superlatively rude

because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Ask The Question

You want more love. To be in love. In love with your life.

You want more adventure. More chances, and with it the chutzpah to grab ’em with both hands, greedily and hungry, knowing you deserve to dive into every opportunity your belly aches for when nobody else is looking.

You want to understand how it feels to try – really, balls-to-the-wall, fuck-it-all
try. To trust yourself in succeeding beyond your wildest, most inventive daydreams. You can’t even comprehend what is waiting for you yet: that’s how daring your future is.

You want the security of self to demonstrate, without permission, without restraint, that your vulnerability is your biggest strength, and that your humanness is your greatest asset.

You want to know - mind, body, heart and soul - that who you are is already exactly perfect, and so sod anyone or anything standing in your way: you’ve got a destiny to Columbus the 
hell out of.

You want to be enough.

I know that sometimes you settle for 
less-than because the prospect of daring to ask if you can take up more space, of demanding more-than, is crippling. There’s that voice – a voice stubbornly rooted, deep down in your belly, that whispers, even at your best: nope. You can’t do this.

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“I’ll prove everyone right when I screw this up.”

“It’s better to be safe than to be sorry.”

“People like me don’t live lives like 

Listen, sugartits. You deserve to conquer the absolute shit out of your kingdom. To be the protagonist of your own beautiful life. You are worthy of the room it takes to spread yourself wide fucking open, legs akimbo, hands behind your back, surveying the land from your throne as you say, without a trace of shame, 
here I am. Here’s what I want.

Know your place. Who the Michelle Obama are you to keep yourself small? Who the Adele told you to not to swell, not to open your heart and your wings, lest you fly? Are you telling that to yourself? FUCKING QUIT IT. Re-write the script. Right now. Actively choose – demand, from yourself and from the world - to direct your life according to 
your rules. Because your place? Your place is in the sky, soaring.

Your place is front and centre.

Your place – your purpose - is what you say it is.

(I'm gonna repeat that, for emphasis. YOUR PURPOSE IS WHAT YOU SAY IT IS!!!!)

The alternative is a half-life. A half-truth. A half-you. The good stuff isn’t designed to only happen to other people. The universe wants the good stuff for you. 

It’s not a 
privilege to know who you are. You do not need to await consent to show all of your parts. To be you. To possess your truth.

The show has already begun.

The cameras are rolling and it’s your line.

What are you going to say?


Subscription to Ask The Question - "non-advice" on writing your own answers for a bullshit free life - is open until Friday November 4th. Sign up here, baby. This is gonna be a wild goddamn ride.

How I Got a Column in a National Magazine

superlatively rude

The thing about burning out and nannying three kids pretty much full-time over the summer is that my inbox was blissfully silent. The other thing about burning out and nannying three kids pretty much full-time over the summer is that suddenly, my biggest focus for twelve hours a day was which way to slice the sandwiches – squares or triangles? – with nay a whisper of anxiety about books and careers and achievement. The final thing about burning out and nannying three kids pretty much full-time over the summer is that when you’re watching Harry Potter for the eighth time in two weeks, idle swiping on Bumble results in quite a few matches, and quite a few conversations, and quite a few dates.

I dated a lot this summer.

"...finding love is a lot like finding a job: you put your CV out there, you get as much interview practice as you can, and with the one you think is a match you go for it."

I’ve been dating a lot this year, actually, since moving back to London in February. Boys – men, because I’m 30 now, and surprisingly have come to like a grown-up in a suit – took a backseat when I was trying to get published, because I knew no fella could make me feel how seeing my name on the spine of a book would make me feel. Once that was done – BECOMING, and all of it’s many drafts - and I could breathe again, meeting a man became quite the focus for me. No online match went unmessaged, no offer of a date refused. I committed to my cause, because, I reasoned, finding love is a lot like finding a job: you put your CV out there, you get as much interview practice as you can, and with the one you think is a match you go for it.


My Home

superlatively rude

I keep a litre bottle of fizzy water beside my bed, and a clean glass. The alarm goes off ten minutes earlier than it needs to, and I paddle to the bathroom in my negligee: a sheer black lace nightie that rides up as I toss and turn, but that makes me feel together. Accomplished. Sexy, sometimes, too. In the bathroom I use the £30 cleanser – the only thing that keeps my skin bright, that sees the red lumps under the skin of my jaw shrink, red lumps caused by sadness, and frustration, too, because what do I have to be sad about? Back in my room, I pour the fizzy water into the clean glass and take my vitamins. If I achieve nothing else in that day at least the first five minutes have had dignity. I treated myself well. I force myself to make the bed, to open the curtains, to crack the window for fresh, cold air.

I can do this.

I am doing this.

At the height of it – or, probably, it’s better to say at the lowest of it – I had a One Thing A Day rule. If I could do One Thing A Day I was okay. That one thing might’ve been dropping letters off at the post office. Replying to a few emails. Going to therapy. A cup of tea. Mostly, I slept. I’d go take the kids I nanny to school, a job I took because I needed a reason to get out of bed, truth be told, something to do as I held my breath for the book to come out, then I’d come home to sleep. I'd only wake up to go pick them up again. Without that, without them, I don’t think I’d have been able to leave the house at all.

Becoming Chelsea Fagan

Episode 5 of The Becoming Podcast is "Becoming Chelsea Fagan". Chelsea is co-founder of The Financial Diet, a site dedicated to talking about personal finance - because let's face it, nobody else wants to. Fun, engaged, and whip-smart, Chelsea has an unmistakable voice and is one of my favourite ever Twitter follows.

Here, she discusses financial security, being a former "hot mess", betraying feminism and freaking people out by talking cash.

Wise and insightful and frank things Chelsea says include:

“During one era, I was fired from every job I had”

“I think it has to be less about career and more about being able to take care of myself..."

“I felt like being financially supported for a while was a betrayal of feminist values”

“Sincerity is not the internet’s language”

“It’s really hard to be cool or disaffected about money…”

“If you think about a choice you made, or something you did, and you don’t want to talk about it… it’s so important to look at why”

"You have to be able to own poor choices without them defining you”

© superlatively rude | All rights reserved.