I'm overwhelmed, so I decided to write.
I used to write for catharsis, not money. I need an outlet to do that again.
Crack. The noise goes through me.
Recently, most noises go through me. It might sound like a weird expression, but in my head I mean it literally. It’s like noises leap into the atmosphere, nestle themselves inside my eardrums, crawl inside my skull and bang intrusively, repetitively against my brain.
The nee-nor of an ambulance siren. The whoosh of a coffee machine steam iron. The slap-slap of flip-flops on hard pavement. I’m not sure why, but at the minute it feels like even the most unobtrusive of noises can ruin my mood.
I can’t quite figure out why I’ve been more on edge lately, but I think it’s something to do with the dreaded book mode. Last year, I signed with an agent. In my head, it sounds like a thing that writers do, you know? My impression is that it makes you seem more legitimate, more serious. Plus I just really liked the idea that for once I’d be say things like, “I’ll have my people talk to your people.” I think people sound like wankers when they say things like that, but it felt nice and kind of validating to feel like maybe I could be that wanker for once.
When I signed, I sent over a vague sketch of a book proposal I’d been working on. My agent loved it. Since then, I’ve been feeling more unsure.
Imposter syndrome is pretty common if you’ve grown up working-class. When you’ve been told –– directly by career advisers and indirectly by society –– that you’ll amount to nothing on account of being raised on a council estate and not much else, it’s hard to truly believe your work is worth something.
You’d think success would help, right? Surely once you’ve had one book published, your confidence starts to grow? Apparently not!
I read recently that procrastination is a defence mechanism. It’s not that you can’t focus, it’s that you’re subconsciously worried that if you do focus and get your work done, the results will be shit. Procrastination eliminates that risk. Maybe that’s why I spent five hours playing a wrestling game last night instead of writing the two book chapters due next week. Perhaps it’s why I’m sat with a beer writing a blog instead of writing anything vaguely work-related.
Maybe I’m proof in some way that this theory is true.
Then, there’s the noises. This morning I received a voice note. In the background, a car alarm was blaring. I had to pause the voice note three times before I got to the end. The piercing sound make my skin crawl.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this sensitive before. Maybe it’s the enforced isolation of a two-year-long pandemic. Maybe it’s a mixture of anxiety, grief and a desperate need to feel in control of my environment. I’m not sure what it is, but what I do know that it’s really fucking irritating.
When I lived in Paris at 19 years old, I struggled a lot with control. I restricted my diet severely, ate only bananas and cereal bars to feel like I had some semblance of control over my weight. I was failing miserably at university. I’d spent two years working in retail to save up enough money to move, yet within a month I found myself spunking them up the wall to drop €100 on a cape from Zara that I didn’t even like.
Retrospectively, I was miserable. I vaguely understood it at the time, so I decided to find an outlet. Writing became my outlet. I wrote for myself, not for money. Whenever I felt stressed, I sat with my laptop and vomited my thoughts onto the document, not bothering to edit them or rephrase them in ways that felt smarter or more palatable.
Last month, I was interviewed for a podcast. The first question was simple enough. Have you always enjoyed writing? It genuinely caught me off-guard. I think I have, but honestly, who the hell knows? I remember writing a shit fantasy story in Year 10 about an underwater dragon tournament, but I don’t remember thinking it was particularly good.
What I do remember is my teacher’s reaction. She read the story and teared up. She told me I was talented. I didn’t fully believe her, but I knew I liked the warm glow of validation that came alongside being good at something.
Seven years into my journalism career, I can’t imagine myself doing anything else. I don’t mean that in a corny, this is my dream way, I just honestly can’t think of something else I’ve ever been told I’m really good at. So I write. I pitch articles, I send them over to editors and pray they like them. At the end of the month –– or sometimes after three months, such is the life of a freelancer –– I get a paycheque that keeps me happy. It’s work, and it’s work I genuinely enjoy.
Writing is different to other jobs, though. Creative industries pay people fuck all, and I think the only way they can justify doing that is by selling this gigantic myth that we all write, draw, paint, sing because we’re passionate, not because we’re using skills to provide a service that deserves to be compensated.
Creative industries romanticise struggle, but not actual struggle. Posh kids take unpaid internships and live with their parents to get their feet on the first rung of the career ladder. Meanwhile, those of us born without resources rarely get our foot through the door. I’ve realised this at various points in my career, which I think is why I feel so much pressure to do well. When people realise I come from a working-class background, I think they’re impressed. It feels like I’m one of the lucky ones, that I’ve made it.
Maybe that’s why I’m so stressed about writing a book. I’ve spent the last week reading an anthology of short stories that, quite frankly, has made me feel stupid. I don’t get the stories. To me, they seem like strings of random, unconnected sentences that don’t equate to actual plots. The characters are nameless, the words are fancy and the endings are abrupt, in a way that makes me feel like I’ve failed to grasp some key, profound meaning somewhere along the line. My brain tunes out. I feel thick, like I’m somehow not sophisticated enough to grasp what some of my favourite authors have called “groundbreaking,” “exciting” and “revelatory.”
So now I’m sat here, recoiling at every minor noise I’m hearing in this busy, crowded bar and writing a stream-of-consciousness blog post to avoid writing the work I should actually be doing. At least I understand now that it’s a defence mechanism. I guess I need to work on being less defensive.
this was INCREDIBLY relatable, as a semi-retired journalist now working on a book too. when we come from no money -- and are already at the margins of our industries -- the pressure to get it right is at a level of "higher stakes" that many writers with generational wealth don't feel.
this was INCREDIBLY relatable, as a semi-retired journalist now working on a book too. when we come from no money -- and are already at the margins of our industries -- the pressure to get it right is at a level of "higher stakes" that many writers with generational wealth don't feel.