a journal entry, if you will
re: failure and anxiety, rotting and everything that's been on my mind lately
It feels weird beginning this with a “Dear Diary” or something of the sort, so I am not. It feels too personal, even though that’s the whole point. I feel like I’m invading a space, even though I have created this bit of space for that exact purpose. For me.
I have been in somewhat of a rut this past week to week-and-a-half (it’s been two years). I watched Chad Chad’s “re: being ugly” video this morning as I drank my morning coffee. She explains that she received multiple comments on her appearance on a vlog she thought no one was going to see where she had messy hair and was in her pyjamas most of the time. She took some time away from social media to “touch some grass”. I really enjoyed this video and Chad reminding that it’s okay to take time for yourself. She then goes on to say that she made the vlog because she’s been feeling “creatively bankrupt” and oh boy! have I been feeling that real hard as of late. This is my attempt of making something different just because. I appreciate you reading.
I was not raised religious, but here is my confession.
i. Failure
I graduated in July 2023 and over a year later I do not have a grad job or working in some natural light creative themed office in city centre. I’m still working in hospitality. It’s my — and I had to check my Linkedin for this — fifth year in the industry. I don’t hate my job: it’s safe and reliable and it’s been good to me over the past three years and two months I’ve been there. It’s just not where I' thought I’d be at 22 (turning 23 next month). I thought it would have left me by now.
My amazing partner has already begun his career. He is ambitious and excelling in the ways he wants to and I feel left behind. I am by no means saying he is getting these things handed on a silver platter; in fact, it’s the complete opposite. He’s had to work a lot harder for things than the average UK person has to, but things are happening to and for him. He’s gone from working rough kitchen shifts and getting out in the early hours of the morning to a brilliant, respectable job. I am proud of him and I always will be. When is it my turn?
But seeing rejection after rejection after rejection is hard. The UK job market is f*cked and I feel like I am failing. When I left sixth form in March 2020 (yes, you have that right) the Director said “Congratulations on finishing and good luck! The job market is f*cked and so are all of you!” Yes, the swearing was included, but overall not a very optimistic message to send to 17-18 years old being kicked out of education early because of a global pandemic. Through the three years in my undergrad, I naively told myself ‘it’s been three years, things would have sorted themselves out by the time you’re finished’. Spoiler alert: they have not.
I am reminded of my failure every time I open my laptop and see the folder pinned to my quick access titled ‘Writing’. I have failed because I am not writing. I failed at my last project (more about that later); I was so desperate to cling onto something that I ended up strangling this novel, and subsequently my creativity, to death. I hope I manage to revive her soon.
ii. Anxiety
Whenever I think about the future, there is a bony, hollow claw of anxiety I suddenly become aware of around my heart. That emotion birthed this piece.
Two months later I feel no further forward. I still don’t know who I am and I still don’t know who I want to be. I don’t feel as depressed and I am not spiralling as much, which is good. I have watching even less cinema and do not have the fierce excitement to read. The fire that lights under me every January 1st when my Goodreads goal resets is gone and I yearn for its return. I feel guilty for not loving as many books as I wanted. Am I the problem? Is it the type of book I am choosing? Tropes? Length? Age range?
I am getting off topic. Back to anxiety.
I feel I am stuck in this ‘too old to be a child, too young to be an adult’ limbo and I hate being stuck here. I think it’s because for some reason my brain is constantly reminding me that my adult life will begin when I leave hospitality. I have done five years of service! When is it my turn to get out?! I yell to the void except everyone is doing the same so the void is just white noise of everyone yelling into existence their pleas to escape hospitality.
Alongside this, I feel like I haven’t improved or changed or evolved in any way as a human. My bad habits are the same. I no longer recognise the consequential feeling of accomplishment after completing a positive one because I feel like I have done nothing beneficial.
This is a lie. My dad always tells me I’m too hard on myself. I see where he’s coming from. I feel like I am constantly letting my family, my partner, and, most importantly, thirteen year old me down. That is the bit that hurts me the most. Sweet little naive child me was so hopeful and optimistic! and now look at you. If I met younger me, I don’t think I’d be able to look her in the eye.
iii. Writing a novel and creativity
Because the one thing I wanted to be when I was older was an author. It’s the only thing I have ever wanted for myself. I wanted to be immortalised forever on the spine of people’s shelves and in literature. I wanted to be in lists of people’s favourite books and have fanfiction written about my characters when my work is turned into a TV or film adaptation.
It’s funny using past tense to describe this because I still want that. I am lost and I don’t know how to return to that path. I am a perfectionist to a fault and I don’t know how to fix that.
*
For my dissertation, I had to write the opening of a novel and though it was stressful and hard work, I liked what I had produced enough to want to continue it further and hopefully finish.
That still hasn’t happened. I don’t think it will—and this statement terrifies me to my core.
I have tried working on this novel since graduating and I have made no progress. Now that I didn’t have to tailor my style and content to academia, the new found freedom pulled me in all directions. I was indecisive and kept changing how I wanted the plot to begin whilst keeping the premise pretty similar. As a result, I have overworked this idea and story so much that I haven’t felt the heat of creative passion since writing in for my dissertation. My fingers type frozen and my brain full of a numbing nothing. It is not empty, don’t get me wrong! It is full of a nothing. Imagine static but without the harsh crunching sound and the, well, static.
Funny enough, my review for Our Wives Under the Sea by Julia Armfield was the first time in a while where I felt proud of something I’d written.
Until above where put thought onto paper (or straight into Substack’s post editor?), I didn’t realise that I was proud, that a small shimmer of my younger me’s hope still exists. Yes, it’s just a book review! So what!? I put effort into something and it paid off! Instead of looking at number of likes and seeing the click through rate of my substack posts like a micro-influencer, I measured the success of something based off the content. It felt good. I felt like I was getting my mojo back.
Writing this feels freeing. And though I may cringe when I look back on this later, I feel proud now. I don’t find it easy being open and sharing my emotions.
Writing this has also cleared the emotional fog I was sieving through when I first opened this blank document. My expectations were different. I started writing with the purpose of confessing my feelings, not caring about perfection because these are my emotions! and this is how I feel! I thought I would have more to say, but alas the fog has cleared so I will end this here.
Love from,
Hannah
(ig, spotify, goodreads, letterboxd)
As a recent graduate, I felt every word. Love this type of raw, in-depth post
Ummmm, are we the same person?? I feel like you picked at least SOME of this out of my brain. Just came out of a slightly-hellish USA (and even worse, NYC) job search and it's important to remember (though harder to live day-by-day) that writing can and will always be a thing you do regardless of where your money comes from. One of my favorite authors, Terry Pratchett, had a totally unrelated day job that he kept until his fourth or so novel.
Personally for me, having something that doesn't drain the creative energy out of you is important, so having a directly literature/writing/cinema/creative related job isn't always what it's cracked up to be. I know a lot of people who are too burned out from those types of jobs to even think about creating their own work. Your mileage may vary, of course, but something to think about. :) I know it's hard to see other people succeeding professionally, too.