I know. It’s been more than two years since I last posted here. But I haven’t been procrastinating. Honest. Quite the opposite.
I’ve been busy doing a lot of stuff including gaining a Masters in Writing for Young People from Bath Spa University. As a result of which I’ve now achieved a long-held great procrastinator’s dream of finishing a novel, as well as meeting a whole group of lovely, amazing, supportive people. Currently we’re working together to produce our anthology Paper Worlds – out in the wilds on 11th April.
So, I no longer consider myself the greatest procrastinator of them all.
Except when it comes to cleaning, of course.
I spend an awful lot of time talking to myself. It started years ago, when deep in a bout of anxiety, I doubted every single word that came out of my mouth. Every conversation, however small, was later examined in detail. I’d beat myself up for the idiocy of what I’d said, my self-centredness and my lack of empathy for the person with whom I’d been conversing. (Jees – self absorbed much? But selfishness, as I’ve mentioned before, is one of the side effects of anxiety.)
I’d resolve not to talk at all, but that didn’t work in the real world, so I started to practice conversations I knew I was going to have. These took place mainly in the car while driving. I told myself other people would assume I was singing along to the radio or talking on a hands-free phone. It did get me through some necessary conversations, but it also became a habit.
And it’s got worse, because for the last year I’ve had to do a lot of driving. The kind that doesn’t get me anywhere, but is helping someone out. (Or maybe it isn’t, but that’s someone else’s story.) Anyway, I have to do it and so have plenty of time to yak to myself.
Last year, I had my first interview in about 25 years. The build up to this resulted in many, many practice sessions en route to nowhere. As a result of that interview I now, alongside the journeys to nowhere, get to go somewhere: my other world, the lovely Corsham Court, for the MA in Writing for Young People. Of course, this means writing workshops and, in these, I need to talk. It’s essential to discuss books, give feedback to others, comment on feedback given to me, and so, more practising of talking is required.
Once, in full flow while driving to a workshop, I failed to notice that the satnav had overheated and was no longer functioning. Hence, I missed a turning. For a considerable amount of time I was lost in the wilds of Wiltshire.
So, I’m back to Uni after a bit of a break and talking to myself has begun again, not least because our first reading-in-public event approaches. So, if you see a slightly frazzled woman driving though the backwoods of Gloucestershire and Wiltshire in a dirty and battered Volvo, apparently singing along to the radio, you know who it is.
P.S. Coincidentally, I have just read this: ‘my habit of practising even the most mundane conversations repeatedly before I actually have them.’ This by twitter mate: @blondiecamps on her blog: blondiecamps.
A few weeks ago, I received a proper, old fashioned letter through the post. It was from my uncle, whose laugh I can hear clearly in my head although we’ve only seen each other a handful of times over the past couple of decades.
Knowing that I’m studying ‘Writing for Young People,’ he wrote of his favourite children’s story: The Snow Goose by Paul Gallico. In it, Phillip takes his small sailing boat to aid in the rescue of the British troops trapped on the beaches at Dunkirk. It has a resonance for our family, because my uncle’s uncle – my own Great Uncle John – was one of those soldiers.
Despite his rescue that day, Great Uncle John’s story did not end well. He became institutionalised as a result of mental illness and eventually took his own life. Long after the war was over, he was still a victim of it.
I recently wrote a piece for my course, the prompt being ‘an object lost’. I’d chosen my late grandmother’s house and, the more I wrote the more memories came back. It got me thinking about the stories we hear from our families when we are children and how they interweave with our own memories to become part of us. It’s made me think about the stories in my fictional characters’ pasts. I need to know what has made them who they are.
My uncle’s letter was full of lighter family news, too, including a photo of his first grandchild. Looking at her sweet round face and the distinct lack of hair, I could see the resemblance to my cousins when they were small.
Last week he sent me a video clip of her laughing. Light in the darkness.
Very pleased to report that I’ve been placed third in The Doris Gooderson Short Story Competition 2014 with my story When Gloria was Here. Congratulations to James Whitman who won, and Jim Waite who came second. Click here to read the winning stories.
The competition was run by the charming Wrekin Writers and the profits were donated to the Severn Hospice.
I see that it’s World Mental Health Day today. Here’s something about anxiety from my own experience. I hope it will help others making their way through the storm.
Think of when you have a burst of adrenalin. Anxiety feels like that, but all the time.Your heart beats too fast. You breathe too fast. There’s too much air in your lungs.
Eventually, you reach a point when it moves in and occupies you, body and mind, and it never goes to sleep.
On top, sits a good old dose of guilt. What right have you – well fed, clothed, sheltered, loved, educated – to feel like this? Why can you not celebrate and enjoy life?
It makes you incredibly selfish, completely wrapped up in yourself. You snap at people who ask a simple caring question because your head space is used up just existing. You hate the selfishness, the snapping. More things to feel bad about.
Anxiety is worry that’s so out of control, it’s running around naked swinging its pants around its head. It’s hard to think straight, let alone curvy. Before you know it, even though anxiety is rushing through you, blurring your lights, you are stuck. Living is on pause.
