In GCSE English, we spent a lot of time pouring over the Irish poet Seamus Heaney. My memory is a little hazy, 26 years on (gulp), but I remember a tragic poem about his brother dying, a poppy-like bruise on his head. There was one about drowning kittens, which raised a snigger from the class as Heaney called them ‘scraggy wee shits.’ I can’t say Heaney set my world on fire, yet there was one poem in which he wrote something about a “squat pen” resting in his hand. A pen he used as his tool, his weapon even. It touched me, even if I can’t recall the name of the poem (Resisting all temptation to Google right now. You can do that for me.)
Sylvia Plath once said “I write because there is a voice within me that will not be still.” Unlike Heaney, I do love Sylvia. All my teen angst was gift wrapped in The Bell Jar. I devoured her letters and her poems and all her fucking insanity. I absorbed every detail of her relationship with poet, adulterer and all round twat, Ted Hughes. (Although, she did bite his cheek until it bled upon their first meeting so maybe it takes two to be toxic) I once sat an English Lit paper that bequeathed unto me the task of analysing ‘Epiphany’ by Ted Hughes. Every depressed geek’s wet dream! I was able to write all about what an absolute knob Hughes was, and in school!! It was probably the only time I ever loved an exam. But I digress.
Plath also said that “The worst enemy to creativity is self- doubt.” Both of Plath’s quotes, like almost everything about her, strike not a chord but an enormous symphony in my heart. Obvs, I am being dramatic. When am I not? And please don’t worry, I am not planning on putting my head in an oven. Nor am I comparing myself to Plath. I’d sell some organs for half of her talent and academic career. But I truly understand both Heaney and Plath’s compulsion to write, to make writing the centre of all you do. However, I also feel that suffocating self doubt stifling my writing.
All I have ever wanted to do was write. I trained as a journalist (unsuccessfully). In my 20s, I tried to write poetry. Inspired by Plath, littered with Greek mythology, it was, objectively, shit. That isn’t crippling self doubt. That is factual. Over the last 10 years or so, I have, with no small amount of frustration, had frantic spurts of writing. Usually, when I am at my most mental: ‘Middle of the night when my head is falling off’ blog posts. Working through my heartaches and general disappointment in prose passages. Clumsily trying to cobble together something that resembles a novel. Fuck me. It is hard. But I can’t help the compulsion. It’s sheer narcissism, no doubt. But it is also excruciating to want to do something so badly and yet struggle so much.
I did a creative writing course last year and scraped together some bits of fiction. I read it aloud to the group and they thought it was funny but I went back home and decided it was shit and they were just being kind and never went back to that piece again.
I’ve tried to read more widely but I still can’t consolidate my ideas for characters or formulate a structure. My brain bounces frantically from one idea to another like a pinball machine played by a deaf, dumb and blind kid (Poor cultural reference to Pinball Wizard and the musical Tommy, which no one under 55 will remember.) I hyper fixate on one idea so intensely, it ends up like some idea-orgasm on a one night stand. It climaxes and then I am done with it. I get my clothes on and sneak off home, full of shame. The passage is shit. There is no beginning, middle or end. Just a brain fart. A temporary meltdown. Call it what you will.
Recently, I started dating a writer (soft launch of the relationship. I’m sure he’ll dump me soon enough and you’ll get the dating blog back). I felt the crushing humiliation of him reading my blogs. My blogs that are published on an open Instagram page that literally anyone can read. I mean… of course, he was going to read it. You need to check out your new girlfriend’s brand of crazy before confirming your relationship status, right? Despite me writing for couple of years now, the idea of my writing being for public consumption is still horrifying. Those moments when I first press publish, or when I see who viewed the link, are petrifying. I am beside myself at the thought of being crap. And crap in front of your new boyfriend who ACTUALLY WRITES FOR A LIVING just feels the worst. (NB, he hasn’t said I am crap. Yet. This is still the honeymoon period though so give it time. I’ve not him let him read anything other than the blog.)
It’s frustrating to me that I didn’t choose to pursue writing as a career. Idiot. What did I know at 18? Or at 21. Or 31. Or 41 for that matter. I so desperately want to write my book. So desperately that I have tattoed a book and pen on my right wrist. However, I find it so incredibly difficult that maybe I should just write for myself. Every fucker wants to write a book these days. Every fucker has a book these days. So maybe I don’t need to be published like every fucker. Maybe I should be content with scraps of novels here and there. Random pieces of writing saved on my laptop and in the notes of my phone. Ready to be read when I die or read out in court when I get in trouble with the police, when I’ll become known as the bat shit crazy girl who wrote really badly on her phone.
Maybe my pen isn’t my tool. Maybe I have too much to say. And may be you’ll end up with another blog post about my disastrous dating life. I’m hoping you’ll just get my book, though. One day.
*This isn’t a cry for anyone to say nice things about my writing. Keep your nice opinions to yourself please
The Jeminist 