So where we left things (before an intermission of angry-doctor-ing) I'd handed in a first draft. I'd got to the top of that mountain. And I was waiting on feedback.
Full disclosure- there's no cliffhanger here, it's all fine. No great disaster is befalling anything. And that's all good. But the process and emotions of getting here and to the next is worth documenting. And oddly has been a difficult blog to write.
This project, while technically a commission has been a collaborative effort between me and the producer. We didn't know each other beforehand (I'd had a short piece in one of his writing showcases) but we started talking in September last year, and have worked on it since there. It's been a fortunately brilliant collaboration for two people who don't know each other- more on that later.
So in all I've been talking about this since last September and writing piecemeal since then. This has been interrupted by bursts of job issues (as ever) a general sense of 'really should I be doing this' and if I'm honest, some moments of really poor mental health (a blog on that is on it's way). As well as periods of I'm-doing-too-much-this-might-finish-me. So until now it was worked on in a series of short concentrated bursts (translation, there were deadlines, I ignored them and then scrambled to meet them). And all of those previous deadlines were 'unofficial' ones, a check in, a collaborative meeting to see if things were on track. Around April I'd got about 40 pages worth of edited, refined writing done we were both really happy with. But in order to meet the original agreed deadline for a full draft I had to say 'let me run with this a while' in order to get something on the page. And as a writer I needed to be left in peace with my 'kids' to get something done.
And I got it done. And then some. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I often joke that after 10 years of study I am child of Kushner and cannot write anything short. I also write like I talk- at speed and length. But I also knew I needed to get a lot of words down in order to pull it back to something useful. Over-write and edit is the only way it works for me. And so over-write I did.
And I sent off over 200 pages.
In my defense this was coupled with a disclaimer of 'I'd rather show you too much than have to fill in the gaps.' Which I still think was the right call, but what that meant was a scary amount of words and ideas that hadn't been discussed. And so handing that over was terrifying. What it also was is the longest piece of work (in time and word count) that I've done since the PhD. In fact, in adding it up (with pieces abandoned) between January and June I wrote more words than in my actual PhD.
But unlike academic work from which there is some distance (or in the case of my PhD some 'get this away from me or so help me') by the time you hand it in, with this creative work, it's personal. It also was barely 'finished' before deadlines ripped it from my hands and I was forced to hand it over
What followed was 10 days of utter anxiety and meltdown. I take full ownership of most of this...most of it. Having handed over my work I had to wait. Which went something like this:
Sunday- sent it in- utter denial went to bed.
Monday- received email about it, went into total meltdown. Came home. Cried.
Tuesday- as Monday.
Wed, Thur, Fri- calmed down a bit. Started thinking about the play and everything I'd done I now wanted to fix.
Friday, I had an email with some questions about it that I physically couldn't bring myself to open. Saturday: complete and utter crash, couldn't think or do much of anything.
Sunday, got my head back in the game and felt a bit more positive.
That took a full week. By the next week I felt a bit calmer and had a bit of 'fight' in me.
In this- and in giving me a bit of fight back I'm incredibly grateful to my 'girl gang' who dragged me through that week, with messages of support, and listening to my- entirely irrational at times thoughts. Writers: get yourself a group of friends who will let you be irrational, and precious about it, who will let you say that it's all doomed then tell you why it isn't. And will let you shout things like 'I'M KEEPING THE FUCKING UNDERTAKER' at them.
Of course at this point nobody had actually SAID it had gone horribly wrong. But I had taken a few lines of email, and a bit of silence to mean that. And of course, as ever once you speak to someone it all becomes clear. I actually described this creative process as like being in a long distance relationship, and trying to raise a child. (If you know, neither party found the other remotely attractive, it's not that kind of love story). Everyone wants the best, everyone kind of likes the other. But also you're 200 miles apart and living crazy busy lives.
Also what I have come to realise is just how intimate an experience it is sharing work like this at such an early stage. My collaborator has seen writing of mine that firstly, no earthly soul should see it's so bad, and that's a real act of trust. I wouldn't normally share work at that stage with my closest friends. But also, the contents of the writing itself are also an incredibly personal, intimate thing to share. In some ways because it's letting someone into the dark recesses of your mind- in my case a place nobody every needed to be. You open yourself up to such judgement- especially when something is still developing, just on the 'what where on earth did THAT come from what is wrong with you' elements. The fact I still won't show this to my friends, because I'm not happy with, or in a robust enough place to deal with them seeing 'inside' my head in that way, shows just how much trust I put in my collaborator.
