My Younger Self

*This is a work of fiction*

I want to write to my younger self, to tell her some of the things I have learned in the years between the person I was and the person I now am. 

I would tell her to be braver. There are never more things missed than because she was not brave enough to take them. 

I would tell her to take the job- it doesn’t matter if it’s far away or will take you from the people you love. Sometimes, that’s a good thing- no matter how much you think it isn’t. It might have saved a lot of heartbreak for both of us.

I would tell her that above everyone else, she needs to be happy. Stop saying the things you think people want to hear, stop trying to be a person that you just aren’t. Or, try to be that person for real rather than simply acting. You’ll be happier for it, I’m sure. The truth is, I haven’t quite yet mastered that one. 

I would tell her to keep writing, and to DO something with it. Those plays and novels you’ve started and yet just sit there collecting dust aren’t going to do anything for you. We could be bestsellers by now, you know. 

Do more things on your own, is something I would tell my younger self. It’s OK to be on your own, regardless of how you feel. Whether its something big or something small, just go for it. You’ll never know how dependent on your independence you will have to be. 

I would tell her to let go. Of the guy, of the friendships, of the things that are unobtainable. We’re dreamers- girl, I know that, but some things are just not meant to be. It doesn’t matter how he makes you feel, or that you want to be included. It’s a harsh reality, but you needed to learn it then rather than me learning it now. 

I would also tell her to hold on. There are friends you let pass you by because you couldn’t muster the strength or energy to keep it going. That’s not OK, and your life might be richer with them in it. Find the energy, muster the courage and keep that friendship alive. They may depend on you as much as you depend on them. 

I would tell her to have an open mind, to try things. You don’t know who you are yet, you need experiences for that. So go out, and get some. But, don’t get your fringe cut- you always think it will work, and it never does. We’re just not fringe people, my dear. 

I would tell her to be patient. The diet isn’t going to happen overnight, and nor is the life you’re dreaming of. I know all about it- I remember it so clearly. I hate to break it to you, but we’re not quite there yet. But you have to work for it, and there is a difference between patience and procrastination. That dream life isn’t going to happen if you wait forever, so learn the difference. 

I would tell her to stand up for herself. Don’t let the words you’re so desperate to say get stuck at the back of your throat. Don’t sit there in silence with wide eyes and nothing to say. Speak out, because respect is worth more than acceptance. If they don’t respect you, they won’t accept you. And one lasts longer than the other. Staying silent won’t help, and will allow people to take control. Take control of your own life, little one. Don’t let anyone else think you’re OK when you’re not. It’s unhealthy, trust me. 

I would tell her to trust her instincts. Learn that not everyone is to be trusted, and to not wear your emotions on your sleeve. You have to be tougher than that if you want to get better- because otherwise you are going to go through some rough times. And they might say it makes you stronger, but trust me- it doesn’t. It just hurts like hell. Protect yourself, my darling younger self. 

I suppose it would be a letter of regrets, but also of hope. Hope that I could be a better person that I have been. Hope that if I knew then what I know now, the mistakes made wouldn’t be in vain, that they wouldn’t be so pointless. I want this letter to make a stronger and braver version of myself- one who isn’t afraid to take chances or step a little out of line. 

I want to make a happier version of me. A person who isn’t going to look back on her life and wonder ‘what if’? Two words that are completely harmless on their own but when put together have the ability to change a person’s life forever. 

So my big ‘what if’ today would be…what if I really could send this letter to myself? Would it change anything? 

 

‘May Day Murder’ Book Review

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again- I love a good crime novel. From the real gritty novels of Jo Nesbo to the more beachside read of Janet Evanovich, recently I cannot get enough of them. It’s an obsession. 

And there is one series I am LOVING at the moment- ‘The Whitstable Pearl Mysteries’ by Julie Wassmer, ‘May Day Murder’ being the third in the series. Living in Whitstable myself, there’s a certain home pride when it comes to reading these novels, set in the picturesque seaside town in the South East of England. It’s amazing to be able to read these novels and really know the places Wassmer writes about. Of course, not everyone is from Whitstable and cannot enjoy this luxury, but that is no reason not to read them. 

Following the life of Pearl Nolan, a single mother who owns a local restaurant and has recently started up her own detective agency, we follow this remarkably likeable and down to earth character as she solves murders in her home town of Whitstable. It’s a great light read (I finished it in a day!) that is warm hearted and almost an ode to the town and the people who live there. 

