In the name of l'art de vivre. My last confession was this morning.

I, am not, a writer.

Oh my god. Yeah. That, that felt pretty good. Whoo. 

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Alright, a question to you out there. Dream job. Go. Now. Shout it out. 

No, literally, shout it out. I want to be able to hear you from my hovel in north London. Freak out the tired, zombie-like people around you. Talent and money no issue, top of your voice, dream job, scream it. 

If you actually just pelted out your dream job, you may need to spend some time reflecting on from whom you take your commands, and why. Ever heard of Zimbardo's prison experiment? The film The Wave? The concept of free will? Look them up. Seriously.

My dream job? "Writer". Journalist, author of fiction, ruminator of all things intellectual and philosophical, documenter of deeds done. Any one of them would do. I would love to have the raw talent to write well. But, beyond that, I would love to also have the arguably sexier and gut-wrenching discipline that it takes to practice and work at your writing; that constant desire to better that which you have done before.

That's right. If there's a single fantasy that needs to be revealed to be nought more than an insecure old man with a bag full of parlour tricks cowering behind a curtain, it's that of the genius creative talent who doesn't need to work at their craft. (As a related but also completely tangential aside, Dorothy's ruby red slippers - not red in the original The Wizard of Oz text. I know, right?)

Last year, I suggested, "All of us are writers".

I take it back. I was wrong. We are not all writers.

I know people who are writers. They may not have had anything published, but they think like writers, they write like writers. They have the thought processes that mean they see the world through a writer's eyes, they can construct whole worlds through their words, make you feel something. And they work at it. They work at it because they want to be better, because they habitually worry that they're not good enough. They work at it by writing, and rewriting, and dissecting other people's writing to learn from them.

No, we most certainly are not all writers.

But, we do all write.

I am incapable of constructing a compelling story, or a multi-layered piece of genius. I will never be a journalist that changes the world or causes revolutions through my words. My personal / blogging writing voice is completely self-indulgent; it's wordy, unstructured, my meaning is often obscured by hyperbole. I don't have a clear picture of who it is that I'm writing for other than myself. I almost certainly break all the rules of good writing, I'm not particularly talented, and I sure as hell don't have the discipline or drive to truly work at improving any of these things.

But, fuck me, I love to write.

At the end of the day (hello idiom; George Orwell would be turning in his grave) that's what matters, right? And if I enjoy the process of writing, the worst thing I can do is disappear so far up my own ego that I become too scared to do that very thing that I revel in for fear of not being good enough. The same rings true for those that get a kick out of playing an instrument but aren't musicians, or like to draw but aren't artists. As one of my brothers once said after I mentioned I get no pleasure out of playing the piano for other people, "Then play for yourself." He's a wise one, that boy.

So, perhaps rather than l'art de vivre (the art of living), we should be talking about joie de vivre (the joy of living). For, in the dawning hours of this morning, the confession came to me: "I am not a writer". And this, my friends, may not be the art of writing. But it sure as hell is the joy of writing. 

What's your poison?

My friend, good morning. Is it not a fine day? By the way you approach me with a purpose in your eyes and a slight hesitation in your step, I assume both I and my services are not unknown to you, although I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance.

Please, take the empty seat by me, we are in no rush and we should make the most of this rare sunshine. Would you would like a cigarette? Ah, by the way you flinch I see this is not one of your vices. Alas, despite the warnings and the array of other less harmful pleasures at my disposal, this is one I can't seem to shake.

Perhaps you have heard of me from another of my clients, a friend of yours perhaps? You shake your head. No, you are right. If a friend had passed on my recommendation, you would not be so nervous.

Please, be at ease. I am not a member of that fine establishment, the police, nor a member of that other fine establishment, the press. I pass no judgment on my clients, and am but here to serve and please.

Perhaps you are in a hurry, your shoulders have not eased, despite your acceptance of my offer to sit.

And so, to business.

What is your pleasure? I have a number of drugs and drinks, although I see by your healthy and fit appearance that it is unlikely that this is what you're after, unless you are seeking to try something new? Ah, you flinch again. I commend you; to imbibe in such poisons is not a pass time I would recommend, although thankfully for my business, others disagree.

Perhaps you have certain sexual desires that you would like to satiate? Again, I see you recoil at my suggestion, and I see by the ring on your finger that you are married, although this has not prevented some of my other, less moral clients from procuring my services.

Perhaps you have heard of my more specialised line of products? Yes, I see some of the tension has left you, and a smile is now hovering on your lips. Of course, these areas are a relatively new business for me, although the last year or so has seen them burgeon, bringing me new clients, a different class of clients to those I normally have the pleasure of meeting.

