How To Live Your Dream Life

On going to the cinema alone, writer's block and - shit, I think my prefrontal cortex just developed.

Song of the week: Like A Rolling Stone - Bob Dylan (courtesy of going to see ‘A Complete Unknown’)*

On Wednesday, I rang my friend Cathy to chat. I’d been staring at a blank page all day with nothing to say. Half frothy ideas with no substance. It was certain, I had writers block. I remind myself again and again about Anthony Bourdain, “writing is a privilege and a luxury. Anybody who whines about writers block should be forced to clean squid all day.”

Writing is something I do best when it’s slipped into my busy day, like when I have twenty minutes after work and so I am squeezed into spinning the thoughts onto paper. The problem at the moment is I took a week off work to focus on it and here I am, stuck, blocked, and un-squeezed.

‘Just about to get on the tube. You okay?’ Cathy text back.

She asks me how the writings going and I tell her what I’ve told you. I’ve got nothing.

‘You should try the ‘artist’s way’, take yourself on a date.’ She says.

Within minutes, I’d booked a ticket to ‘A Complete Unknown’ and headed to the cinema. For the first time in my life, I went alone. And like usual, Cathy was right. Set in New York, this is the kind of film that makes you remember to dream.

I’ve always been quite good at being alone but London can get so busy I forget to actively ‘date’ myself. Not just passive moments of alone time waiting for a bus but actually spending time with myself.

I dream about moving to Paris or New York; but I barely make the most of living in London and this used to be my dream too. Isn’t it funny how we forget that? London used to feel so special when I visited. I remember that feeling of my dreams cracking out into the open air as I imagined what life could be like if I lived here. Now I’m here I dream of a new city.

This week, I set my intention of remembering the grass is greener where you water it.

You forget you once prayed for this too.

“God, this can’t be your best for me” - Aswan Magumbe

Nottingham, 2023, I was lying in a hospital bed recovering from surgery. They’d cut away chunks of my skull and left me bleeding and bandaged, but alive. All night, the monotonous beeps of my monitors kept me awake, I can still hear them now when it’s quiet. I’d drift off into a morphined state of nothingness and that beep every few seconds would bring me back. Every time a visitor would leave my bedside to carry on with their ordinary life; I’d want to hear exactly what they were planning on doing with their day. From the big things like booking holidays I wasn’t allowed to go on, to little things like getting a hot coffee from a cafe. I longed to go to the shop alone. To walk along a street. To roll over in bed. To get out of bed. To have a shower on my own and get myself dressed. How beautiful life could be if you appreciated it. I’d write down in my notes app, ‘when will it be my turn? When will I get to live?’ As I turned to God as sick people often do, I asked surely there has to be more for me?

I took a blank sheet of A2 paper and drew in big bubble letters - Em’s big life plan. We’re often told that wanting is a sin and if so, no one sins more than me. I can be insatiable when I want something. I’ll think about it time and time again until I’m blue.

I wrote down on the paper all of my big dreams; even the ones that scared me. At first, I just dreamed of a beach with a beautiful sea I could swim in and hot sand to stand on. Then, I dreamed of a busy job at a magazine in a big city. I dreamed the most of being a writer. I hadn’t written anything good in years. I dreamed about holding a book I’d written in the palm of my hands. All of these things so far away from who I was. After I’d pushed out every inch of hope onto the page, I hung it on the wall of the spare bedroom at my parent’s house whilst I recovered. Desire so heavy on my tongue every time I opened my mouth it scared me. My dreams pushing against my teeth, begging for someone to listen.

“A lot of people work really hard to keep you alive. Don’t die on us now.” One of my nurses joked after I missed an appointment and came back with a nasty infection; I think about this more than I should. I think about my Mum and my sister that worked together to wash the blood out of my hair and not get my stitches wet. I think about my surgeon and his team that saved my life twice. I think about my friends that came and visited me. For them, and for me, I keep wanting more.

Substack-ception

How to live your dream

I think this is the answer to your life, once a week or so, take yourself on a date and realise you’re walking through doors you once prayed would open. On Thursday, I went to the Barbican to work on my book and this substack. I thank the past version of me for dreaming that one day, today would be possible. As well as for letting go of the places I no longer belonged.

On the way home from the Barbican, I got the Northern line to London Bridge. A Thursday at 2pm, it was a mess of visiting tourists and suitcases. The toddlers in front of me covered their ears as the train screeched and their tired parents smiled. And I realised I could smile too. So, I did.

As I walked to Padre to get my favourite £3 taco, I let my pace slow behind the busy crowds instead of pushing my way through. Taking my headphones off for the first time since the cinema, I listened to the sound of birds and excitement of people trying new things. Scattered around on the side of roads and curbs, people were everywhere, I joined them to eat. A sunny February afternoon; it was a promise of a kind Spring coming our way.

That evening, I met a director in Shoreditch for a project we’re working on this Summer. My friend introduced me:

“Em’s a writer.” He said simply.

Maybe if you want to live a dream life, you just have to first remember you’re in one.

- Shit, I think my prefrontal cortex just developed.

*I love the idea of sharing a song a week! This idea came from one of my favourite underrated writers on Substack, Max Kessell ‘I’m not sure I’m good at this’.