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Street life - La Habana, 2016

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Thesminustdreamer

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Sale tag

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Uno scorcio di Castelvecchio Calvisio. Abruzzo . Italy .

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Dreamyresorts

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La Habana, 2016

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Differdesign

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I'm not shit at this.

Writing is something that I’ve always enjoyed, but never felt good at. I remember getting a notepad and pens for Christmas one year as a child and deciding to write a story about fairies, and later on that year our school had a competition which involved “writing a book” so I translated it and submitted it. I never heard anything back.

I loved reading when I was younger, like many Jacqueline Wilson was my queen. I had nearly the entire collection and would read them over and over (and over) again. I had a lot of the original disney books as well, they were read a million times as well as a few others. I just loved reading, I would stay up all night reading and falling asleep with the book in my hand. As I entered secondary school it was the same, and sort of ended when I went into sixth form. I just loved reading, I still do, but after years of heavy academic work it was/is hard to enjoy. 

I wrote a LOT in my early teens. Fiction, non-fiction, blogs, mostly fan-fiction. I absolutely loved it, I’d have to stop myself from posting so much. Fan-fiction was my most successful, one of them has 1.6million reads on wattpad which just feels insane because that was just a little 14 year old me? I also have a plethora of diaries, journals etc that I continue to this day. Other than the physical diaries, this all stopped when school got more intense and sixth form started. I found myself either at school, working or doing schoolwork and lost the passion for writing, I also had a massive confidence knock during year 12. 

Even though I enjoyed writing, I didn’t feel like I was good at it. I never shared it with anyone apart from one friend, Emilie, who I bonded with a lot over music and writing and it was just something we always shared together even if it was shit. Other than that, my writing was mine, a secret to everyone but myself. When my GCSE exams were marked, it was a year where they had a massive shortage of examiners so they had teachers marking work in subjects they knew nothing about. This resulted on me barely scraping passing my English language GCSE despite having *almost* straight A’s in my coursework. At the beginning of year 12, one of my English teachers decided to bitterly tell me this information in front of the class, resulting in me storming out and screaming bloody murder in the sixth form block . I felt stupid, confused, cheated, like I’d been led on the whole of my GCSE’s. How on earth have I got A’s on nearly all of my coursework but a U (ungradable) on my exam when I did everything I was told to do? What? Honestly, it was one of the most confusing and heartbreaking moments of my educational career. I couldn’t believe it. 

I started doing English literature in sixth form, and after that incident it really knocked me. Year 12 was also a really difficult one for me because there was so much going on at home, this definitely added to things. I felt like nothing I did was right, whenever I’d ask for help I got hit with a snarky remark or to “google it” (yes, I will never get over this). I quit the course after 1 year because the drive and confidence was gone. I described myself as someone who’s “shit at English”. I would be that person constantly asking people to proofread, double check things, asking repeatedly if my work made sense and those people would make adjustments. 

It wasn’t until my second year of university that I really found my understanding for writing, and could see for myself that I’m good at it. I studied theatre and performance at university which was an accumulation of many things theatre-related but academically driven. We did acting, production and academic research but everything was heavily based on research and a big part of our coursework was how our research made a difference on our work. In my first year I passed with good grades, everyone says the first year of uni is a bit of a doss and it kind of was. Despite this, I wasn’t used to the amount of research and writing which was because I’d done a BTEC during sixth form which is more vocational (practical) so I spent more time on my feet than reading and researching. In the first year, we didn’t get to choose the subjects we did but it was divided up equally into acting, production and academic stuff, then from second year we got to choose what we wanted to focus on. I decided to take a leap and pick mostly academic modules for the entire year. In this, I decided to do 2 independent research modules - not a common choice.

I was hesitant at first but I loved independent research. That is the module that made me realise I’m good at research and writing. Finding something you love and pursuing it really shows your skills, and you don’t know until you’re in it. It absolutely helps that I had an amazing, open-minded tutor who I’d have fantastic 1-1 meetings with, she was brilliant. She was real and honest with me about my work. She taught me how to write, how to structure things but using my topic as the stimulus and when I say that put two and two together, it put two and two together. Suddenly my essay quality went up by miles, for every other subject I was doing I suddenly just knew how to write. This was because I had done it within a subject that was so familiar to me and it just clicked, I had a moment of realisation: I’m not shit at this. Everything came together and it was one of the most impactful moments of my life. My grades shot up as did my confidence. 

Since then, I’ve felt far better about my writing skills. I’m still slowly getting back into reading (despite graduating nearly 3 years ago…), but writing is definitely something I want to really make a habit of. I work as a receptionist and spend most of my day typing up emails, communicating and writing generally which secures that more. I even have people coming up to me now asking me to write stuff up for them and it makes me so happy because an 18-year-old would have never seen this coming.

Kirsten x

#life #journal #blog #diary #everyday #lifethoughts #lifediary #onlinediary #writing #confidence #journalism #journaling #writingdevelopment #development #progress #blogentry #blogger #lifeblog #lifejournal #lifeblogging

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Will My Bed Fit?