May I ask, is your pleasure the feel of the finely bound book? Again, a shake of the head. My dear friend, I normally am so good at finding the right vice for my clients, but you are that rare thing, a client who holds their pleasures close to them. I see in your coat pocket the outline of a tablet or an e-reader, although this doesn't of course mean that you do not like to also read books in their paper form, and this service I offer is doing particularly well.

By my wandering process of elimination, I can but assume you wish to either buy video games from me, or TV boxsets. Yes, I see. My apologies, I should have noticed the signs earlier, but the warmth of the sunshine has affected my usually sharp perceptiveness. I beg your forgiveness, but now I notice the slightly crumpled nature of your clothes, the way you squint in the weak sunshine, the pale tinge to your skin, the shadows around your eyes and the bloodshot look, no doubt caused by numerous late nights and long stints in front of a screen.

And so, is it a video game or a box set that you seek? You still give nothing away, which would make me think you were a seasoned gamer, adept at keeping your emotions at bay, rational in the face of pressure! But no, you are on edge, my friend, and do not have the presence of someone who merely seeks a new adventure on which to embark.

Rather, I would deduce that you have just finished a season, a season with a cruel cliffhanger no doubt, and are desperate to continue the story, to begin the next chapter.

And there, you have inched closer to me. Yes, I can help put you at ease. This is a vice I have not indulged in, myself. I have seen what it has done to some of my clients, and I fear the allure of it. I have seen what it has done to their conversation, to their health, to their social lives. Of all the ways I serve my clients, this is indeed the one I fear the most.

But please, allow me to run through my collection. I shall torture you through my time-wasting no longer.

I have all seven seasons of Dexter, the first two of Game of Thrones, all five of Breaking Bad and Mad Men. The three of Downtown Abbey, perhaps, or The Walking Dead. Homeland, The Killing, Boardwalk Empire? Also, the older ones for those late to the game and eager to catch up - The Wire, Prison Break, The Sopranos, Lost, 24.

"Just gimme the stuff, yo! Quit wastin' my time, bitch!"

...Breaking Bad it is, my friend.

It's probably time to go to your happy place

Going for what should have been a leisurely stroll along the south of the River yesterday, I found myself cursing the cold, my refusal to make allowances for London's post-apocalyptic climate by dressing in suitable clothing, the process of evolution that had led me to become self-aware enough to ponder my predicament, and the fact I appeared to be developing frostbite in areas of my body I wasn't aware existed.

It is easy in times such as this to dwell on those things that feed our misery. The seemingly never-ending snow dome that has clamped itself over London (and, of course, Britain). The fact that the cost of living seems to have suddenly become incredibly high. The unlikelihood of me being in a position where I own or am least paying off some sort of property within the next few years. The increase in reports and/or incidents of violence towards women around the world. The violence and misery that our fellow humans continue to inflict on each other in the name of various institutions, values and beliefs. Arsenal's profound ability to inflict despair on its supporters. A growing number of homeless people living in a different world at the foot of the modern office I work in. My ability to sandwich Arsenal between two development issues.

But, whilst attempting to create a duveted cocoon at an ungodly hour, shivering and snivelling and feeling sorry for myself and for the world but mainly for myself, I was reminded of my post from roughly this time last year, which remains the most viewed and commented-on post from this blog. It's the post entitled A pause to reflect and wax lyrical, in which I ruminated on how a part of l'art de vivre is surely recognising and reveling in the smaller things that bring us little bursts of joy and make us pause in appreciation of them.

So, for this post, written during a bout of (wo)man flu-ridden insomnia, I share nothing more than an updated version of my list of things that bring uncomplicated joy, a talisman against the cold, in the hope that it'll help me remind myself that this too shall pass and hopefully inspire you, dear reader, if you find yourself in a place where you are in need of some inspiration.

