It’s been a while since I updated my blog, and my big news is that I'm now a published writer - of not one, but two poetry collections!
My first full collection Blood and Water was published by
The Seventh Quarry (available from www.seventhquarrypress.com)
in November. I also self-published Grandmasaurus, a collection of poems for
children, which I wrote with my daughter over the first lockdown. And I've a
further collection of socio-political poems Our Father Eclipse due out with
Culture Matters in April. So, all in all, it's been an exciting time!
I'll write more about the publishing process in a future article, but what I wanted to focus on today is how strange it feels to be sharing my work, and how this fear has held me back for many years.
Writing itself is an act of vulnerability. Writers are sensitive souls. If we didn't feel things so deeply, we'd have nothing to write about. Most of the time you don't really write with a specific audience in mind. You write because you have to, because you have a burning urge to get it all out of paper, because if you didn't all those feelings bubbling around inside might make your head explode. That's why I write anyway. Poetry open mics are weird. They are possibly the only situation in life, apart from counselling sessions, where you can walk into a room full of strangers, tell them your innermost thoughts and feelings, and then just sit down again. As a complete introvert, the idea of doing this once used to fill me with a horrible, creeping dread. I'd be terrified of standing up at the mic, would worry about the mic falling over, or me falling over, or everybody hating my poetry and throwing rocks at me. None of which has happened. Yet. These days, I love performing, partly because I've grown used to it through practice, and as I've done more I've grown in confidence to the point where I now find it quite empowering.
But sharing your words in print is another thing entirely. Most of the open mics I attend, or attended prior to lockdown, consisted largely of people I'd grown to value as trusted friends. But once your words are in print, anybody can read them. Strangers can pick them up. Critics can judge them. What if nobody ‘gets’ them? What if people misunderstand or misinterpret them, or judge me, or disagree with what I’m saying?
I realised when I decided to seriously seek publication that one of the things that has held me back all my life is not just a fear of failure, but also a fear of success. Back when I was at school, I was a shy, socially awkward kid. I spent a lot of my time hanging out in the library, partly because I've always loved reading, but mostly because I knew that you had t be quiet in libraries so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. I loved reading and writing with a passion. But I was wise enough to know that if you didn't want to get picked on, it was best not to stand out. I used to hate it if a teacher singled me out for anything, good or bad, because that meant I'd be noticed. It was much safer just to blend in. But I didn't. I couldn't. I never have. I was skinny, with wild hair, and zero social skills. When the other children were listening to pop music I was into medieval Ars Nova music and Breton bagpipes. When they were talking about their latest celebrity crushes I was crushing over John Donne's poetry (and the picture of him on the cover, if I’m honest). The harder I tried to fit in, the weirder I felt.
These days, of course, I’m quite happy to be who I am. Most of my friends don’t fit into the crowd either. And that’s okay. Why would we want to? But when I thought about releasing my poetry into the world, all those thoughts came flooding back. What if I stood out too much? What if people didn’t like my words, didn’t like me? What if I created false expectations which I couldn't subsequently fulfil?
The strange thing is that, almost as soon as the books were published, these
thoughts have gone away. It’s almost as if the very act of getting my words out
there has vanquished the old demons and sent them packing. I do realise, of
course, that what I write won’t be everybody’s cup of tea, and that’s fine.
Poetry, like all types of art, has many, many different faces. You wouldn’t
turn round to a jazz musician and say that theirs wasn’t proper music because
it wasn’t classical, so why would you do that for writing? And not everybody
will relate to the same experiences as me. But I do hope that some people will
get it. I hope that somebody will read, perhaps, something I write and it will
touch a familiar vein in their life, and spark some kind of shared emotion.
Those are the moments writers live for.
I’m also learning that I can use this process as a stepping stone to learn and grow alongside others. In the past few months I’ve collaborated with other writers on translations, shared details of journals and submission opportunities, and made friends with poets from all over the world – something I could never have envisaged prior to lockdown. And what I’m learning is that moving from a fearful, competitive way of regarding others to a joyous, cooperative approach is so much more fulfilling. I am part of a wonderful community of empathic, encouraging, creative people, who are progressing together on a shared artistic journey – and that, in itself is amazing!
To anybody else out there who is letting fear of other people’s judgment hold them back, I’d like to offer this hope. We are all on this beautiful planet together. Every one of us has a unique voice, a unique story to tell. Tell yours. Tell it boldly. And then encourage others to tell theirs.
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