Living Next to a Cemetery in London
A fan – yes! Can you believe it? I have one! – recently asked me the following question:
Where do you get your inspiration from?
I didn’t know how to answer because, let’s face it, for anyone that’s written something before, it can come from anywhere. The toilet, being on the tube, on a plane, reading something or just simply walking along and trying to mind your own business.
The Source of Inspiration
But this morning, at stupid-o’clock, I looked outside – because I am living next to a cemetery in London – and realised that that’s not the important part. The important part is what drives me to write. As I gazed across this cemetery, which gave me the heebie jeebies – the way the morning fog crept creepily across the graves, I thought “I don’t actually want to live here anymore.” That’s my motivation right there, fuck the inspiration, that’s irrelevant. I no longer want to be living next to a cemetery in London. It’s creepy as fuck. Especially if you leave your bed and get up way too early. And I do mean, waaaay too early. Like 6am kind of too early. Then go outside and just happen to, you know…look over the small wall at the adjoining cemetery and realize that you need more options. Ones that don’t involve living next to a cemetery in a cold climate. A climate that promotes fog…over graves. Fuuuuuuck that.
Living in two Countries
I have the luxury of living in both London and Florence for a number of reasons. I’m living next to a cemetery in London and in Italy, I live above a pizza shop. Where else would I live in Italy. Let me tell you which one makes me happier. I’ll give you a clue, I can visit one at midnight and be delighted, not shit my pants.
I’ve written before about things that go bump in the night, which is my ongoing experiences that mystify me to this day. I blogged about it because I am curious to see who else has these experiences.
My point here is that I’m not one of those people who will happily walk through a cemetery and think nothing of it. I’m definitely not. I’m not the type of person who will fling a purse and run while belting out a blood curdling scream if a branch accidentally brushes my leg either, no, I’m somewhere in the middle. Possibly closer to the run and scream, but that’s not something I’m overly keen to admit.
So, if you feel my fear and you sympathize, drop me a note or even better, leave a comment below. I’d love to hear from other cemetery dwellers.
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