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Wearing my nose-ring. The way that the use of triplets in a piece of music manages to satisfyingly squeeze three notes in the space of two. Playing the piano with no audience but myself. Turning your face skyward and closing your eyes to feel the sunshine whilst walking. The way that sunbeams find their way through clouds and reach downwards, seeing clouds hanging so low in the sky it feels as though you could reach out and touch them, the sound of the wind finding its way through gaps so small you didn't know they existed. Always, mini daffodils. Being in awe of the creative talents of my closest friends and family. Finding out that someone has read something of mine and been moved or inspired. Watching my 88-year-old grandfather and 3-and-a-half-year-old second cousin dance to Run DMC's Tricky (yes, the same second cousin that featured in this blog's first ever post). Watching my 3-and-a-half-year-old second cousin playing with her 88-year-old great grandfather in a way I must have when I was her age, seeing my brothers play irreverently with our two second cousins, watching the younger of the two discover the world around her with a twinkle in her eye. The feeling of having an idea spark in your mind after reading something new. The feeling that the idea was there all along, waiting to be uncovered. Cracking the spine of a new book, writing perfectly on the second page of a notebook, book cover art. Sitting in a coffee house with nought more than a book, your music, and the feeling of space and time within you as the surrounding world speeds up. Spending a Sunday tucked in your room with nought more than a book, your music, and the feeling that the outside world and the cold are far away. Using words such as "nought" or "betwixt". Strolling as those around you rush. The sudden lifting of self-consciousness to be left with who you truly are at your core. Finding out that insane things like chess boxing and the live reenactment of films exist. Seeing a city you thought you knew through different eyes. Discovering things and places with someone you care about for company. Remembering and playing video games from your younger years. All those small, insignificant yet significant things that make you breathe a little deeper and smile a little smile to yourself.

Writing our lives into existence

I am an unashamed lover of my handwriting.

An opening that smacks of unabashed arrogance, and constitutes a brash and abrupt first sentence to be cruelly assaulted with, I feel. And so now, please allow me to retreat to the more wordy and ethereal meat of this post.

A few months back, a dear friend playfully teased that my handwriting "is funny, like a teenage girl's". This left-of field comment led to a profusely argued response on my part, that my handwriting is nothing of the sort but is, in fact, elegant, beautiful, italicised. The perceived attack on my handwriting was a perceived attack on me, and threw me into a defensive stance.

This blog has spoken before of how someone's handwriting can be intensely personal; on how a personality, mood and purpose can be found in the strokes of a pen that is absent from the generic fonts we see on screen. To read a handwritten letter or message by someone is to have them in the room with you, to know that they've sat down and scribbled or carefully inscribed the words you're reading. The few books I have that have personal messages written in the first few pages mean more to me than many of those that are my favourite, battered, well-read paperbacks. The letters and postcards I have from close friends will remain dear to me in a way an email or printed letter never quite could, despite the fact the content may well be just as heartfelt. Seeing letters from my great-great grandmother to her daughter, or a letter from the child-version of my father to his father, suddenly made them more real to me than any stories or photographs could.

And for me, connected to that love of handwriting - the feeling that to see your words drawn in ink rather than typed in pixels, and to see the way that you controlled and moved the pen across the paper, is to see yourself - is a whole host of other related phenomena. A fetish for stationary. A need to handwrite to learn a subject fully. The ability to throw away a laptop and take up a pen when stuck for ideas or suffering from writer's block.

And, not least, a slight nostalgia for the days of letter-writing. Again, there is something intensely personal in writing (and posting) a letter to someone. There's obviously numerous reasons to write, but let's choose a single instance that is arguably dying out: the letter that constitutes the written catch-up. That moment when you sit down to tell the story of your life as it was in the intervening time between the last letter and now. For the receiver, there's something exciting about receiving a handwritten envelope, recognising (or not recognising) the handwriting, and opening it. Reading the page or pages, holding the sheets that the writer has also held and written on. Reading the story of their recent life. For the writer, there's the process of writing, of selecting what to put in and what to leave out. The tone you adopt, how you tell your story. The thought that goes into the words, the crossed-out mistakes that you know the reader will be able to see.

And here, perhaps, is a sign of our changing times. The written letter, or even email, that constitutes the 'art' of the personal exchange of monologues as a way of story-telling and communicating feels to be disappearing.

Conversely, many of us are most likely writing to each other more than ever before, as we rely on texting, instant messaging, social media channels such as Twitter and Facebook to let people know what's going on in our lives, what's important to us, and to see what our friends are doing. We still construct our narratives in the same way those handwritten letters were constructed, but as just-in-time snippets rather than reflective monologues. We learn to read the tone of our friend's words as an identifier to who we're communicating with, rather than also the shape of their handwriting. We're in constant contact with those closest to us as part of a single on-going conversation that can be dipped in and out of without a single word having to be spoken. For those in the future that want to reconstruct life in 2013, there will an endless source of material from which they can draw: Tweets, emails, texts, blogs, photographs, videos. We can download our Twitter timelines or our Facebook activity for posterity, make them available for us and others to wade through.