Not only in trusting someone to give honest, but constructive feedback on something really not quite ready, but also to let someone in on aspects that can, and do spring from some very personal places.
Which amounts to sharing some elements of the deepest part of you with a near stranger...who at times doesn't know which bits come from truth and which ones you entirely made up but even so, that stranger becoming very close to you very quickly. It's an odd beast.
And in writing all that, there's the emotional exhaustion that comes with it- be it in writing in some things fairly close to home, and indeed some other elements which while nothing to do with me personally are fairly emotionally exhausting to write about. Remind me to pick something lighter next time yeah? (she says, with a play about Cancer patiently waiting rehearsal redrafts).
Added to all that is the intellectual, emotional and mental health hangover that comes with doing any major project post PhD. I once described a PhD supervision as someone saying all the worst things you think about yourself, to your face over and over. And repeat for 3, 4, however many years. In some ways it makes you resilient, but in others it makes you raw as hell.
And so I'm lucky. I'm lucky that- despite a bump in the road caused by my brain- I have a supportive partner in this, who isn't looking to tear me down, but build me up (even when he doesn't quite understand how my brain works). And the relief of laughing through a two hour Skype call, rather than crying through a PhD supervision is something I'll be grateful for.
This process is proving both a learning, and at the risk of sounding wanky-writer-y a healing one. Learning that I can produce a volume of work, I can take critique, but also that I've come out the other side of academia still able to do that. And that there are people in the world you can work with, who won't set out to destroy everything about you. I'm learning about myself in this project, and sort of putting myself back together intellectually and creatively. That'll do for now. That's worth it for now. ...even if this play is terrible it's worth it.
Also, always fight to keep the fucking undertaker. He's worth it too.
Sunday, June 17, 2018
Thursday, June 14, 2018
That's Dr Angels to you.
Should women use their title Dr outside a professional context (or indeed in any context)
Yes.
Next question.
That should be the end of it, but not for the first time this week, myself and fellow PhDs (and MDs) found our use of 'Dr' in everyday life questioned. The gist seems to be that using 'Dr' on say a bank card, or a dinner reservation or hell just introducing yourself is seen, for a woman particularly as somehow putting ourselves above our station.
Well let me stop you right there: we earned that station.
Again it should be that simple.
But women (particularly) using Dr on anything from their Twitter profile to their shop loyalty card is somehow seen as being 'up ourselves'. Now on one hand no the title Dr isn't NEEDED on my Matalan card, but also it's my title...if I wasn't a Dr I'd answer 'Ms' or 'Mrs' because society dictates we have to prefix our names with something...and mine is Dr...
In all honesty I have a mix of things when I use Dr outside work context. But mostly it's unapologetic pride. I did recently get a Matalan card and the girl asked me 'Ms or Mrs' and I said 'Dr' and for a second I felt embarrassed, like I was being snotty about it. But then I thought 'Fuck it that's my name'. And just this week I was filling in something or other online and clicked Dr and thought 'Fuck yeah, I'm a Dr.' and I'm bloody proud. Because I'll tell you a secret...sometimes I still can't quite believe it either.
I haven't worked in Academia as my full time job since I got my PhD. I've taught, and when I do I'm introduced as 'Dr Emily Garside'. This is a marker of my achievement in my career, of my expertise on the subject, and my 'role' in that situation. But equally when I teach outside academia (as I do in thaetre occasionally) I'm introduced as 'Dr Emily Garside' again for the same reasons. This is judged as 'kind of ok' by the men saying we shouldn't.
But I also use my title elsewhere. When I worked in Professional Services at a University, my email sign off included my title (it was the culture at my institution for everyone to use their title be the Ms Mr Dr Prof etc). My business email signature also includes Dr, as does my CV. Why? because firstly it's a professional qualification. Secondly because it's a big part of my identity.
I never inisit on being called 'Dr' to my face. And that's no different to if I was a Ms, or Mrs. My incredibly working class roots mean I would never want to be addressed formally, other than something like at the start or a talk or lecture. My name is Emily. That's what I expect students and colleagues to call me wherever I work. Some of that is also doing a PhD in a post-92 institution. I called the Dean by his first name when I was lowest rank admin and when I was a PhD and for me I wouldn't want to work somewhere I had to bow and curtsey and call someone 'Dr this' or 'Professor that' when we are colleagues. I also don't expect students to call me that, my name is Emily, my title is Dr.
