in a sad state.
I always prided myself on being British, not in a nationalistic sense, but what our “values” had always represented of the fact my state was a “welfare” state, that Medical was paid, that nursing homes were paid, that being without a job didn’t mean you are without a meal, that being ill didn’t mean your life felt meaningless, now it is the world in which a private business can sue the NHS for losing a contract.

It would be easy for me to blame Trump for everything wrong in the world, hell he has been responsible for  SO FUCKING MUCH, but it is a sickness that is spreading around the world.
Europe used to feel safe and a bastion for acceptance and goodwill, but with separatists getting more emboldened and Brexit and the uncertainty, even here things are starting to feel lost. At least as a Brit.

I am aghast, but I am not defeated.

I shall continue to write, eventually I hope, with fresh words, that have more meaning, I will continue to be opinionated and loud and “Brash” I will always #resist,  I will always march. I will always be for all women everywhere, I will always be feminist, I will always be egalitarian and I will always be a socialist Liberal girl. I will always want what is fair.

Perhaps this isn’t a rant, more a” Friday Feminist Introspection” but alas, I am but human.

This is all I can really say on Trump et el at this point, just be strong, I am here, I will be loud, I am an ally.

Reach out wherever you can, I promise I shall respond.

Much Love,


Mini Musings: Wednesday Edition on Thursday

I got caught up in International Women’s Day.
I tried to avoid the anti-female rhetoric a great number of men posting on social media and talking in the streets of this country care to engage in.
Tried to focus on my female positive and feminist husband
and the cider he brought home for me to share with him along with a bunch of flowers and my favourite coffee,
In a show of solidarity with me on this day when men take great pride in attacking.
More simply just a man bringing his wife flowers to make her smile.

I deliberately held back posting this until the day here had officially passed.

To those men:

“Feliz Dia da Costela do Homem*”( Happy day of the rib of man)
Is disgusting
It doesn’t make you a “Homem Tradicional”( Traditional Man)
It makes you a dinosaur
a pig
a disgrace.
To a specific man, I know
You have a daughter,
Grow up.

To all my sisters around the world

*Reference to the biblical story of Eve being made from Adam’s rib

Musings on Late Night Car Alarms

Have you ever noticed that suddenly hearing a car alarm (in Portugal at least) means your neighbourhood is changing?

It means there is now a need to have alarms when previously there wasn’t. A car alarm constantly went off last night and it occurred to me it’s the first car alarm I have heard in three years but we are starting to have more and more conversations in the neighbourhood coffee shop about this break in or that break in.

It’s sad.My neighbourhood is being eaten by crime and bad behaviour and I can’t stop it.

I try to model the behaviour of love and acceptance but it doesn’t seem to matter, I can attend the council meetings, write or call the câmera municipal. People still attempt to break my window if I have it open, still, attempt to force my front door, try being buzzed into the building under false pretences still try to harm my cat who is innocently sitting by the aforementioned window.

I think we have to move because the moment one person breaks the boundary into my haven I know I will become one of the criminals too and I don’t want to be that person.