If you read books about anxiety, you will learn that sufferers frequently catastrophize and indulge in black and white thinking. This means always thinking that the worst case scenario is going to happen, regardless of any other options or possibilities, and despite considerable evidence to the contrary.
What I finally worked out, with a bit of help, was that I was using my imagination to tell myself a story that always had the worst ending. For me, that worst ending, apart from the fear of horrible things happening to people I loved, usually involved being embarrassed, feeling stupid, not getting things 100% right, not being perfect. In other words, human.
I began to resent anxiety for stealing my imagination and I wanted to take it back, reclaim it and write a story with another ending. And that’s what I did. I got back to writing. I made things up. I wrote stories about people who were nothing like me and some who were.
Writing is my thing, but I believe a creative outlet of any kind can benefit the anxiety sufferer. Instead of channeling your imagination into creating your worse case scenario try painting, drawing, singing, dancing, drumming, baking, gardening, game design…whatever rings your bell.
Keep it to yourself or show it to the world. Be kind to yourself – it takes time. Baby steps.
I cannot say that writing alone saved me. I had some hypnosis and counselling. Exercise, especially outdoors, is also a factor in maintaining my mental balance. And some days, the anxiety returns. Of course, it does. But it’s not as strong, and it doesn’t hang around so long.
I say: Alright, Anxiety? How you doing?
And then I get on with my life, you know, writing, talking to myself and, of course, procrastinating…
It feels biblical at the moment. Thunder growling in the distance as I write; lightning cracking the sky open, but no rain. Humidity, like we’re in the Deep South of America, not Gloucestershire, England. Where is autumn? It’s September, for goodness’ sake; should be all misty and mellow, but no, it’s heat and sweating and plagues.
Yes, plagues. Flies, dive bombing as we try to sleep; woodlice – dead ones curled and crispy under foot, live ones climbing armchairs, wandering across carpets and dawdling over the kitchen hob; spiders, and worse, their webs silkily crisscrossing every doorway, like a mission impossible style high security system that can only be overcome by performing advanced acrobatics while wearing a morph suit. It’s beyond me. I have a bad back, only ever achieved a forward roll at the height of my flexibility, and my bum would definitely look big in that. The Daddy Long Legs are yet to come.
There’s another plague upon my house and I’ve only got myself to blame. Twitter. Yes, I knew there would be bad alongside the good. It’s a great aid for the practising procrastinator, that’s for sure. I keep forwarding interesting links to myself to read – I don’t know when. Currently, about 235 such links are sitting in my inbox…not good. Twitter is making me think more, particularly about feminism; diversity in children’s books; mental health issues. These are in no particular order and will be revisited in future posts. Suddenly, after years of denial, lethargy and sitting on the fence, it seems I do have opinions about stuff, after all.
Alongside the good, the noble, the wise; the joy of connecting with writers and other interesting folk; alongside the kind and supportive, there are a few without humility, those who shout ‘oi, buy my book’, only that, over and over, and nothing else; and those with one desire – to claim more followers. Is there something creepily cult-like about having followers? Or am I back to the biblical? I don’t know, perhaps I’m over thinking. I do that, you know.
I’m still learning about twitter but I think it’s mostly positive. I take to heart the wise words of Katy Evans-Bush in Mslexia, issue 63:
“Generosity never goes amiss on social media.”
Well over a year ago, I attended a workshop led by the poet and novelist Sarah Salway called ‘Writing for the Social Media Age’ and run by the Bath Lit Festival. Until this point, I had kept myself in what I supposed was a necessary writerly isolation. The workshop was a turning point, tipping me from the pram of social media phobia and helping me take my first baby steps on shaky banana shaped toddler legs. That was when I set up this ‘training’ blog.
At the end of the day, Sarah set us the objective of sending a tweet or three. I had actually already set up a twitter account some time before but, in true introvert fashion, I liked to observe rather than participate.
Today, finally, I came out of the closet and sent that first tweet. This is what I look like on twitter:
Soon, I will work out how to add a button to this site so that my reader(s?) can follow me on twitter, but for now you can find my one tweet here: @KClarkwriter
More about Sarah can be found at her websites: Sarah Salway and Writer in the Garden. Her latest book is Digging up Paradise: Potatoes, People and Poetry in the Garden of England.
Blog posts are like buses in rural Gloucestershire. Nothing for a month, then two come along on the same day and, meandering around several tiny hamlets on the way to the final destination, take three hours longer than necessary to get there.
I’m getting worried about spam. It used to be that it offered medication for body parts I don’t have and technical advice I don’t understand, so it didn’t bother me much. However, it seems that they’re on to the real me as I am now receiving how-to-get-a-flat-belly spam. Depressing. Like someone sits inside my computer screen and sees the ring doughnut round my middle.
Writing news. My aforementioned first-placed ghost story Playing Out is now available to read for free at writersonline.
And that thing I’d been working towards for a long time? Very excited – I have been offered a place on the MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa Uni. Looking forward to September and spending time at the stunning Corsham Court where the course is based. I thought I’d taken a photo of the amazing architecture or gorgeous grounds or perhaps one of the peacocks that wander freely there. But, no. Turns out the only thing I photographed was the loo.
Still, toilet humour and writing for children, goes hand in sticky little hand, surely?