But who would we find, when reading back over these words? The real-time messages we post either to many publicly, or to an individual privately - is that who we are? Is that who we become, simply through the act of writing? But then again, can the same not be said for handwritten letters, or even the diaries that we often rely on as sources? Is the memory required for a monologue letter or reflective diary not fallible, and perhaps less reliable than the real-time written conversations many of us are now parts of? Are any of these written lives a true reflection of who the writer is, or simply a persona they choose to portray? We write our lives into existence, whether through ink or pixels, whether through letter, diary, text, or blog. A distorted mirror on our lives, and our lives a distorted mirror of our words.

The love of the handwritten word then perhaps boils down to nought but a love of evidence that a real person wrote the words, and a connection with that person. And so, my friends, whether your handwriting be a beautiful cursive or a spider's footprinted trail, don't dismiss the power of it to tell a story all of its own.

"Not all those who wander are lost"

So, dear Reader, it is a Saturday morning. The weekend stretches before us much like a person in their older-years that has been practising yoga for a considerable portion of their lives and, whilst perhaps short on time, is able to amaze with their feats of flexibility.

On which note, thank you for taking the moment's decision to click into this link from whichever dusty corner of the web it snuck up on you. And then continuing to use the next few additional moments of your day to read the rambling text that has equally thrust itself before you, much like an unwelcome exhibitionist (a tautology, no?).

I am conscious that, since October, this blog has entered a winter of discontent. Posts on writer's block, rehashed pieces posing as original and fresh thoughts, rants about critical engagement with the news, and the difficulties of being in your twenties. It's a surprise you're still here at all, really, and for this I also thank you.

And so, a return to the blog of yester-season.

Which of the many topics that have been sitting as drafts in my Blogger account from the last few weeks shall I pick to elaborate on and enthral you with? An unabashed love letter to handwriting? The fallibility of memory as we reconstruct our lives through storytelling? The joy of rediscovering that you don't need to 'go for a walk' in order to appreciate the peacefulness that a stroll can bring? A comparison of the monologue format that is the letter that we used to use as part of a prolonged conversation over distance versus the instantaneous world of instant messaging and texting that many of us now use to keep in touch with loved ones and friends? So many topics that have sprung to mind and been captured in little snippets so as to not forget them, lying patiently to be expanded upon. All rather self-indulgent, but then the purpose of this blog is to explore those things that bring a sense of happiness to our lives. Self-indulgence may be a vice rather than a virtue to some, but a vice that this amateur joke of a writer advocates. In this context, at least.

Let's explore the draft post that sits at the top of the pile. The joy of the stroll. I shall do my best to keep it short and sweet. I have already taken up too much of your time, I feel.

Much like this time last year, I have found that the stark London weather has had an upsetting impact on my willingness to wander. The result has been a mind that has not been cleared of the clutter that inevitably builds up after a long while. Those 'wonderings and ponderings' that I often mention haven't been allowed to take seed, marinate, and explore which unrelated metaphors they can introduce to each other. My conversation and ability to express myself has equally been affected, not having had the time to think and reflect that I normally need (like the good little introvert that I am). The sense of peace I wrote about last summer whilst sitting by the sea, and which can often be easily recaptured by a walk by the river, or through a park, has gone AWOL.

And yet, in the short distance between the Tube station and my flat last night, after what has felt like a long week, both the peace and the 'wondering wander' suddenly made a welcome reappearance. The commute home on the Tube had been the same, the route I took was the same, I was surrounded by the same hurried and harried commuters, seeking to get home as quickly as possible. But then the self-awareness that suddenly roots you in your surroundings rather than in your thoughts pulled me from my unconscious introspection. Rather than being one of the commuters, speeding down the pavement, keys already in hand, my pace had slowed. Rather than aiming to get to my destination (and warmth) as quickly as possible, I was strolling, breathing a little deeper, mind at ease and at rest. Home wasn't going anywhere. There was nothing pushing me from behind nor pulling me forward. And so, for a journey that normally takes about five to ten minutes, I forgot about the time. I looked in amusement at those hurrying around me, smart phones in hand or to ear; my eyes lifted to the street landscape around me.

In other words, the languid stroll that I normally reserve for the long walks I make an active decision to go on had suddenly made an appearance during my everyday commute. And the sense of peace from those few minutes still hasn't left. I feel refreshed, at ease; the whirring of the busy mind has gone.

And so, my friends, this is my self-indulgent observation for today. We often feel as though we don't have the time to do the things we want to do. We come up with excuses, say we're too busy, there's too much to do. But if something as simple as walking a little slower between the Tube and home can have the same effect has spending three hours wandering around a park or the city, and if all it takes is a little mindfulness, this is something even the busiest person can indulge in. To wander, rather than to hurry. To ponder, rather than to harry. And thus, we return to the contemplation of l'art de vivre.