- Holly Searle
- London, United Kingdom
- Holly Searle is a writer who was born in Westminster in the middle of London. She shares her birthday with Jarvis Cocker and David Seaman and like Jarvis Cocker she wears glasses but has nothing whatsoever in common with David Seaman. She is fascinated by words, people and their stories, and regularly spends hours fantasising about being offered a weekly column. She has a degree in Film and Television which she gained from Brunel University in 1997. She has been blessed with two quite remarkable children whom she adores. She enjoys the company of her friends and the circus that is life. Long Walk to Forever by Kurt Vonnegut is her favourite short story. She is the author of the published children's tale The Story of Balan Singh, and is currently working on her first book.
Wednesday, 2 December 2015
I have been writing a steady stream of consciousness in this tiny part of cyberspace for the last five years. The only relevance its conception ever had, was to serve as a platform on which I could stand and open my mouth.
Its deliverance was derived from a dark period in my life, when I suddenly realised (all be it later, rather than never at all), that I had always been disavowed.
Whether this was self-inflicted, or due to the actions of others, didn’t really matter. I just concluded that it was about time that I opened up. I never dreamt that anyone would actually read anything that I produced. It was a devoid space (mental and physical), where I could explore. Where I could pull a few rabbits out of the hat. In the process, the person I most surprised was myself.
This epiphany bore a tunnel into my soul and the repressed thoughts and ideas took a sharp intake of breath as I gave birth to them when they landed on the page.
With every key I pressed, with every word I wrote, and with every sentence I constructed: my mind palace began to feel a sense of relief and justification for all of those years when I felt that I was unable to open my mouth and have my say.
Soon I was hooked like a fish on a line.
It was an egotistical treat.
For all of us that write, would surely be liars if we admitted that the process and result in itself was enough. Or is that just me?
I doubt it.
Personally I like it when someone pats me on the back, shares a piece that I have crafted, or reacts to it. These chapters in my life, these moments of being, they are like my other children. The process in creating them is pure magic. The satisfaction gained in their production, is a massive high that no drug can emulate.
But they also required an immense amount of dedication during their creation.
Like Victor Frankenstein, I become momentarily insane when I write. Don’t bother trying to speak to me whilst I am in the zone. I can’t hear or see you. You’re dinner maybe later than usual, or you can just call for a takeaway. I honestly am beyond caring. PLEASE, CAN YOU JUST SORT YOURSELF OUT AND LEAVE ME ALONE. For each piece has to be better than the last. It must deliver the goods, and have something of significance to say. It has to be perfect.
And I have to bring it to life.
When I have finished creating a new piece, I rarely return to the scene of the crime. The entire process is so exhausting (like childbirth), that I need to rest, and get some peace and quiet, until the next idea starts to form in my head
However, revisiting some of them reveals how much better I have become at honing my skills. Whilst mapping the histrionics of my life; past lovers, the haste and rush of life, the distain with humanity, the social comments, the impracticality of it all, and the beauties that have breathed life into my bones. I can see improvement.
Some I cannot read again. They make me wince. For all of their cringed worthiness’, they have to remain accessible, because without them, the jigsaw isn’t complete. Some I reread and am astounded by their content. I can’t quite believe that a shy child once ridiculed in class in front of her contemporaries by her English teacher for failing a spelling test when she obviously had a word blindness, wrote something like that.
This tells me that all endeavours, however perilous, that have been tarred and feathered by others, will succeed. There is no romanticism attached to that image or statement. It is just pure stubbornness on my part. I wanted to write it, so I did.
Feck you Miss Jones et al. Truth will out, as they say up North.
As this year concludes, the one that follows it, will feature new and more exciting adventures. The story arc for which will be less available here, but more tangible and bound in the reality of formed creative partnerships outside of this tiny static screen. These partnerships will deliver something new and visual. Something exciting.
A natural evolution of creativity that would have made Darwin smile.
I can only blog for so long. I have written thousands of words here. I may still dip my toe in from time to time. But now it is time to focus of other creative enterprises with likeminded souls. These people harbour rich veins of untapped talent and like me, they are ready to be mined.
And more importantly, like Charles Foster Kane, they are passionate about their long term goals. To succeed is everything. To be or not to be isn’t even a viable question. Their adventure is now mine, and mine theirs.
And together we can build a stronger platform from which to speak.
And like me, they all remember their Rosebud. It’s the love they have for what they do. Never lost, never forgotten and never neglected.
Stand by for action.
It’s going to be great.
The slipstream is calling.