I'm safely in France, after a long journey. Everything here is rich with character, ecstatic with beauty. I can't believe how fortunate I am to be here.
Tomorrow I will take photos and take you all on a virtual tour, but for now (as I almost fall asleep on my laptop) I will simply say this: I really do think I can be a writer.
It's funny, I have always wanted to be a writer, but I haven't always believed I would get there. It was only a few years ago that I began taking my most tender dream with anything approaching seriousness.
In 2013, I was kicked off my degree at the University of Exeter. Looking back now, although it was not done kindly, it was a cruel mercy, that freed me from a cycle of unhappiness and obligation. Anyway, at the time, it was impossible to see it that way. All I could see were my hopes in shreds, my future obliterated by my own failings. I spent a long time afterwards circling the drain, unsure whether to let myself sink.
It was writing that saved me. It has always been writing that saved me, in the deepest and worst depressions of my life.
And somewhere along the way, I've started to believe it might even become my career.
After months of illness, kept afloat by the promise and hope of this moment, I am here in this most wondrous place. I kept myself alive to get to this point, and right now, it really feels worth it.
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