CHAPTER ONE : “IF YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER, JUST WRITE”
“I can’t see how the family would work if I let myself start wanting things again, thought Dorrie; give me an inch and I’d run a mile, that’s what I’m afraid of.” — Yeah Right, Get A Life by Helen Simpson
What if she never stopped? What if she, like, never actually stopped. What if she didn’t, unlike every other single — multiple — time before, stop. Run away in the opposite direction. What if she hushed up the naysayer and amplified the cheerleader? Force-fed the weak creature protein supplements like a frail old lady or a fussy milk white child? What if she worked hard? Poured homemade weed killer on the Critic, leaving yellow stains on her brain — patches for kinder and more good-challenging pathways to grow, intertwining over the ruined castle until even she had forgotten what was covered by the thick vines.
What if she filled cartoon-cat cover covered notebooks with complete and utter drivel? Real, absolute crap. Shit. The worst thing anyone had ever wasted their time reading, let alone writing. Ever. Bullshit that could only be produced by a truly delusional idiot. Writing that must reveal everything she already knew to be true about herself.
But what if these early drafts didn’t have to be definitive? If she didn’t have to feel compelled to preemptively judge them on behalf of everyone else, anyone else, a single solitaryone-else whose eyes might have the misfortune to happen upon them.
What if, instead, those notebooks eventually escaped from the sideboard prison where they lay crammed in, stashed away like inhumanely treated princesses; stacking on top of each other so one could bravely take the leap and zipline over to claim a tentative place on the highest bookshelf. Not inviting attention, per se, but not exactly hiding either. Peeking out risquély from behind the snake plant.
“Do you remember creative writing at school?” the forum old-hat had replied to her first gingerly phrased post. “Ghastly at first, but you soon get into it. Flex that muscle!” She shuddered, imagining a 1930’s gym mistress forcing her into a cold shower, ripping away the damp curtain for all the girls to see.
What if she didn’t spend more money on a course that wouldn’t — couldn’t — cure her? Thousands of pounds to spend a couple of hours sitting in the least called-on seat, staring at her twirling thumbs and listening to male privilege soak up every available attention. Blameless really — when no one else was even trying to put themselves out there; entitled obliviousness to the minute movements of fingers, and vocal cords straining against a mouth resolutely clamping itself shut. The continuing struggle of the locked-in patient.
“Pahaha! You’ve always been a writer. Ma still has those little love letters you used to slip under her door or leave on her pillow. Oh! And what about the Rainbow Key? That was self-illustrated too, I believe. Very professional.”
What if she never stopped? What if she stared off into her worlds as the fish fingers turned to ash? If she couldn’t feel the tiny tugging of chubby human hands at her knees, as she pressed words, chapters, conversations…ideas into her phone. What if the baby cried much longer than she could usually bring herself to leave it; furiously rattling the cot bars like an angry prisoner demanding to see his lawyer. What if she neglected her husband, too? Passing comments on the boxset unheard and un-responded to. His needs unmet, for once, at the far end of the sofa.
What if her newly divorced self took a lover? If he saw one of her (as of now, unimagined) blogposts, or was the heavyweight judge of her impactful flash fiction entry. If he fell in love with the person behind the page and — oh! That’s crap. Rubbish. Rub it out! No. Leave it. Let the idea be. Go. Don’t stop.
What if this idea mutated and spread, unrecognisable, out into places beyond herself and her laptop? To forums. Writers’ groups. Critiques. Criticisms. Meet-ups. Encouragements. Submissions. Knock-backs. Rejections. Fifth drafts. Bookstores. Mixed reviews. Signings. TV sofas?
What if it didn’t?
Empty space standing in like a protective white cushion, ready to catch those plummeting ideas that just didn’t even bear thinking about. She shook her head and flicked the switch to boil the kettle. She shut the baby gate, feeling the silent, not-too safe space around her.
***
This feels like a real down-on-my-knees-in-the-driving-rain-and-howling-wind type experience for me. I can imagine clutching the collar of my shirt, ripping it open to reveal a greying nursing bra, and screaming, “ARE YOU HAPPY NOW UNIVERSE? IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT?’ at the drops pouring down into my soaked face from the darkened sky.
And if it seems over-written and a bit… emo? That’s because this is my first ever piece of creative writing… that I’ve ever written… and that I’ve ever shared with anyone (well, since the Rainbow Key ;)). And because I missed that teenage rite of passage, it is inadvisably full of actual angst and real feelings and honest vulnerability, as well as my beginner attempts to express myself in the written language. And I am putting it all out there to made what of, by whom so ever.
So, if you have hairy knuckles and live under a bridge or have ever just fancied taking a naïve young(ish) woman, who is earnestly trying to undo the determinism of her foibles, down a peg or two, then you. Are. In. For a treat, my friend. All my defences are lowered. For the first time in my life, all my strategic plans and coping mechanisms are ripped up; my, what the novelist and creative writing teacher, Emma Darwin calls “soft underbelly of thought and feeling”, is exposed to the stinging fresh air. And I think I can handle it, for once. I think I finally don’t care enough to not not do this. But I think I might need you.
If, by some algorithm-defying miracle, you happen to be reading this and by an even greater miracle are intrigued, follow me as I explain my story so far, (no, go on, actually follow me) and set myself excruciating personal creative writing tasks in a bid to bluntly rid myself of the crushing perfectionism and imposter syndrome that has limited my personal, professional and creative life for as long as I can remember. We can start right now, in the comments, if you like. Perhaps you have an idea for something that you yourself are too scared to try…
