Since I started my MA in Creative Writing (Bath Spa Uni: Class of Covid) the status of being a full-time student has given me the ‘permission’ I’ve needed to write more. To take my writing seriously. Because during the previous forty five or so years that I wrote, I always had the sense that it didn’t matter much; it was a hobby. Something I did alongside reading or drawing; something that filled in the gaps between more important things like school/work/friends/family.
The fact that for the past twenty five years I’ve been approaching agents with books I’ve written–all roundly rejected–I took to mean they–therefore I–wasn’t good enough. That maybe I shouldn’t have approached them in the first place, because I wasn’t qualified to do so. I didn’t have the right background. I didn’t have a degree. I needed to take a course–or three. Join a group. Or two. Enrol on a BA(Hons). Give my savings to the most expensive mentor I could find rather than “throw it away” on an MA.
Then actually do an MA.
The last therapist I had asked me to view myself as I would a stranger–a simple thing to do, because I have no idea who I am most of the time–and tell her (my therapist) what I thought of this stranger (still me). I didn’t know where to begin. Did I start with her hair and work down? Did I start with the breech birth and grow up? Did I……? it was suggested I start with what I felt this stranger had achieved in her life.
Easy. She’d given birth to an amazing daughter who’d grown up to become a self-sufficient, clever, beautiful, wise and loving person who was achieving her dreams…. she was…
*record scratch* She hadn’t asked me to tell her what this strangers’ daughter was like.
Right. So this stranger *ahem, me* had survived parental mental and emotional neglect (we’d covered this before, so now I didn’t feel I was bad-mouthing my parents; it was simply a fact). She’d survived bullying, depression, anorexia, bereavement, self-harm, betrayal, car crashes, divorce. Twice. She’d survived…
*record scratch*
Survival, apparently isn’t an achievement. It’s more a testament of skill and endurance. (The stranger might disagree with this). The therapist suggested trying more ‘obvious’ achievements; things that this stranger *waves* had done which another person might look on and think they’d quite like to have achieved these things too…
*tumbleweed drifted across a deserted landscape*
‘Let’s start with this person’s writing,’ the therapist said. Okay. I could do that.
She wrote her first published story aged 18. She’s written four teenage books, four adult books, she’s had stories shortlisted, longlisted, been runner-up in a major literary prize, won short story competitions; had poems and stories published in anthologies, was about to graduate with a first class honour BA degree which she’d studied for six years…could I stop now please?
Stop why?
Because I knew what she was doing; this was a reverse-psychology thing; I wasn’t stupid.
And because I knew this stranger I’d been talking about was *really* me, it had suddenly felt like the worst kind of bragging I’ve never felt able to do. I hated it. It actually made me feel nauseous.
This isn’t called bragging, it turns out. And certainly shouldn’t be viewed negatively. It’s more a reinforcement of self-worth and other psychoanalytical Instagram-induced bollocks which I’ve never felt comfortable extolling. Therefore, plan thwarted, therapist lady!
Although this exercise did stay with me. Clearly. I’m posting about it right now. And I have to admit that if I came across someone who had achieved (not survived) these writerly things, I’d be as envious as heck of her. Probably of her stamina more than anything; in the face of endless rounds of submissions and rejections; in the face of never being in the right place at the right time, but still persisting with her dreams; in the face of knowing how easy it is just to throw in a towel then lie on it in a darkened corner and let the world carry on… in the face of watching daily as other real, published, successful writers delightedly announce the arrival of their next book; of their place in the charts; of their five-star reviews; of the fact they can’t believe that at the grand old age of *anything from 24 to 39* their debut is now in the world… that she continues… and continues… and continues…
… although why does she carry on in the face of such adversity?
I would joke that it’s masochism; self-flagellation. Or I’m aiming to be the best failed writer in the world (which might still come to pass) but, honestly?
I can’t not write. I simply can’t. I’ve said before that not writing is like not breathing; it’s always been the first thing I want to do, the last thing I want to do, and the thing I fill all the spaces with in between.
I will die with either a book or a pen in my hand (laptop optional, depending on the type of death).
Debs J Cooper 