My Stories || Working Girl

Let the river run

Let all the dreamers

Wake the nation.

Come, the new Jerusalem.

Carly Simon from the film 'Working Girl'.

I would pull on my socks over my black tights and put on my trainers, before slipping quietly out of the door.

I was living in East London. Leyton. My route to work took me up Dunedin Road to the main street, where I'd turn right towards the underground station. It wasn't here I'd start singing Carly Simon's words in my head. No, I was too busy waking up.

The clang of the shop front shutters jarred my head, making me wince, and the fumes from the cars, the stale takeaway smells, filled my nose.

Approaching the station I'd take out my travelcard, feeling a bit smug, like a proper Londoner. Despite being surrounded by proper Londoners. It was easy to get a seat at Leyton, unless there had been a delay further down the line. We entered the train above ground, the doors would beep and we'd set off, building speed. Soon the darkness would enclose us, my inner ears tightening with the difference in pressure. I'd feel a fission of excitement each time. Obviously I was new to the city. That world weary tube traveller thing hadn't happened to me. Yet.

I'd alight at Liverpool Street Station. A station I'd only known throughout my life as a strategic place to buy on the Monopoly board. I'd walk and walk. I was heading to my temporary job. I made good progress in my trainers and Melanie Griffiths would pop into my head, Carly Simon's vocals on a loop.

Now, almost two decades later, whilst I still love the song, still enjoy watching the film; at the end, when the camera pans away from Melanie in her new office, the office she has fought so long and hard to achieve, well, I shudder.

To me, it looks like a prison.

And I thought that was what I wanted.

My Chicken Story Stories is snippets of my thoughts as I pull together the first draft of my memoir.

Do you have imposter syndrome, too?

Did you see the Cilla Black biopic with Sheridan Smith?

This scene, where Sheridan sings as Cilla, where she says, quite disbelievingly, "it's gone to number one," is so powerful and emotional it brings me to tears every time. And oh! The beautiful emotion on her face as she sings. Goodness me. My eyes fill. With good tears, that is. Happy tears.

Yet Sheridan has said about her performances that,  “I always feel like a bit of a fraud, but so far I’ve not been found out.”

My writing journey has been long and it has only recently started to take off. Reason being? I was scared. Oh, I'm not that good, I'd think to myself. Other people are better than me. 

My husband would get so frustrated. "You're so much better than you think you are," he'd say.

But of course he'd say that, I'd counter in my head. He's my husband.

I don't have formal training as a writer. I did Business Studies at university. I still get confused between a noun, verb, adjective and other words that start making me sweat like I'm about to take an exam.

I felt, because writing wasn't something I wanted to do since I was knee-high, because I didn't have a burning ambition to write throughout my teens, that it isn't something I should be doing now.

I am a fraud. One day someone will find me out.

Yet I can't stop myself.

I keep going.

Trying not to feel that at any moment someone with laugh and point and say, "who the hell does she think she is, calling herself a writer?"

Even now, someone will tell me that they love my writing. It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling. I smile. And I try and ignore the voice that says, "Really? You? A writer?"

Do you suffer from imposter syndrome? Do you feel that one day you're going to be 'found out'? Or, as Sheridan says, "'I don’t think I deserve to be here. I’m just a complete scrubber from Donny Doncaster. I’m just blagging it.’" 

Jen Carrington has helped me enormously through her coaching. With her help I have honed what I want to write about and have just embarked on a new writing project. Listen to her podcast on imposter syndrome. It's only eight minutes long but incredibly helpful.

As Jen says, "too often we give the noise of others too much power in our lives and decisions we make." I so agree. I also think it is often our 'imagined' noise of others, too. What will X think if I write this? Or Y think if I write that?

I don't think these voices or feelings will ever fully go away. It is a side effect of being creative; of having that vulnerability about us that makes us better writers.

But every now and then we should remind ourselves: the only person we need to impress is our own self.

Permission

I didn't know people wrote like this. Ok, I did, but I didn't realise it was something people read...

Alright, that's not true either.

I didn't think it was something I could do.

The thing is when I heard Laura Jane Williams speak at the Blogtacular conference last weekend something clicked. It was a soft click during the workshop; after all I was busy taking part in the writing exercises, listening to her words.

