There are 30-minutes on the timer. The one that’s sat right next to me. And I have to get this out.
This being, whatever *this* is going to turn into.
And really, I think it’s probably the perfect introduction to this “writing for the joy of it” thing.
You see, I have a tendency to always try and work out how to monetise things.
It didn’t used to happen so specifically, but inevitably, my small ideas usually turn into BIG ones.
For example, when we got 2 kittens I thought “Hey, why not start their own little Instagram page which I can use to share pictures of them for any of my friends that are interested?“
But then the BIG IDEA came full throttle into my brain of “OMG my cats could be influencers! We could get free sh*t!“
And the trouble is, the minute a Small Idea turns into a Big Idea… it’s impossible to turn back. The seed has been planted in my brain.
And. The. Pressure. Mounts.
And I end up paralysed, doing nothing because the Big Idea feels too big and I don’t have the time or energy for it.
(That Instagram page I mentioned? Yeah… *crickets*)
Anyway, what does this have to do with the timer next to me? (25mins 33 secs left)
Well – I’ve been obsessed with Storytelling since forever.
I wasn’t the girl who sat in front of the TV for hours.
I was the girl whose nose was buried in books.
The girl who would regularly get told off for staying up too late reading.
WAIT! POSTMAN! Pause the timer!
So, we’ve just been delivered two parcels from Freddie’s Flowers.
One containing a fancy vase. One a beautiful bunch of blooms.
But here’s the thing – we haven’t subscribed to Freddie’s Flowers.
But a part of me got excited and I opened the box anyway.
I mean, it’s reasonable to think that someone might have sent us “Happy Moving In” flowers, right?
But as I scoured the accompanying paperwork inside… there’s no name on any of it.
I search the box, and there’s no address listed.
This feels like there’s definitely been a mistake, so I carefully repack the vase into the box. I cover the flowers back up and shut the lid.
“Wouldn’t that be nice” I think to myself “those flowers are gorgeous. One day, I’ll be the person who always has beautiful flowers in her home.”
Because here’s the thing, I would LOVE to be that person.
Whenever I think of my future self, she mainly floats around in a daze of peace and serenity.
Her strawberry blonde hair (don’t call me ginger) is loose, wavy and flowing.
A relaxed smile is on her face at all times.
Of course she’s the kind of woman who has flowers delivered regularly.
But nonetheless, these flowers are not for me.
So I pack them back up and put my future dreams back in their box too.
I come back to my desk, thinking “Well, at least there’s a story here I suppose.”
I text my Husband a photo informing him of the mishap.
And he replies with an Emoji.A smiling yellow face, with a light blue halo adorning this little cute blob.
“Not a mistake” he texts.
LET’S TAKE A MOMENT – MY HUSBAND IS A FRICKIN’ CATCH!
And strangely, the confusion, the thinking it wasn’t for me, the reality check I gave myself has made this moment so much sweeter than if I knew it was for me immediately.
It’s shown me how quickly we can turn a situation into a story to beat ourselves up with. To highlight who we AREN’T so we can throw ourselves a little pity party.
But guess what. I’m now the girl who gets fresh flowers delivered every fortnight 😎
OK, back to the point of this post and the timer next to me (14minutes 37seconds left)
Where was I? Oh yes… the reading obsession.
Essentially, I grew up wanting to tell stories for a living.
One day, I would love to have a Book available to buy in Waterstones.
I want to be invited on stage to tell my stories and share my ideas with people.
But this is a Big Idea.
And it’s terrifying. And I don’t know what the first step is.
Having a vision for an end goal that sets my soul on fire, paralyses me into stasis.
But I’m sick of being static. I’m sick of not moving closer to it, and instead, skirting around the idea… dabbling in it by creating content in my business. Dipping my toe in by introducing more of it into the teaching I do as part of that business.
But the closer I move towards it, the more I seem to procrastinate.
But, enough’s enough. I’m ready to leave this purgatory of my own potential.
And so, I do what I usually do when I’ve reached a breaking point.
I sent a voice note to my Mindset Coach and good friend Sam.
And with a couple of questions from her, and my attention trained squarely on my own mind as I listen to her, I manage to catch the shape of a thought as it bubbles up from the void of my brain.
A thought that has no doubt been playing on repeat for a while, but just quiet enough that I’ve never consciously heard it before.
“Becky. Who the fuck are you to call yourself a Storyteller? You don’t tell Stories.”
Aha! We have it! The thing that’s stopping me. The Imposter Syndrome. The Self Sabotage. The F.E.A.R!
And with Sam’s help, I have chosen to consciously re-write this thought. To start telling myself a different story than the one that’s been playing on repeat for jeebus knows how long.
“Becky, who the fuck are you! A storyteller! WOW! You legend! You DO tell stories. All the time. Go geddit gurl!”
It sounds better like this… no?
And so, with this new soundtrack to listen to… a Small Idea crept into my head.
What if I started writing, for the joy of it? Just for the sake of practising telling stories more often?
Of course, Big Idea tried to crash the party.
This is why the 30-minute timer is sitting next to me. (6 minutes and 3 seconds left people.)
Because I know that when given boundaries, I thrive.
When creatively constricted in some way, I am also creatively freed.
And so, here it is. The point of this post.
It’s for me to dedicate 30 minutes to telling stories.
To use a Small Idea as a stepping stone toward the Big Idea.
I don’t know where this will go. I don’t know if this will be the only Post that ever gets posted in this style.
But f*ck it. I’m doing it anyway.
There are 4 minutes left and I’m going to use that to come up with a Title, read back through and make any speed edits and then this biatch is done.
It’s imperfect. It’s messy. But it’s a story goddamnit, and I am a Storyteller.