I want a quiet life. Is that okay?

or, how to write about what you know when you don’t know much.

Hello reader,

It’ll come as no big shock to anyone who knows me or reads my words on the reg that I live a fairly quiet, understated life. The fact I’m even writing this on a quiet Saturday night in feels like a testament to that.

I’m 25 and those 25 years have been as follows: I live somewhere most people haven’t heard of and have lived here since I was 2. I did well in school, went to a pretty good university, have worked hard to get a job I like. I’ve never done drugs and I’ve never been drunk (I’ve been close but I start to feel sick then I can’t drink anymore and to stop feeling sick I just want fries so I eat a Five Guys which absorbs the alcohol and it’s back to square one). I like to read. I hate the gym. I like movies. I really like fries. I deleted all my social media (which you can read about here). I have a cat.

But it leaves me with a worry. A sinking feeling in my stomach. A thought that creeps into my mind when I read a really great book or watch a really great film or listen to a really great song. Does my quiet life mean I’ll never be a great writer? Is my lack of life experience harmful to my creativity? My hopes for the future? My dreams of all the things I want to do?

Intrusive thoughts for the Emily in Paris era

To my boyfriend who I know is reading this, this is a joke.

As I write this, it’s a Saturday night and I’m quietly tucked away at my desk. It’s not quite my happy place (which, in case you were wondering, is curled up on the sofa with my boyfriend and cat watching classic movies fyi), but it’s a very good place to be nonetheless. This is my alone time. My space. And I’m under no illusion this is exclusive to me. Trust me, this is not an ‘I’m not like other girls moment’. Rory Gilmore is a testament to that, as are the brilliant real life writers and community I’ve found on here who have a similar kinship for the quiet life. But that doesn’t change the fact that most mid-twenties Zillennials I know are out doing, living and socialising on their Saturday nights. So, why aren’t I?

This is when my ‘Main Character Energy’ kicks in. A sensation that Kyle Chayka describes in his fantastic New Yorker piece as:

a sort of social-media update to the “Type A” personality. It describes any situation in which a person is making herself the center of attention, the crux of a particular narrative, as if cameras were trained on her and her alone.

My Main Character thoughts are as follows:

• “I should move to Paris / Rome / New York. I can be the next Julia Roberts in Eat, Pray, Love.”

• “I should stop binge-watching and go and write something. If I let the words pour out of you, I’ll be the next Sally Rooney.”

• “Who cares about budgeting? Buy those clothes. Go to that restaurant. Vlog it all. Turn it into TikToks. I’ll be the next Emma Chamberlain.”

Are these dreams shallow? Maybe! I’d also like to cure cancer and find a solution to climate change and microplastics, however this mind was made for words, not numbers and other similar cleverness (as much as my parents probably wish it had been *sigh*). But I do appreciate them. I’d love to live in one of those cities when I’m older and it’s truly on my bucket list. I’d love to grow this Substack, write more and find fortune in a book deal. And I’d love to be in a position to buy those clothes and go to that restaurant, when I have the money to be able to do it without bankrupting myself.

But thoughts like these are as frustrating and unrealistic as 20-something year old Emily Cooper flying to Paris, wearing Saint Laurent every other day, and duck-facing her way to fame (sorry for all the EIP references, I’m just starting Season 4 so it’s on my mind). It ain’t real hon. With time, yeah, the things I think about doing, could happen. And, although I believe the more I do to make them happen, the more likely they’ll be to come true, that’s going to take years - not just to do but also to wrap my head around. I could find a job in New York, find myself, do the things I wouldn’t usually do. Eat, Pray, Love the shit out of it all.

And this is where my wonderful, wonderful problem lies.

I don’t really want to.

The beautiful problem

Okay, maybe someday I would like to do those things (mainly the first two, not so much the vlogging cos we both know I’m a blogger all the way, baby).

But what I’m trying to say is, I’m content with where I am now.

And I’m so lucky to feel that way.

The contentment that confines me from breaking out of my everyday, keeps my every day the way I love it. I’m not trying to boast here. My life’s not perfect - no one’s life is. But it’s pretty damn close to what I want it to be, and I recognise that, know how lucky I am to have that, and will never take that for granted.

These imagined lives are interesting, sure. But they don’t compare to the one I have because this one’s grounded in comfort. I really don’t want to suffer for my art because, although negative emotions can give rise to great storytelling, I don’t want to actively seek that out. Did I mention that I hated university and got incredibly homesick, even though I was only 3 hours away from home? How is that me going to just move to New York, no strings attached? My feminine urge right now is to be with my friends and family, not just ditch it all and fly across the world. So, to the aforementioned Zillenials out clubbing or doing whatever kids these days do on a Friday/Saturday night, who might think my life is boring or that I’ve settled. That’s your opinion and that’s fine. To me, it isn’t and I haven’t. And I hate clubbing. To those of you who, like me, self-critique because they’re not doing what they feel like they should be doing, that’s honestly bullshit. Who said we should do anything?

When it comes to writing, as I said at the start, I have this deep-rooted belief that I have to write what I know, which means I have to do a lot to know a lot to write a lot. There’s a reason Emily in Paris makes a great story - because in this fairytale-Netflix world, Emily did something crazy that most people can only dream of and it’s entertaining as hell. There’s a reason it’s not called Emily in her living room having the Sunday scaries but it’s okay cos she’s got her cat next to her and this is what happens every week.

But you know what? That actually doesn’t sound bad to me. I’d relate to that and I’d probably read that book - with the texture, plot and great writing all added in, of course. Also, Darren Star, the guy who wrote Emily in Paris, did not move to Paris as a 20-something year-old working in PR - he imagined it and he wrote it. (That is the last EIP reference I *swear*).

My point is, inspiration can be found everywhere. In the books and TV and movies we consume on the daily, that keep our minds filled with other people’s experiences and perspectives. In the tiny perfect moments that each of us uniquely values, like the smell of freshly washed clothes that spark tales of witches brewing sweet potions, or a kiss on the forehead that sets into a motion an epic that spans aeons and people and tiny tender moments that leave their mark for the next. I’ve realised that it’s what you make of that inspiration, and how you turn them into tales that people will love, that matters - not trying to be someone else or live some other life. That’s what imagination is for. Tolkien didn’t know any elves. Jane Austen didn’t meet Mr Darcy. Dr Seuss didn’t have a cat in his hat. Their words and work were rooted in their individual truths and knowledge, but their stories blossomed from their creativity and imagination.

So, to conclude, it is okay to have a quiet life.

Or a loud one.

Or whatever life you want to live at any given time, even if you think you should be living some other way.

If you’re lucky enough to find happiness, just let it be punctuated by moments that make it just the way you want it, or as close to that as you can get. And if your idea of what you want your life to be like changes, great! Chase the new dream. Congrats on being ready to chase an old one.

~ Cesca