But on the train home. Something happened. Like the point controller pulling the lever and the engine switching tracks.

I thought at first it was deflation. Disappointment. Because when I get emotional, when my head is filled with tears that refuse to come, that's a natural reason, right? It could, I mused, even have been the start of a vulnerability hangover as Lisa Congdon in the keynote speech talked about. And I'd talked to lots of strangers all day. Put myself out there. For someone whose day usually involves talking to just chickens, ducks and the dog this was a big ask.

But that wasn't it.

Laura said that not everyone would agree with what she had to say on the subject of writing. And she's right. She thinks blogging is dead.  I don't, but I do think it is evolving.

But everything else she uttered? I was nodding my head in agreement throughout. If she'd seen me out of the corner of her eye she'd have thought I was a nodding dog. The loon from that advert.

Of course, when I get home I find her blog. Superlatively Rude it's called. I'm binge reading it. I order her book, Becoming. She's from Derby, like me, you know. I'll gloss over the fact she's a decade younger than me.

I now know exactly what I want to write next. Laura's workshop showed me that. And even though I shouldn't need it, she gave me permission. So I gave myself permission.

The un-shed tears? Turns out they were because of inspiration and ambition.

Perhaps this is my becoming.

Filling the creative well

I took time out from social media and blogging in the last few weeks. Normally when life, or illness, gets in the way, I panic. Anxiety surges and swirls around my tummy. I see jobs that need doing everywhere I look. The overwhelming amount of tasks paralyses me physically but makes my mind anything but quiet. I work from home. And I work hard. I'm undertaking online courses in order to learn new skills, finishing off a novel, writing this blog, growing my social media presence, writing other articles, testing recipes, working on behind the scenes stuff...as well as tending to a large plot of land with chickens and ducks. Spring is a glorious season but it is also the busiest season for working outside.

In the four years we've lived here - four years today in fact - during the spring of two of those years I've felt anxiety when I see the nettles growing, when the hedges need cutting (not during nesting season though!) and when the grass needs strimming. I look elsewhere and see the chickens need treating to stop the red mite, their coops need a thorough wash and the weeds are starting to appear in the cracks of the patio. All of this has sent my anxiety through the roof.

And I've not even started on the writing work.

Julia Cameron writes about filling the well in her book, The Artist's Way, and in this blog post. She says:

As artists we must learn to be self-nourishing. We must become alert enough to consciously replenish our creative resources as we draw on them...

This is so true. Have you ever sat at your desk and been unable to write? Been completely uninspired? Run out of ideas?

Well, it could be because you've been working so hard you've forgotten to take time out. To go outside, take in deep breaths; to look up and see the clouds, or look down and get your hands dirty.

Whatever it is. Just to do something different. It could also be having a day off to go sight-seeing, going clubbing or bathing a chicken (yes, I did do that this morning).

Being a writer, or any type of creative, is a labour of love. We enjoy doing it. And many of us do it from home. But this also means we never take time away from it. And, when we do, we feel guilty.

I stopped feeling guilty some time ago. As Julia says, we must be self-nourishing. And I am learning to do that. Though I admit to sometimes forgetting.

We must take time out. Taking time out makes us return to our work renewed and refreshed, ready to climb literary mountains.

Now this is how I've spent my last week.

Late Spring 2016 from Helen || a bookish baker on Vimeo.

Music: "Summer Days" by Kai Engel www.kai-engel.com

Writing 'The End'

Two years ago, almost exactly (oh my goodness where has that time gone?!) I emailed my agent, after being rejected by publishers with my non-fiction proposal, and suggested I turn the idea into a novel. Since that email I've written a really dark and wrong first chapter, been on a writing weekend with Julie Cohen and Rowen Coleman where I had a lightbulb moment (thanks, Julie!), gone onto a writing retreat with Kat Black, Katy Collins, Rachael Lucas, Holly Martin, Emily Kerr, and Cesca Major where I wrote thousands of words (I believe I wrote the most of anyone there, not that it was a competition or anything...)

Then I've written lots more. Then had self doubts. Then got over myself. Had more self doubts. Got over myself. Had more...You get the idea.

I sat down today, this morning, with the intention of writing The End. Even if the end chapters were not fully flushed out. I had a fear of reaching the end as a) I didn't know how it was going to end and b) that means I'm that much closer to sending it out to publishers. Which, you know, *scared*.

