I would not like to say how many years it has taken to get to the point of writing this sentence. I have been struggling with the idea of writing a blog for some time now. Yet every time I sat down to write, I found myself drawn into a vortex of unattainable images; of scenes so idyllic they verge on the implausible, of flawlessly hewn bodies instagrammed to perfection, and of artfully rendered narratives absent of the suggestion of anything mundane or unpleasant. Without fail, each writing session would end with a blank page and a gnawing feeling of inadequacy.
Perhaps I am not alone in finding I cannot relate to many of the images presented online. Skew-whiff skylines, pasty skin and the startled expressions of random people who have wandered into frame are all characteristic features of my photography.
Yet perhaps above all, it was finding my narrative voice that I struggled with. What could I possibly add to the sea of bloggers already out there? How could I remain authentic to myself? Recalling my own experiences both abroad and closer to home, a recurring theme emerges. I got to thinking that my life reads like a series of mishaps and misadventures. I feel as though I am a character living in my own comic fiction which all too often can descend into farce. I am certainly not short of material – from the time when I caught and accidentally cooked a squid to only this week where I found myself shooing a frog out of my flat with a Mary Berry cake lifter. Yet it is such quirks and imperfections which make life, and people, interesting.