Papa Can You Hear Me?

I’m lying awake. I can’t sleep. And, God, I really should be sleeping.

It’s half past one in the morning. And the big voices have come out to play. They ring up all my creative endeavours and pick them apart, one by one. What kind of future are you building for yourself?, they ask, prodding me with bony fingers.

All the song lyrics I have typed out and saved on my hard drive. All the notebooks and scraps of paper I’ve ever written on. All the songs I’ve recorded. All the poems I’ve written, the blog posts I’ve written, the fragments of stories I’ve written. The Transatlantic Diary. Fictional interviews with dead rockstars. Radio shows with real interviews of real people. Sketches, paintings, ink and graphite and glitter. Fanfiction about the 2006 Winter Olympics. A superhero story. A science-fiction novel about the moon. What does all this stuff accumulate to? What makes this creativity worth it?

Sometimes, I think I get it. I remember one evening, sitting in a cafe, listening to a friend read aloud his impressive, poetic prose piece to a handful of people on a hot June night. In that moment I realised that art didn’t have to reach a wide audience to mean anything — it could stand alone by itself, and even if one person could experience it, even if it was the lumberjack felling the tree, then it would have meaning. Art can exist for art’s sake. It doesn’t need to change someone’s life, or be hosted in a world-renowned museum, or be plastered all over the media. It can just exist, and in that existence, it’s making an effect of sorts.

But then again, I want that recognition. I want to make a living from it, whatever it is.

And I have no bloody idea how to get there, in a way that is honest, fulfilling and meaningful.

I’m kneeling in some kind of sacred woodland glade, lighting a candle and clasping my hands together for a full-on-Yentl “Papa Can You Hear Me?”, asking someone, anyone up there / out there / down there / over there to give me sign, tell me what I’m really supposed to be doing. And why is it all So Damn Hard?

I thought that Canada was going to be some kind of cosmic event, where I would prostrate myself before the immigration desk and they would bop me on the head with some magic sceptre, decreeing my life meaningful. I’d be given a stamp on my passport and the keys to the universe. They’d smack me on the bottom like some herded cattle being guided through the gate as I crossed the border, and sprinkle me with glitter for good luck.

Instead, it’s been one hell of a weird ride, with just as many ups as downs. Perhaps the ups outweigh the downs. It’s hard to tell when it’s 1am and you’re pissed for not sleeping.

Anyway, it’s been a heavenly struggle. I’ve spent many days riding high, happily overlooking my list of achievements, which slowly grows with my time spent here. But every so often the tide will turn, and I’ll feel myself being pulled under the current. In those times I will lift my hand above the water, looking for someone to pull me out. I want to be rescued so often. Nine times out of ten, I realise that I have to do my own rescuing. It’s difficult, especially when you’re standing on Bloor Street at 10 o’clock at night, paralysed and shaking because you feel if you take one more step forward, the universe will collapse on itself and you’ll be sent, spinning, into the vacuum.

Somehow I do manage to rescue myself, even when I think that I really, really can’t. I guess it’s that shiny marble of hope that I have to hold on to and marvel at whenever I feel truly lost. I try to fix it all by zooming in to the little things, stop worrying about my existential value in the Grand Scheme Of It, and focus instead on what I’m going to cook myself for dinner, or how many laps I’m going to swim at the pool. The fine art of Putting One Foot In Front Of The Other.

But One Foot In Front Of The Other-ing doesn’t keep the howling wolves at bay. It doesn’t stop the voices at night. When I close my eyes the Roman Senate seems to awaken in my brain, and we’re having a full-blast debate about My Future in the hallowed halls of my headspace. On my left we have the Pack It All In Party, who want me to move back to the UK, where I will be safe. They speak very loudly to mask their growing doubt of just how safe I’d really be if I moved back home — they live in the past, and have failed to fully grasp that everything has changed back in Scotland just as much as it’s changed for me out here. On my right we have the Creative Professionals, who implore me to start a Real Career in fields such as media or publishing, something that Real People who are Real Graduates of a Real English Literature Degree would do: my comrades in London, and beyond. They tell me there’s real vocation and money in it for me. I could be quite comfortable, I could read the Sunday Times on weekends and even go for brunches. They always try to get me with the Brunch Card. Then, tucked away in the corner, are the Sparkling Hope Party, who wave homemade banners and toot their little party-tooters, imploring me to Follow My Dreams. The problem being is that this party has several factions, and can’t quite seem to decide what The Dream actually is. They look like a misfit band of Dr. Seuss characters.

And so I feel stuck. And confused. And for some reason, it feels like I’m the only one who feels this way, that I’m the only 22-year-old on the planet who doesn’t really know what she wants, only what she doesn’t want. Maybe it’s the distance from home. Maybe it’s the lack of regular face-to-face communication with the friends I know and trust. Maybe it’s just how everyone feels, but no-one ever really has the time or energy to address it?

Are you lying awake, too?

Tell me I’m not the only one.