But I sat down. I gave myself permission to not get it perfect. And you know what? It worked. Two chapters before The End I had an idea. An idea that would affect the structure of the entire book. An idea that makes me happy. It feels like a piece of the puzzle had fitted into place.

Before I could start thinking about it too much, however, I made a note, and continued in my quest to reach The End.

And I made it. Two years, it took me. And yes, if I didn't have The Fear it'd probably have taken me half that time.

But, I got there in The End.

Yes, I am a writer

I was talking to someone I vaguely knew today. "You're a writer, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied, beaming. "Yes, I am."

And I didn't think anything of it.

A few years ago I might have said, "Well, yes, sort of. I try. I do write. Or try to. Of course, it might not be any good..."

And a few years before that I'd have said...well, I wouldn't have said anything because she wouldn't have asked the question because I wouldn't have mentioned it before.

I've been writing for thirteen years. I started when I was pregnant. A first few chapters of a novel. I've still got it in my files somewhere. It's about a woman who became pregnant in the run up to her wedding with all the comedy chaos and sickness that ensues. This may have been based on first person experiences.

Okay, it was pretty much, bar name changes, an autobiography. Needless to say this writing will never see the light of day.

After I had my first baby things were difficult. I didn't realise I had depression and post traumatic stress from the birth. I just thought I was a crap mum. This meant I found it difficult being with my son all the time. So would escape into our small dining room to write. The few chapters I had written whilst pregnant evolved into something else. A story about a young mum who had depression. As before, it was pretty much autobiographical.

I kept writing the same three chapters over and over. Trying to get them perfect. Changing names of characters. But I was in a continuous loop: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, then back to the beginning and start again. I didn't realise at the time how much this process was actually mirroring my life. I was in a cycle. A depressive cycle. And I didn't know how to break it.

Until I read a novel. This novel changed my life.

But it wasn't the subject matter of the novel. It was the author who had written it. Kate Harrison, her name is. And when I searched out her name online, ten years or so ago, when the internet and blogging were in their infancy, I found she had a blog. And she was racing other writers to finish the first draft of their current novel.

She was asking for people to join. I read it with a mixture of fear and anxiety. Because I knew I was going to make myself do it. I knew I was going to make myself email Kate, who replied all lovely and then suggested I set up my own blog so we could compare word counts (this was pre-twitter and facebook). And I knew I would set up my own blog too, even though I was incredibly private and had no wish for people I didn't know, or worse, did know, to read about what I was up to. But I did it. I started a blog. And called it Redders' Ramblings.

And this was the push I needed to get past that loop of those first three chapters. Seven or eight months later I had a completed first draft. I had written those two magic words: The End. It also, eventually, meant I could write The End on the postnatally depressed period of my life, too.

Ten years later and I'm still here. The blog is more sophisticated. I have learned about photography. I know a lot about social media. I've been paid to write content online. A literary agent sought me out. I've written a cookery book proposal. And been rejected - but in a lovely and positive way - by publishers. And I have almost finished my novel. A novel that was born out of that first draft ten years ago but with a different main character and different circumstances so it is no longer autobiographical but is based on issues I've experienced. There's just 8000 words or so to go. Then there will be an edit before I email it to my agent. (My agent. That will never get old.)

So in thirteen years of writing, of attending an evening creative writing class, of taking part in an online journalism course and a course about how to pitch to magazines, of being published in a writing magazine and being paid to write online, I am now a blogger and photographer, a food stylist, and an iPhoneographer.

And, yes, I am a writer.

Being Brave

Comparison-itis is a dangerous disease to develop. Whether it is the keeping up with the Joneses type or the online, she's got more followers than me type, it can squash you. Stifle. Mess with your mind. But there is another, more positive, side. It can also inspire you.

You have a choice. Let it bring you down. Or let it make you up your game. I'm choosing the latter.

I see wonderful writers, bloggers, photographers. Making the most of all the opportunities afforded them in this new, online, world. I see them celebrate traditional book deals (some with similar ideas to mine - gah!) or write articles for magazines. To successfully generate a revenue stream from their writing and photography. From something they love doing.

So. I'm not going to weep in a corner wailing that someone has stolen* my book idea.

