Batten down the hatches, there’s going to be a boat load of happy swearing in this one.
First, this move to London, to a new life, hasn’t been easy. Few big changes are. But even though altering your entire life is difficult, there are signposts on the way that tell you you’re doing the right thing.
Passing through customs was one for me. Coming into the UK before now I’ve always been quizzed: “Where will you work, breathe, bathe? Are you going to take our men, our ponies, our health care? Do you have eight people willing to empty their bank account in an effort to keep you solvent? What is the name of that ginger hair colour you use?”
This time though? This time it was easy.
The customs agent and I talked about writing. He told me about his workmate who may have a script optioned. He discussed his daydream of a TV series based off his days as a police constable. He asked the name of my school and if I thought he could study there (he was about my age: 40-something).
So that was one signpost.
Another was, after initial panic, finding a flat through a friend, a flat that’s lovely, calm, clean. Affordable.
Then there were wee ones like the free espresso a barista in the busiest cafe in London gave me (never happened before and I still don’t know why she did), the man who said it just seemed as if I come from here, and the unbelievable amount of well-wishes, bolstering pep talks, and love I’ve received from the wonderful people who read my stories.
But there’s one signpost I love most and this is where the swearing comes in.
I met two of my tutors this week in their respective offices. Before our face-to-face I had met each of them once, in June, on the phone. They interviewed me to see if I’d be a good fit for the college. Three months later and without any other contact between us from June and September, I walk into both of their offices and each says, “Oh, I remember you. I was very curious about you.”
But wait, there’s more.
The director of the film and media programme in which I’m enrolled, the widely-published doctor who has been teaching for years, he said these words:
“Your enthusiasm just came off the page. I don’t think we’ve ever received a more enthusiastic application and when I read it I told my colleagues ‘We have to interview this woman.’”
Sure, it’s not a BAFTA, it’s not a sparkling gay unicorn, but here is what those words are:
Validation.
A signpost.
A god damn glittery lesson.
Be who the mother fucking hell you are. I’m boisterous, passionate, eager. I’m me. And I put me, me, me into my application for this school and it damn well paid off.
Forget formality. Forget telling prospective employers or tutors or friends things they already know — the wonders of their company, their school, their shoes.
Tell them about your passion, your glee, your hope for what the two of you together can be. Be joyous, be enthusiastic, be you.
God damn it it’s all you can be so you might as well do it with such fervour people will take a quick, deep breath, grin and say softly, “That was amazing.”
We find our places, our Johns, our Sherlocks, our lives by trying. Trying and failing, and failing, and failing. But I promise you that if we keep trying, eventually we succeed.
Keep trying.
Dreaming.
Being you.
43 years old and I’m still working on this. This brought tears to my eyes. Most of the time I feel stuck in a life that has defined me, instead of me defining myself. What I wouldn’t give for someone to say “That was amazing” to me.