I remember more than you’d expect when moving to Spain. I remember there being some sort of goodbye party at a local hall, whether that was actually for us is another conversation to be had but in my memory we had a final "shabang". I remember packing up the house and there was this huge sitting dog teddy I had that someone was trying to persuade me was in the lorry but I wasn’t convinced, I imagine this got binned but they didn’t have the heart to tell me. It was one of those random things that stuck with me for a few years hoping it would show up. I remember the move being on my 5th birthday, and going by my grandads to pick up my birthday present as we left. I don’t really remember much after that, knowing how I am now I was probably asleep. 

The next part of the journey was just generally travelling and stopping by random motels, it was never a bad thing, just an experience. In both France and Spain we'd end up at motels on the side of the motorway where truckers stopped. The food was always really exciting, even if now it would be the most bland thing in the world. I remember always being excited about the food, asking about what we’d have, when we’d next eat, seeing what was in Spanish shops that was different to England (everything at this time). Seeing the symbol for food on motorway signs would get me so excited. I wasn't starved or anything, just the idea of food in a different country was so appealing. Funnily enough, I believe a “classic” spaghetti bolognese was my go-to in the motels and the way they did it was nothing like I’ve ever had since. It’s so weird how the brain works, sometimes I’ll get a craving for it and I know that craving will never be satisfied. I could go to one of those same motels now, have the same dish and it would never be the same. I feel like as kids we remember things on such a different scale to what they really are. It’s cute but also I want the feeling of that spaghetti bolognese again!

We continued to travel to the south of Spain. We ended up in Tabernas at some point, located in Almeria and completely rural (like most places in the south). Incredible views, local tapas bars, mountains for miles and wild boar. I’m not sure how the decision came about, we only lived there briefly but enough for my parents to sign me up to a school. 

I don’t have a lot of memories from this school to be honest - it was very brief - but there was a girl who wasn’t English or Spanish taking a liking to me and wanting to play with me. I was a very shy child and wasn’t the kind that would just play with anyone. I remember the lunch area having a weird smell, a smell that I can’t pinpoint or describe even slightly to this day. It’s so complicated sometimes I wonder if I dreamt it and just think it’s real. 

As if the memory wasn’t foggy enough, after this I really am not sure of the timeline. I know we drove around a lot of places which were forever away from civilization, in hopes of finding a dream home to build and have in Spain. Again it’s so endearing how the child brain works. I remember walking around ruins, half built completely unlivable homes, looking at the basic infrastructure and thinking to myself “will my bed fit?”, the concept of building a house hadn't quite hit me yet. There was somewhere we were looking at houses, and the guy showing us around who must’ve been in his late 60s or so at the time, took our family back to his home for drinks and dinner. The driveway was tiled, covered in grapevines, a small brick roughly built garden outlining the drive that looked out onto the mountains; it was rustically beautiful. The garage, like many Spanish homes, also worked as a kitchen and dining space. The rounded table was draped with a yellow and white plastic chequered tablecloth and a bog standard white light bulb hanging by a thread from the ceiling. I remember us being there until late, and struggling to get away despite desperate spanglish pleas. 

 Another fond place on these travels was near Mojacar, up a hill from the beach. It was a short-stay apartment we had, myself and my older sister had a large bedroom and I remember us having a box of dolls to play with which was very exciting. There was someone as well, I don’t know if he owned or had any connection to the property we stayed in, but he used to talk to the sunflowers outside and try to feed them biscuits. A very core memory of mine.

I think after this (maybe…) was when we landed at our house. Somewhere around this anyway.

Kirsten x

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A brief beginning

I guess to start I should give a bit of background.

I was born in Cornwall and lived in St Mayben until I was 5. We lived in a 2 bedroom bungalow in a could de sac on top of a small hill. At the time we had a view of a field filled with sheep, but that soon changed to a housing development. I also have memories of swinging on the washing line before my parents were awake, the squirrels we kept (that would bite my fingers when I’d tried to interact with them) and being sick on the laminate flooring from eating too many yoghourts after my mum had freshly mopped the floor. There’s also memories of getting chippy and watching The Weakest Link. 

My parents then decided to join everyone on the Spanish Dream (similar to the American Dream, just closer, less faff and idealistically cheaper) which involved moving abroad and starting fresh. They had a dream to buy land and build a home from scratch, my parents didn’t have a lot and wanted the best for us; at the time that seemed best. We moved with a big lorry, our whole life’s belongings travelled with us from Cornwall, through Dover to the south of Spain. It took some time, I can’t remember how long but it was definitely a process. A memory that sticks with me was somewhere in the north of Spain, we were staying on a cliff overnight and it was so incredibly windy we could hear the lorry rocking across the road which left us all uneasy the whole night. There were a few other stops, which I’m sure will come out in future posts but it was certainly a journey. 