I'm upping my game.

Do you know how long I've wanted to get to this point in my writing career? To be writing a novel. To have a literary agent. (I still pinch myself about that a few years later). To have a blog where I can write about the things I love and have people other than my mum and mother-in-law read it.

Well, let me see. *counts on fingers*. I first started blogging in 2006. So that's ten years. TEN. And ok, yes, the blogging landscape was slightly different back then. And I have, in the meantime, written a proposal for a recipe book. And nearly finished my novel. And written for other websites. Oh, and had a second child. And moved to the countryside. And changed our lifestyle. And became a keeper of chickens.

But I never really went for it. Particularly with my blog. I wouldn't put myself out there. I wouldn't comment on other people's blogs or join in twitter chats and facebook groups, allowing that trail of breadcrumbs to lead back to my blog. But then I changed my blog name. And something changed in me.

I'm not beating myself up. Sometimes these things happen when you're ready. And I haven't been ready. Yes, there is a massive worry that I'll fall flat on my face with both my novel and this blog. But I also have a major fear of success. This fear allows me to procrastinate. It allows me to get bogged down with other projects (hello Annie Sloan furniture painting and chicken-keeping courses). And it makes me avoid sitting at my desk and avoiding that blank page.

After all, who would want to listen to my voice? Who else would be interested in the content I create? Who says I can write, anyway?

In the last few months I've read lots of blogs, seen lots of tweets and listened to podcasts. Many of which touch on the topic of The Fear and facing that fear. Inspiration is all around us.

Just yesterday I listened to author Miranda Dickinson's vlog where she says this year she wants to 'try stuff [with her writing]. Just have a go." And, as her music announced the end of the vlog I was already making notes for this blog post. I, too, want to try stuff. Why not? I've nothing to lose.

Yesterday, I also listened to a podcast by Jen Carrington. (Podcasts are great for when you're washing up.) I've just discovered Jen so have a lot of catching up to do. Again, she gave me food for thought. About not just being an echo of other people but being a voice.

Jen also said if she read a blog she wanted to see a picture of who was writing it. To get that connection. I've never put my picture on my blog. But, as soon as I heard that, I opened my laptop and immediately found a semi-decent photograph (I don't have many) that I could use. It is now on my About page. Now that is me being very brave.

Sarah Painter's The Worried Writer podcast is brilliant. This month Sarah talks to Mel Sherratt who mentions that fear.

Lizzy Kremer, a literary agent, also writes this week that Anything is Possible: Writing Without Fear.

Do you feel the fear when it comes to writing or in your creative career? Have you managed to push through? Any links you recommend? I'd love to hear.

*They haven't really stolen it. It just feels like it.

Feeling the Writing Fear and Making Marmalade

Before moving to the countryside I often had The Fear. Fear of trying new things. Stretching my skills. I've talked about this before when I wrote about my joy of trees. This fear can be paralysing. And it has played an enormous part in almost ten years of writing. When I first joined an online writing group many years ago, when the internet was a much quieter place and wifi didn't really exist, a lovely writer friend talked about having the devil on your shoulder when writing. This devil would whisper in your ear that everything you are typing or scratching out with a pen is absolute rubbish, that it would come to nothing and that you were just a talentless fool. Dripping poison into your ear, watching your confidence grow weaker and weaker and taking great joy in it. He feasted on it.

This devil is still floating around now. And he still tries hard. But I feel his weakness. I am getting better and better at turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to his antics. What has helped me do this, I think, is trying different things outside of writing. Just simple things. Yes, like the aforementioned planting trees. But also learning to mow a lawn, filling it with petrol, mowing the field with the tractor. Planting wildflowers, buying and looking after chickens, making damson jam with my own fruit picked from my own tree which I planted. And making marmalade.

Despite not liking marmalade myself I've always wanted to have a go. My husband adores it but I never thought for one minute I could make some. I thought you'd need specialist equipment for a start and a thermometer. Turns out all I needed was a large pan and a saucer in the fridge to check the setting point. Plus a recipe. So when I found this recipe in January's Simple Things Magazine I bought some oranges.

And you know what, I made it. Husband loved it. I've ticked yet another item off my Things I Didn't Think I Could Do List.

Now it's time to give that confidence zapping writing devil a good kicking.