Starting to write is the hardest thing about writing. I'm trying to let go of being scared. This is the start of a brand new blog, which may last a while, but may go on to die a horrible death, wrapped up in its own self importance and teenage bedroom drama ramblings, overdosed in bad spelling and sentences that rattle onto nowhere.
Truman Capote has promised to help me write this blog. Well, he hasn't obviously in that it's already sounding like a badly cobbled together clutch of excuses, that & the small matter that he died in 1984. I'm not (fully blown) insane or anything. However, he is allowing me to borrow from Holly.
My Nan gave me a copy of Breakfast at Tiffany's for my 16th birthday, I didn't see the film for another five years. I won't go on all snobbishly saying the films not as good because it is, it's just a little different that's all; one is for wanting to be Holly and one is for wanting to be Audrey.
Both make me cry for different reasons.
In the film? I'll tell you why, it's when she asks 'Where's the cat?'. I don't know how to say sorry properly either... I burst into tears every time I see this:
And the book? For "I'm very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it could go on forever. Not knowing what's yours until you've thrown it away."
I'm very scared.
I thought that I'd be at the age by now when I’d be all grown up & settled down. And I’m frustrated that I’m not – not even a little bit – near to being that for all sorts of reasons. Oh, it’s all my own fault, I wouldn't go feeling sorry for me. It's just not a very nice thing to have to own up to.
I hope I've the chance to take back some of the things I said.
