The Danger of Labels
It all started so well…
(Don’y worry, it picks up by the end)
I thought I’d preface these thoughts with a simple acknowledgement that in a great many ways this year has been wonderful. I signed a book deal, after al!!
And I am so appreciative of all of the hard work my agents and editor have done, and are doing, to make that a success.
Thank you, to all of them. Truly.
But it’s been a challenging year, and so I thought I’d write a little about why. In case it is ever useful to another debut author, or anyone, really. The actual advice might be scant, though…take it more as a cautionary tale.
Writing has been the most wonderful discovery. It’s been pretty recent, too, I only started in earnest in 2019, so to be getting ready for publication next Autumn is incredible. But I’ve been trying to make a success of a creative career for much longer. I’ve done quite a few things. Costume designer, illustrator. Visual artist. Painter. I taught myself create 3D digital models. I’ve spoken before about Eythin being my bridge from all of this to writing, and how writing felt like everything clicked into place. Here, finally, a creative, wonderful thing that not only did I enjoy but (unlike most of my previous output) might make some money! Not a lot, but enough to build on.
After signing the contract, and waiting for my first edits I was prepared for things to take time. Lots of time. Everything I had read and everyone I had talked to in regards to publishing had said the same thing. Whatever people say, however long they say it will take, it will take longer.
I didn’t mind, though, I had lots to write. I had the novel I’d almost finished, written when I thought Gorse wouldn’t sell. And I had ideas for novels to come. Lots of them. I have a document, it’s extensive.
What I hadn’t realised, and this is on me, is that we wouldn’t be able to do anything with these books for a while. A few years, in fact. And I found that a little terrifying. I had discovered I wrote fast, and fairly ‘clean’ and so had pictured myself knocking out a book a year, Pratchett-like. They might not bring enormous wealth but I had speed on my side! That will still happen, I think. But after a delay.
There’s that slow thing, again.
So after I finished the almost done novel, I stopped writing manuscripts. Because what would the point be? I could write the novels I wanted to write, stack them up on my hard drive. I reckoned that in four years I could have drafted 5 or 6 of them. They would need SO MUCH work, but they would be drafted. The ideas would be out. I could polish one whilst I carved out the other. That had been the plan.
Instead, to fill the gap, I wrote lots of short stories, submitted to lots of journals and had some success but my thoughts kept drifting to Gorse.
To this book that I began to worry wouldn’t do well, would get lost in the crowd, was too similar to other books that were coming out, whose lack of success would would mean I couldn’t write more.
I’ve never really been much of an anxious person, but I stopped being able to sleep. My heart raced and I had a steady stream of intrusive thoughts.
I went to the doctor, got a blood pressure test, found out what happens to anxiety when you google “what does x blood pressure mean”. It wasn’t all that tenable.
I was trying to fix a problem that a)didn’t exist yet, the book wasn’t out and it wouldn’t be out for well over a year and b)There was nothing I could do anyway. Publishing is fickle. A great deal of it is luck. I’d done the bit I have control over, I’d written the thing. I’d do the edits, when they came. But that was it, pretty much, until nearer publication when I could promote it.
I found an inelegant solution. I wrote it off, mentally. Decided it would probably not be a success but that was ok, I’d write something else, maybe under another name! It was easier for my mental health to forget about Gorse, or at least to stop investing emotional time and energy in it.
Awful idea, bad. Do not recommend.
The second problem I’d created for myself was that, buoyed on my initial writing success and how much I loved (and still love) writing, I had decided I was no longer an artist. I was a writer, an author! But now (see above) I couldn’t write novels. And short stories were not likely to bring a sustainable career. The only other string to this new, pared down bow was writing workshops and they too were too thin on the ground to be a realistic prospect. I’d driven myself into a bit of a cul-de-sac. Creativity-wise.
Eventually, Gorse edits came, and I loved them. It helped me fall back in love with the book again, but I still couldn’t let myself think about it beyond the edit I was actively working on. It would bring back the racing heart and spreading panic.
This is where I ought to have been reaching out and talking to people, by the way, I am aware. And i did talk to my wonderful, supportive partner who was the most amazing help. She deserves all of the credit for getting me through the first half of the year when things were at their worst. Thank you, if you read this.
I started reading lots of blogs about advice for debut authors. Lots of them had the same advice, to celebrate every little thing. Every edit, every finished pass or little step forward on the way to publication.