Wassmer creates characters you can relate to, as well as become suspicious of. As someone who loves mystery but wants answers more, I’m always desperate to find out who the murderer is- but in this novel I was kept guessing right to the end, and was not disappointed when the killer was finally revealed. But the murder of Faye Marlow, big Hollywood star coming back to her birth town for the May Day celebrations yet instead causes old memories and conflicts to arise, is not the only mystery that is revealed by Pearl and her detective love interest Mike McGuire throughout the story. It’s a real nail-biter, trust me.  

The story is a lovely mixture of mystery, crime, romance and family values that when combined creates a wonderful world to read about. It’s a picturesque novel that is thoroughly enjoyable and proves that these characters, and the world that Wassmer has created within Whitstable, has so much more to give. With 20 years of writing gritty scripts for Eastenders under her belt, Wassmer has chosen to write her prose with a lighter and warmer feel, and that even though the story is about murder, you still get the feeling that everything will work out in the end, that Pearl and her little comfortable life she’s living in Whitstable with her son and her mother Dolly (my personal favourite character) will spread out through the pages and bring some calm and tranquility into your own life.  

My only criticism of the piece was that there was so much focus on trying to keep the murderer a secret, from both the characters and the readers, that the various twists and reveals with regards to the other characters sometimes felt a little obvious. I’m not going to give anything away, heaven forbid I reveal any spoilers, but maybe I’ve just read too many crime novels all in one go that I could guess the secrets before the reveal. But what I figured out quite easily was made up for in the huge shocker of who the murderer was. Did not see that one coming! 

I would highly recommend reading this series, whether you’re from Whitstable or not, just for the light easy read it offers and the thrilling suspense of finding out ‘whodunnit’. I’ve already given at least four of my friends my copies and passed the name on to so many more. 

And now I’m recommending it to you, so get reading! 

7.5/10 

He Cries

*This is a work of fiction.*

After my mother died, I changed. I don’t remember doing so; I was barely two years old at the time. But my life was changed.

            I think about what my life could have been like, if she had lived. Would I have cut my hair in that particular style? Would I weigh as much as I currently do?

            Would I be happier?

            Would I even still be here?

             I go to a dark place with these thoughts. I fight a lot. I get in trouble, all the goddamn time. Mainly for my profanity. My dad would be called into the office, the head-teacher would lecture us both and then when we got into the car he would cry. He cries a lot, I don’t know why. Then I start to question what he used to be like, before Mum died. Did he smile more, and act more easy-going? Would he have a beard or be a chain smoker if she was still here? I’ll never know. But I see him, or at least see through his shell to the emptiness within. He’ll do anything for an easy life, and when it gets tough- he cries.

We rarely talk, not just about Mum but about anything anymore. Not that we ever did before, but now that I’ve hit teenage years he’s drawn back even further, almost as if he is afraid of me. Maybe I remind him of Mum, and that’s why he keeps his distance. The way I tilt my head when I’m confused or only eat apples at the weekend, all just painful reminders of a women he once loved and lost. Or the reasons why he cries.

He took me for coffee the first time I got called into the head masters lair. I had just said ‘fuck’ for the first time at Susie Dickens because she stole my thought about Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and acted like it had been her own. Not only did the teacher commend her, but he didn’t believe me. Hence ‘fuck’, followed by a ‘you’.

That time my father didn’t cry, he just seemed disappointed. That is worse, because then you feel like shit and there is nothing to do. When someone cries you can get a tissue, or make tea. Tea fixes everything.

            ‘What’s going on?’ that’s was his opening line.

            ‘What do you mean?’ I parry back.

            ‘This isn’t like you,’ he said. I swiped a lick of foam onto my finger and suck on it.

            ‘How do you know? It could be me, just not the ‘me’ right now.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘There could be a thousand ‘me’s’, all out there struggling to be dominant. You’re a mechanic, think of this as a test drive.’

            ‘Well, I think this model is faulty.’ We both get our sarcasm from the same place, his father. Unfortunately it never skips a generation. I would have laughed, but the mood seemed to suggest not to. 

            ‘I could just be getting on the road.’ That’s when the disappointment showed. I think he wanted me to be remorseful, sorry for what I had done. He wanted me to be the perfect new model. But when a tragedy strikes, it travels through time. Time can heal wounds but also makes new ones. I made decisions I wouldn’t have if Mum was here. If she had been, I may not have said ‘fuck’ at all. And if she had been here Dad and I would have a relationship opposite to what we do now. I’d be a whole different me.

After I explained Dad didn’t say anything, but that night was the first time I saw him cry.