What I'm writing
Writing is becoming home again. How I'm fostering vulnerability, belief that writing can change the world and the usefulness of #NaPoWriMo.
Over the last month or so I’ve spent time considering why I write, and more specifically why I want to write in public. It’s been a positive process – something has unlocked and I’ve found writing has regained it’s place as one of my lifelong loves. It’s returned to being one of the first things I think about when I wake up, one of the more enjoyable things that keep me awake at night. It’s possible it even causes me to lose my appetite – you get the picture. I’m happy to have it back.
This seems like a good time to consider what I’m actually writing. I began the year with an idea for a novel, possibly told through a series of 100 word vignettes. I still have the idea but lack the courage to see it through just yet. I feel I need to attend to poetry as a priority before I can move on to anything else. Whilst I’m a superb multitasker I find it tricky to focus on more than one creative project at a time, particularly ones that demand a little courage.
What am I writing?
After a merry crop of encouraging but ultimately disheartening longlistings I sat down to try and understand why my work didn’t have the pizazz* it needed to take it over the line. What was it that was making editors and competition judges go “It’s good, but nah, there’s something missing”. I’m confident in my structure and techniques. There’s always stuff to learn and I constantly seek to improve but I have an idea of the impact of various aspects of the poets toolkit and the magical way rhythm and sound can say things we don’t even know we feel. I think it’s more about the content. I know that I hold back in my writing. A little of this is fear of sounding “too poetic” in a “who does she think she is” kind of way. That’s the easy one. The real challenge is saying what I actually feel, what I actually think, and the worry of giving too much of myself away.
This reluctance make myself vulnerable was brought home during in an ad-hoc project, born on Substack. After an innocuous exchange with
on Notes I set out to explore why I want to write in public with an vague plan to compare our ideas at some point in the future.We wrote without reading each others thoughts and whilst we shared many similarities, one key difference struck me. Allegra was proud to say she wanted to change the world.
Ultimately, though, I write publicly - and seek out a career writing words in public media - to have an impact on the world. I have something I want to say.
This pulled me up short. Somewhere along the line I’ve lost my courage, lost my willingness to stand tall and say that I want to change things, and that I believe what I write could make a difference. I’ve implied it, sure, with gentle sentences about connection, but I lack(ed) the courage to say it out loud.
This lack of courage means I hold back in speaking my truth, my reality. Yet that is the one of the most important things any writer can do. Years of writing training manuals, and working as a content writer have meant that I am an expert in writing in the clients voice – perhaps at the expense of my own. The time has come to push myself into my discomfort zone. I’m doing it in reading, and I’m doing it in my writing. It’s hard. Forty years of masking are difficult to break down, but if my work is to have any character, any uniqueness, I have to embrace this discomfort. The prevalent themes of my work remain the same. The key change is the authenticity with which I approach them.
How am I making this happen?
I’m a diligent soul. I’ve drawn up a program of study, streamlined my many online writing groups and tried to return to a writing practice based on exploration and inquisitiveness rather than worry about performance. One of the most useful tools for this has been NaPoWriMo – which brings me neatly to the next part of this weeks letter.
NaPoWriMo – is it worth it?
I read a slightly exasperated note from a fellow substacker this week, bemoaning the sheer volume of things to read – and from their note NaPoWriMo seemed to be a big part of the problem. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that a writing challenge is going to ramp up the content on what is a preferred platform for writers, but I absolutely relate to the sense of overwhelm.
Nonetheless I enjoy NaPoWriMo (except for typing it – all those internal capitals make it like typing one of my dear Dad’s cryptic passwords). I love the gentle challenge and I love the slightly disorganized feel it has. There are numerous ways to gather a prompt and numerous sources to choose. Some are deep and involved, some are a single word and some are a balance between the two. Being a collector, I tend to stick to one resource (this year I’m using prompts from
of Notes From the Margin) but there’s no reason not to mix and match. Writing has been hard this year and NaPoWriMo has unlocked something for me that other poetry challenges have failed to do.Regular practice that doesn’t feel like a chore
There is a tyranny around creativity, a sense that truly creative writers, musicians, painters etc. cannot enjoy a day without attending to their craft. The entreaty to “write every day” is part of many books on creative writing, and whilst the value of practice is without argument, creating a prison for creativity seems at odds with its existence. The casual nature of NaPoWriMo means it doesn’t have the feeling of stricture – it’s a fun activity designed to loosen creative flow. Poems can be shared, squirrelled away, redrafred, abandoned – whatever works for you works.
Why does this feel different?
I’m aware that this may be super-personal, but I find NaPoWriMo liberating. I don’t sit down to “write a poem” I sit down to play a game ? I have no intention of creating a finished piece, but I have the excitement that something good may come. I also get the chance to make a cute background on Canva, post on social media and get some instant feedback – there is a joy in sending these unedited, unrevised pieces out for what is a direct reaction. It makes me feel connected to both the writing and the reader in a way that is lost in the process of submitting to lit mags and entering competitions. I guess it’s like reading work aloud – something I’d love to do but struggle to actualise.
I finish this letter with some positivity, a little trepidation and a lot more happiness in my writing world than there has been of late. I’m not feeling uber confident, but I am feeling more joy. Writing has always been home and of late it’s felt an awkward visit with relatives than somewhere I can kick my shoes off and relax. The doubts are still there, the fear that everything I attempt is appalling still weaves around my mind - after all, putting your heart on a page, into a song, a painting or sculpture is always going to be shot through with doubt and vulnerability. That’s the nature of opening up and whilst this feeling of vulnerability is still here, the feeling that something good is coming is growing stronger.
I’ll leave you today with this quote from Zadie Smith
“As you know, there really isn’t any solution to self-doubt. In the end you just have to write and doubt simultaneously”
Until next time
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‘Writing has always been home and of late it’s felt an awkward visit with relatives than somewhere I can kick my shoes off and relax’ - such an apt image! Lovely and wholehearted to read x
Just want to be one more voice saying that the long listing means the quality is already there. The editors are like college admissions boards; they cannot admit all who are qualified, and ultimately their job is to create a class. Editors are creating a whole, and each poem/writer is a part. So once you cross the line of good enough to be included, it's as much about how your work fits with that of other writers (and past issues) as the work itself. I mean, of course push your work in ways you want it to go! Of course! But learning and understanding this about editorial processes was so helpful to me. It helped me detach from the outcomes. That long list notification is great!