This is good advice, do that, if you are in this position! It is so amazing to get to any point as a writer, to finish a book is amazing, to get an agent, incredible! A book deal? Wonderful! Doing this gave me back the ability to enjoy the process, to take each thing for myself, to enjoy that achievement. I’d forgotten that bit. I’d heaped so much weight onto the idea of making a career of writing, and it couldn’t sustain it. Not yet.
Part of the problem, I think, was that my job (I work in a library) is not something I love, or even like, very much. I love libraries, don’t get me wrong, I think they are incredibly important but I’ve worked in them for a decade. Always “until something else came along”. And writing did! Then it went away again.
I needed to find other things to do.
By the end of the summer, I had resolved to find a way to make it work. To find something to bridge these years where being a novelist, an author, whatever, wasn’t quite viable just yet. I started applying to lots of things. I was shortlisted to become a librettist! I emailed and zoom called with everybody I could find in Cornwall who ran any writing adjacent organisation.
Oddly, this was actually quite successful. I highly recommend what I’m trademarking as “hello, I’m here!” emails. I sent a potted CV, along with an enthusiastic introduction and asked for workshop work, other work, any work from a bunch of people. It led to more introductions, connections, several “come back to us laters” and a position as writer in residence for the Causley Trust in Launceston.
Score.
I was gradually upping my income, my network, my potential as a professional writer. Still stuck on the writing though.
It was luck, again, that solved this problem. Luck and a group of wonderful people.
I get regular emails that highlight creative opportunities in Cornwall. They don’t often have much. In September though, one caught my eye. It was an opportunity to spend a few days further west (paid!) on a residency with a theatre company called Wildworks.
I knew of Wildworks, I’d worked with Wildworks, many years before at university. The call just specified “Cornwall based artists”.
Damn. I was a writer. Not an artist, anymore. I deleted the email. Besides, this was a Saturday, I was at work until the afternoon and the application, a three minute video, needed to be in by Monday. There was no way I could do it.
I couldn’t forget it though, and over the next few hours, to the detriment of my paid work I started making notes about what I might say. By the time I got home I had a script, ish. I didn’t know if it was the right kind of thing but it was something, and I felt so sure I wasn’t qualified for this, what did it matter? I filmed myself reading my submission that afternoon, then submitted the next day, digging the email out of the trash for the address.
I got it, obviously, what a terrible end to this blog if I hadn’t? And it was marvellous.
I didn’t know what to expect, but knew that if I was going I had to do it with the most enthusiasm and energy I had. I resolved to jump in, both feet first and enjoy every second, however terrifying and out of my comfort zone.
It was so good I took almost no photos but here are a few that I did, including one where I look exhausted, but happy.
Over three days, and in the most idyllic setting, I played. For the first time in so long, just played. Made things out of sticks, ran around in the rain in the woods. Sang like a wolf, played games. Made performances, danced, and was really very, very, content.
I met amazing people, the Wildworks team themselves who were the most welcoming, supportive, kind people. I met designers, poets, actors, drag performers, singers, puppeteers, directors, and artists. We ate incredible food, we swam.
We worked really hard at playing. My head was crammed with ideas and thoughts and new friendships. I shared stories I hadn’t shared in years, hadn’t thought about in years. It was honest, and beautiful and very freeing. I suddenly had all these amazing connections, to new amazing people and they seemed interested in me. In the ideas I had. I felt so valued and part of the group and listened to.
I hadn’t had that, as a creative, for so long. It was intoxicating.
The most valuable thing, though, was that I went in thinking of myself as a writer. And of writing as one or two things and came out with both of those ideas blown to tiny, glittering pieces.
I could see where writing could fit with performance, with theatre, with visual art. I could see what I had to offer, could see that my writing didn’t stand apart from my training and experience as a designer, or work as a visual artist, it was all the same thing. I could suddenly see opportunity everywhere. With these wonderful people, but beyond too.
I came home and, even before my partner got a run down, wrote down everything I had done because I didn’t want to forget.
Since then, as well as working on project proposals for Wildworks I have applied for artist grants, writing opportunities, theatrical opportunities, script writing opportunities and so many more things. I might get some, I might get none it doesn’t matter. Because now, whatever happens with Gorse, the pressure’s off. I feel able to enjoy the process, because there are so many things to do and think about. That’s why I’m not sure I’m an author, anymore, or at least that’s not how I’ll define myself.
I’m lots of other things, as well.*
*Until the book comes out, then I might be just an author for a bit, and be insufferable.
