I should advise you to walk the other way.

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

“That depends a great deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.

“I don’t much care where – ” said Alice.

“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.

“ – so long as I get somewhere,” Alice added as an explanation.

“Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”

- Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

This isn't a story about destiny. There's no such thing. This is a story about choices.

I first heard about this scene from Alice in Wonderland in an R.E. class in year 11, when I was talking to a girl next to me about what we were going to do after our GCSEs. She told me that she didn't know what she wanted to do, but that it didn't really matter.

“…Really?” I asked, sceptically.

“Yeah. My Mum said that it’s like that part in Alice in Wonderland where she meets the Cheshire Cat, and she doesn't know which way to go so it doesn't matter which way she goes, if you know what I mean?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

I didn't know what she meant. So I went on worrying about which options to take and blindly guessing at where I wanted to go and what I wanted to do and meticulously planning every detail of my future, just like our teachers and parents told us to. Choose where you want to get to first, think about how to get there second. That's the way it's supposed to be, right?

I decided on journalism. Journalism, or something like journalism. No, wait, I had some work experience in marketing and I loved it. Yes, advertising is the job for me. Definitely. I think. Or publishing would be good, or something in the media. One of them. No, no, I am most definitely born to be a journalist. Yep, that’s it. I am so glad I know exactly what I want to do with my life, and precisely how to go about it. My path is definitely set.

But it wasn't, and it took me a terrifying year of uni to realise that it never is and it never will be. It took me another year to realise that this is exactly the way it should be.

Halfway through my second year I saw that there were some career talks going on. Since I had a free afternoon, I stumbled into one about working in TV. I could have so easily missed that talk and tentatively crept down some route into journalism, but after an hour in that room my whole vision had changed. Just like that, I found myself walking in the opposite direction to the one I had planned.

A couple of months later, I was given the best opportunity of working in TV that I could have imagined. I’ll never know if I only sought this opportunity because of my predetermined choice, or whether I was just very lucky. I don’t believe in destiny, but sometimes the random circumstances of life can form the stepping stones that give you a direction, even if it is tenuous and subject to change, and even if it is not the one you had originally planned.

A couple of weeks ago, I read the Alice tales and I remembered the conversation I had in year 11 once again. Only now did I realise what my friend had meant. Perhaps I didn't know for certain where I wanted to go; perhaps it will always be changing, but it doesn't matter. Sometimes we don’t know where we want to go until we get there, so it doesn't matter in which direction we start. But you will always get somewhere, so long as you walk long enough, and so long as you keep walking. Sometimes random circumstances overrule our original choices, and sometimes random circumstances bring us exactly what we were after before we knew what we were looking for. Sometimes, as nonsensical as it seems, walking in the opposite direction to what we want might just bring us the thing we were aiming for all along.

“I should advise you to walk the other way.”

This sounded nonsense to Alice, so she said nothing, but set off at once towards the Red Queen. To her surprise she lost sight of her in a moment, and found herself walking in at the front-door again.

A little provoked, she drew back, and, after looking everywhere for the Queen (whom she spied out at last, a long way off), she thought she would try the plan, this time, of walking in the opposite direction.

It succeeded beautifully. She had not been walking a minute before she found herself face to face with the Red Queen, and full in sight of the hill she had been so long aiming at.

- Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass

Art is a test we always fail.

O for a Life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!  

                                                                              - John Keats

This is a sad story. It’s tragic. It’s about stories of love and death that will never be understood.

It’s about art galleries.

I can see you’re bored already. No, wait, I promise it won’t involve any painfully silent whitewashed corridors or musty smells or artistic concepts you don’t understand.

I study English literature, so I spend a lot of my time reading, looking at and thinking about art. Last time I was in London with my family, I fancied popping to see some Pre-Raphaelite paintings (sorry, I lied about the long words). There was just one problem. My Dad. He can’t stand art galleries. I watched as he moped around for a while, laughing at some paintings, staring dumbfounded at others, before stubbornly slumping into a corner, evidently waiting to leave. I am sure he is not the only one who, if they must go into one of those places, has this inevitable response. When I asked him why he didn't like art, his response was simple: I don’t understand it.

I’m sure all of us have experienced being dragged round these places on school trips when we were younger. The problem is, it has made us all think that art is a kind of test. When I see people walking round an art gallery, it’s less with an air of casual indifference, and more with a panicked determination to see, to know, to understand. What does it mean? What are they trying to say? I don’t know. I don’t understand. And art becomes a test we always fail. Many of us walk out of an art gallery feeling more stupid than when we walked in. And if this is true, art has failed.

I could write all day about the purpose of art. But one thing I believe about art is that it isn't a riddle that needs solving; there is no meaning to uncover or secret truth to detect. Anything we see in a work of art is brought by ourselves. When we look at a painting, we shouldn't strain to understand what the artist was trying to do, we should just pay attention to the way we feel. Enlightened, disgusted, sad, confused: this is all fine. Art is an experience, not a test. Don't be afraid of art, because art is only ever as good as its viewer, and if we cannot understand art, we cannot understand ourselves. 

We should write as we dream.

We should write as we dream; we should even try and write, we should all do it for ourselves, it’s very healthy, because it’s the only place where we never lie… we should try and write as our dreams teach us; shamelessly, fearlessly, and by facing what is inside very human being. 

- Hélène Cixous

When I was little, I wrote stories.

I made things up and wrote things down, and all my whims and fancies and thoughts and feelings flowed freely into my little notebook without a second thought for their reason or purpose. They were awful, but it didn't matter. When I was six it was simple: I wrote stories because I wanted to, and because I enjoyed writing them.

When I was seven, my school had ‘Show and Tell’ every Friday afternoon. My friends would bring in their dolls and their holiday photos, and I would bring my notebook and read out a story. If the other children lost interest, (or never had any in the first place,) I didn't care in the slightest. I read my story because I wanted to, and because I enjoyed reading it. It was simple like that.

When I was nine, my teacher asked me to write what I thought about bullying, so I made something up and wrote something down. I read it to my teacher, then to my class, then to my headmaster and then to the entire school. When I looked up and I saw all those faces staring back with something like approval, I realised that I wasn't just writing stories because I enjoyed them, but because I wanted others to enjoy them too. I learnt that stories made people listen, and think and feel. I learnt that stories have power.

Then, something changed.

I forgot how to write stories. Somewhere amongst the chaos of growing up, a consciousness gleaned that writing meant exposing yourself to the whole world. Were they really any good? I thought they were, but now they seem…trivial. Silly. People might not like my stories. People might not like me, and in short, I was afraid.

Teachers and parents told me that writing should follow certain rules. Writing to argue, persuade, advise. Writing to inform, explain, describe. Writing stories is no career. You should start thinking of your future, soon, now!

…After all, centuries of people have written better than me, so perhaps it’s better to read other people’s stories than to write my own.

When I was eighteen I went to university to study English literature. I read other people’s stories and I enjoyed them. They made me listen, and think and feel. But now when I write it is with rules and word counts and deadlines. Now when I write it’s not always because I want to, or because I enjoy it, but because someone else tells me to. Now when I write I write with the voice of my parents and teachers and lecturers. I write with a voice of panic and distraction. Now when I write, I can’t write me.

When I was twenty I found my old notebook and I read my stories. I enjoyed them, and they made me listen, and think and feel. I remembered that to write is to know yourself. So I wrote a story for the first time in nine years, just because I wanted to, and because I enjoyed writing it, and because I wanted to make people listen, and think and feel once more. So welcome to my stories and welcome to my blog. It has no purpose, but that is exactly why I wrote it.