How the hell am I supposed to write a book?

This is what I am meant to be doing.

Collecting all of my energy and channelling it into a book. Writing my memoirs. People are counting on me to deliver.

I write everything from my phone, which is pretty sad. Typing everything out with my right thumb.

My friend in London was astonished when she learnt of this the other day.

“You have got to be kidding me. You write from your phone? Amy, your whole writing style will change if only you’d write from a laptop. It’s like a dancer who can only use one limb!”

She scolded me in exasperation.

Now I do have a laptop. A very old one. Every now and again I do sit down and write from my laptop. Yet my writing does not improve. In fact, the things I write from my laptop are somewhat difficult.

I pour my soul out through my fingers onto the keyboard. But it always becomes too confronting for me. Too emotional. And I get up and leave it unfinished each time.

In fact, sometimes I cry. It becomes too much for me to have to dig that much deeper and write about the other stuff in my life. The stuff that’s not as mundane as the usual crap I write about. Even if I do have a knack of creating something out of nothing.

It’s like I cannot go there yet. Like I’m not ready. It somehow doesn’t agree with me right now. Or perhaps I’m just in the wrong space.

It’s funny the things in life that don’t agree with you. Things that no longer serve your evolution. The places you tire of.

Here in Byron Bay where I’m currently writing, from my phone, with one thumb, laying on my bed, listening to the crashing sounds of the ocean, feeling the soft breeze caressing my skin – it just feels right.

I spent a solitary 5 hours today swimming, reading, walking, swimming some more. Walking some more. I’m also really, really sunburnt.


Taking in the smells and sounds around me, walking to the bridge with the tea-tree lake beneath it that has it’s strange reddish brown hue, like a soup of English breakfast tea, looking up into the sky filled with fast moving white puffy clouds, trying to decipher what shapes they are, smelling that delicious intoxicating ocean air that has this strange magnetic charge to it that never fails to lure me into it’s cool, clear, yet tumultuous waters.

Wondering to myself “should I call this place home?”

There is a familiarity here for me.

Byron Bay is an alternate town, with lots of creative types here.

Just this afternoon on my stroll I passed a woman sitting on the side of the bush track, sketching some trees on her sketch book.

There are musicians, sculptors, painters – you name it. It seems like the ideal place for any artist to be. To find that inspiration we so desperately seek in order to create.

So again I questioned myself “should I call this place home?”

Yesterday I walked to the shops. I greeted every passerby with my friendly smile. I glided into the little convenience store and bought myself an ice-block, and dawdled back slowly towards to beach.

Then I realised something. Something I hadn’t thought of in a long time.

I noticed for once how I was “feeling” rather than what I was thinking. And I was happy.

Effortlessly blissful.

I used to say that my ideal life would include me being in a bikini all day, a pair of shorts, a tank top, a pair of thongs (flip-flops for my non-Australian readers), hair in dreads, a hat, and no makeup.

I gazed down at myself. I’ve arrived.

I then looked at a photo my Aunty took of me the other day on the beach.


I’ve gained back the weight I desperately needed to put on, I’m well rested, and I’m smiling. Is this what happiness looks like?

Is happiness a destination?

Or are we always there yet certain places, certain thoughts, certain people, dull our shine to the point where all we have in us is this longing for bliss?

So perhaps it’s time. To literally start “Chasing Amy”.

Who is she? What does she like? How can she write this book?

Is Byron Bay the place to chase her destiny?

Who knows.

But either way, I’ve certainly begun that long journey of discovery of self, by stepping away from the unfamiliar where bliss is no more, and chasing the familiar of where the compass of my soul is now pointing.

So is the chasing of Amy going to just be metaphoric? Or is it going to be literal?

Watch this space…

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