Small Steps, Big Magic - What Exactly Are You Waiting For?
A few months ago I signed up for a creative writing course. One that is focused on memoir writing, not because I think my life story is particularly interesting but because I thought it might be a slightly more structured way to write the book I’ve been wanging on about writing for years.
It’s not the first time I’ve enjoyed an online writing course. A couple of decades ago I joined Gotham Writers Workshops, daydreaming that hanging out with ‘real’ writers in New York City, via a dodgy wi-fi connection and late night chat rooms, was exactly like being Carrie in SATC. The courses I did back then filled me with confidence and I relished the chance to share my short stories and writing exercises with the group, squirrelling away every piece of feedback for the time when I would, you know, actually write a book.
What happened? Well I didn’t write a book. I wrote loads of Powerpoint presentations and strategy documents to help launch a magazine or two; I wrote long emails and short emails and angry emails that will remain in Drafts folders of long-dormant work accounts (a blessing with the benefit of hindsight, especially for the people who were meant to receive them); I wrote letters of complaint that I revelled in crafting (most often to utility companies, sometimes to airlines and always with a certain amount of pride in their content and construction); I wrote thank you letters and bought giant personalised birthday cards for my girls every year so I could write a sort of ‘annual review’ for them to reread when they get older and I’m not around to remind them how loved they have always been, and of course, I wrote my diaries. But the book? It remained a thing that I wanted to do, a little spark of an ambition in the corner of my mind’s eye, occasionally darting into view for a moment or two before being thrust back into the place where dreams go to hibernate whilst real life gets lived.
I had lunch with a very wise woman I know just before Christmas last year and we talked about lots of things, including my dream of writing a book, and she offered me some sage advice. I am paraphrasing it - this woman is a very well established writer and so put it much more eloquently - but her advice was to get used to putting your writing out there and to having it critiqued (very often not in a positive way). I realised that this is something that people-pleasing me is going to struggle with, and is perhaps one of, if not the, thing that has stopped me allowing that spark of an ambition to sprint to the front of my mind and demand to be heard.
I’ve always struggled with not letting ‘constructive criticism’ consume me, failing not to take it to heart and often allowing it to cancel out all the positive feedback I’ve attracted over the years, by trying to keep this Hillary Clinton quote front of mind:
“Take criticism seriously, but not personally. If there is truth or merit in the criticism, try to learn from it. Otherwise, let it roll right off you.”
I guess, because the Pandora’s Box that proper therapy might crack open is a step too far at this point, that as an eldest daughter who grew up learning that being ‘clever’ and having a list of achievements that could be read out like a roll call was the route to a relatively easy time, it’s not hard to see why I’ve always struggled to keep constructive, often well-meaning, feedback in perspective.
But then I hit being well into my forties and, to coin a very overused but apt phrase, I discovered I had virtually no fucks left to give. That, alongside the fact that I have always struggled with people who talk a lot about wanting to do something but never actually do anything to make it happen - projection, perhaps? - and I’m reminded that nobody cares that much about what I do and how I do it because, in the nicest possible way, they’ve got better things to do.
As an aside, this reminds me of the advice of another splendid woman I know whose straight-talking, common sense nuggets have been a near-daily reality check for almost a decade. Last September I had an operation on my knee to repair an old (elite athlete, clearly) injury. This involved my first ever general anaesthetic and I was not hiding how nervous I was about this very well. At all.
Cue said splendid woman asking me what exactly it was that was worrying me and I told her that I was concerned that I wouldn’t wake up from the general anaesthetic. (Side note - have I ever mentioned that I’m a control freak?) I will never forget the immortal line that followed, “You are not special enough to be that statistic, Tammy”.
At first reading you might think, ooof that’s a bit harsh but, let it sink in a bit. Because I did and, whilst recounting this story will never not be hilarious especially to people who know this very special woman, it is an exceptionally good piece of advice. Because what she basically told me is that worrying about things that are statistically unlikely to happen, and about which you can do absolutely nothing, is utterly pointless. Putting your energy into the stuff you can control is where the magic happens, and that is something always worth remembering.
My husband’s response to me telling him that I was terrified I wouldn’t wake up from said general anaesthetic was equally thought-provoking, “That sounds like a me-problem, not a you-problem”. Wise words indeed.
And so, we’re back at the memoir writing course that I am currently halfway through. This week’s task was to write up an outline of your memoir, a “My book is about…” one pager and to commit to a title for said book. Boy, did I procrastinate about this for a couple of days! Inwardly railing against the task, having conversations with myself about not being ready to commit this to paper, telling myself that everyone else on the course was a brilliant writer and I was a charlatan with nothing interesting to say. And then I took the advice of the author of the course - a celebrated memoirist, no less - grabbed a pen and some paper, set a timer for five minutes and started sketching out a plan. And when the timer went off, I carried on writing. In what felt like the blink of an eye, an idea for a structure was born - one that I genuinely had not thought about before - and I have a title.
If you’ve read ‘Big Magic’ by Elizabeth Gilbert you won’t be in the slightest bit surprised by this, and I’m so glad I returned to the book recently after not ‘getting it’ the first time I tried to read it five years ago. It’s one of those books that, had I been inclined to sully it with a highlighter pen for quotes that resonated, would not have looked out of place at an 80s neon-themed fancy dress party and this is just one of many passages that make so much sense right now:
“Recognising that people’s reactions don’t belong to you is the only sane way to create. If people enjoy what you’ve created, terrific. If people ignore what you’ve created, too bad. If people misunderstand what you’ve created, don’t sweat it. And what if people absolutely hate what you’ve created? What if people attack you with vitriol, and insult your intelligence, and malign your motives, and drag your good name through the mud? Just smile sweetly and suggest - as politely as you possibly can - that they go make their own fucking art. Then stubbornly continue making yours.”
Which brings me finally to the print that hangs in our kitchen. I spotted it in a small gallery in Shoreditch when I was working there a few years ago. I wasn’t particularly enjoying my work at the time and I bought the print to remind myself that it’s in my gift to create the magic I want in my life. Feels particularly relevant right now…