We landed in the south, again with a few more stops which I’ll write about at some point. My parents decided to buy a ruin in Los Peraltas, a very very rural area in the south of Spain. This building was such a ruin we couldn’t live there for a long time, and with that my parents decided to buy a caravan. As a part of all of this I remember we made a trip to the local pub for a break and some snacks, and my 5 year old self decided to run into the road (god knows why, I was 5) and that was a whole thing in itself. I have fond memories of making cement for the ruin and feeling like I was really contributing to the project (I doubt I was). On top of all of this, my parents decided to buy a couple of horses and a donkey (again, stories I’ll get into later) and put the caravan next to the house so we had some sort of living situation.

Prior to this, we lived in an apartment in the local village of Arboleas. My parents rented a flat whilst making our ruin somewhat liveable, and the people who rented out that property had a son named Joe, who ended up being one of my best friends nearly the whole time I lived in Spain. We also very nearly got carbon monoxide in that apartment due to a gas heater, luckily someone recognised the signs and we’re all still here. Other fond memories include a lamp being smashed by accident and my mum telling me not to tell Joe which is funny now.

My parents really went for it in Spain, as I mentioned before they decided to get horses as my dad had an interest in them and wanted us to have them. My mum also had dreams of having farm animals so it just made sense. We had a rural home with land, what could go wrong? Everything, apparently.

None of this was long lived unfortunately. Money isn’t limitless, and my dad was/is an alcoholic so it’s probably best the dream didn’t involve too many animals. The house was a project, and like Rome, wasn’t going to be built in a day. It’s still an ongoing project to this day - to me at least.

I proceeded to live in Spain until I was nearly 16, I enjoyed school but struggled with the language initially, bullying and lack of finances I was far too aware of. It was a hard time with lots of changes including my parents separation, my older sister moving out and again financial difficulties that seemed to plague the household. I will delve into this much more at some point, but despite all of it I focused on education and keeping out of the house when I could - not necessarily in the best ways. 

Kirsten x

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It's been a while.

It’s probably been about 10 years since I last did a blog entry. It was something very prominent during the 2000s/early 2010s, as influencers and social media stars became a *thing* it was natural that those with a platform would also have a blog, to really solidify their social presence. 

From my experience, blogs were mainly like an open journal for all modes of expression. You want to exhibit your fashion style? Start a blog. You like to cook? Start a blog. You want to ramble about your thoughts and feel like it goes into the void? Start a blog. 

I started blogging when I was about 11, I don’t know if it counts when it’s on Microsoft’s Notepad but it felt like a big deal at the time. I’ve had a diary since I was very little, but having this technology where I could correct mistakes without anyone seeing those mistakes felt huge. I eventually discovered (and was allowed) the internet which opened a thousand doors, one of those being Piczo. I loved Piczo. As soon as I discovered it I knew it was the one. The variety of people, the focus on photos and depicting life in so many varying styles just hit in a way that made me excited about teenagehood and life ahead; I wanted to be a part of it and I felt like I was. 

Piczo unfortunately called it a day in 2012, and I moved over to Tumblr which I loved but was never the same (yet here I am!). Tumblr itched a scratch I didn’t know I had, however Piczo is one of those nostalgias where I randomly wonder about those who I used to follow. Those bloggers were just everyday people with a few hundred followers, sharing their highs and lows with total strangers with no consequences, no prominent influence. Parasocial relationships exist in smaller spaces too. 

Sharing my personal life and general thoughts on Tumblr didn’t last long. It was a popular site however puberty hit, I was bullied and it didn’t take long for people to find my blog which meant immediately deleting everything before the inevitable shame. Those who picked on me already had enough material, they didn’t need my thoughts as well. And then that was kind of it, by the age of 14/15 I’d quit blogging. 

I’m now 25, social presence has vastly changed since then and I know blogging is still very real and very much a thing, I just want to get back into it as a random person out in the world. It holds a special place in my heart and I enjoy it. I currently live with my boyfriend of 7 years, I have a Bachelor's degree in theatre and am the receptionist of a salon whilst still working in theatre (when I can). I’m passionate about painting, art, drunk cleaning, the Sims, reorganising the whole space when I feel mentally unstable and workers rights. I’m doing this because my mental health has been low for some time and I’m trying my best to rekindle the loves I had in teenagehood. Not because I can’t live past it, but because I feel like those passions got lost somewhere. 

As my mind stands right now, this blog will be talking about past life, future and present. Whatever I’m into in the moment, book reviews (hopefully!) and general ramblings. If you fancy the read, go for it!

Kirsten x

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Early morning in Sighisoara, 2021

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I used to be really against marking up books and would clutch at my pearls anytime a book was damaged in anyway but now I see it as another way to express love. Water stains on the cover means you carried your favorite book through the rain because you wanted to keep reading on the go. Writing in the margins is participating in the conversation with the author. Leaving bookmarks and receipts in between the pages is like freezing traces of your own life in time.

A well worn book is a well loved one.