superlatively rude

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

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.

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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.
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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”

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My Name

superlatively-rude

This is a blog post about seeing myself called a “cum dumpster” in ten different languages, on fifty different websites, right beside years-old photographs of me taken in a bikini, lifted from the archives of my Instagram. It starts with a 6 a.m. email, read in my best friend’s bed in Ditmas Park, Brooklyn.

“They want to serialise the book!” I whisper, wide-awake with a body clock set to London. She rubs her Eastern Standard Time eyes and rolls over. “That’s great,” she begins, hoarse with sleep. “What… what does that mean?”

Serialisation is when a newspaper – their features pages or, if you’re really lucky, one of their glossy weekend supplements – print a section of your manuscript. I’d had my fingers crossed that it might happen. What I wanted more than anything was one of the red tops to pick it up – one of the tabloids. I wanted a paper that middle England reads to talk about BECOMING. An “every woman” paper. I’d already written for a glossy mag and a fancy broadsheet about it. Tabloids were next on my list. My only stipulation to the book’s publicist had been: not the Daily Mail. I will do anything for love, but I won’t do that. I will do anything to tell people about my book, but I will not do a deal with that particular devil. We all know why. 
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