My friends jokingly call me Dr G and I jokingly refer to myself as 'Dr Angels' on social media, I imagine my learned friends the men would take issue with that. But I do it because actually that's what I'm known for. In an utterly wanky description it's part of my 'personal brand' in an utterly honest one, it's part of my identity. You try researching something for over a decade and have it not become part of you. It's jokey and fun, but also if my friends are saying it their way (I think!) of also saying 'yeah we know what you achieved and we like it' (and also when they call me 'Dr AIDS' their way of making fun of it. And Dr Mrs [insert actor crush name here])
A pause for a story on that. I post on a theatre forum regularly. When Angels in America was on at the National, I was naturally posting a lot about it. Mainly because people would ask me questions about it. Naturally I referred to directly and indirectly my PhD during that. A man on that forum got so incensed with the I assume attention this was getting, and after arguing with me about my referencing my PhD IN RELATION TO THE TOPIC UNDER DISCUSSION has since changed his username to 'Dr' **** on that forum. But a woman using Dr on her debit card is ridiculous?
My PhD was hard won. I am not being dramatic when I say I will bear the scars of it for a long, long time. But I'm also immensely proud of it. Yesterday happened to be the anniversary of me getting the final bound copy. Whatever has happened since, I am so very proud of that ridiculous thesis. It is the greatest thing I have ever achieved and as a result of that achievement I was given the title Dr, and I wear that with pride. It is a marker of what I achieved.
Nobody questions a Reverend going by their title in everyday life. Nobody questions someone from the military doing it. Why as a Dr, and as a woman am I different?
I admit to this striking particularly hard due to my current employment situation. I'm temping (again) and working at a hospital. I spend my days surrounded by Doctors, while having it assumed I am not one. That's hard. And believe me when I say the minute one of them (or a patient) crosses a line of rudeness I will be uttering the words 'That's Dr Garside to you by the way' . Here's the flip side though, it's interesting to me how medical doctors use and perceive their title to afford them some elevation over others. I don't believe I should be treated any better or worse because of my title, and yet in my current role where it's assumed I don't have it...I'm at the very bottom of the pecking order. I do wonder what might happen the day I turn to one of those Doctors and say 'By the way...it's Dr Garside'
And here's what will actually happen: 90% of them don't treat me as any less of an intelligent human being because I'm a receptionist. If they find out I have a doctorate they would be surprised I'm working there, interested in what I've done and possibly have a conversation with me as an 'academic peer' on discovering we have something in common. That's all that would change. The 10% who would suddenly treat me differently, were clearly asshats to begin with who value titles over basic human decency.
Because when I ask to be called by my title, it's not a cry to be treated better, more reverently, or regarded as superior. It's simply a request to have my earned, and chosen title recognized. Nobody questions a woman saying 'Mrs' and insisting on that post-marriage. Why then is insisting on Dr (the process of which lasted longer than many a marriage) any different? Some women grow up waiting to change their name to Mrs (and all love and no disrespect to that either) I always wanted to be Dr. (For anyone interested it was of course Dr Dana Scully that made that a dream). For me it's also a useful gender-neutral and irrespective of marriage signifies- I personally wouldn't have used Mrs if I'd got married and stuck to the more neutral 'Ms' because that's just not for me. Many women take great pride in the prefix Mrs, and all love and respect to them. Be proud you are married, proudly take your husbands name. I 100% support you. I personally wouldn't, but I do wear my Dr title with pride.
But the bottom line is: I earned the title Dr and I'm damn well going to use it. No matter what any man tries to tell me to do.
Yes.
Next question.
That should be the end of it, but not for the first time this week, myself and fellow PhDs (and MDs) found our use of 'Dr' in everyday life questioned. The gist seems to be that using 'Dr' on say a bank card, or a dinner reservation or hell just introducing yourself is seen, for a woman particularly as somehow putting ourselves above our station.
Well let me stop you right there: we earned that station.
Again it should be that simple.
But women (particularly) using Dr on anything from their Twitter profile to their shop loyalty card is somehow seen as being 'up ourselves'. Now on one hand no the title Dr isn't NEEDED on my Matalan card, but also it's my title...if I wasn't a Dr I'd answer 'Ms' or 'Mrs' because society dictates we have to prefix our names with something...and mine is Dr...
In all honesty I have a mix of things when I use Dr outside work context. But mostly it's unapologetic pride. I did recently get a Matalan card and the girl asked me 'Ms or Mrs' and I said 'Dr' and for a second I felt embarrassed, like I was being snotty about it. But then I thought 'Fuck it that's my name'. And just this week I was filling in something or other online and clicked Dr and thought 'Fuck yeah, I'm a Dr.' and I'm bloody proud. Because I'll tell you a secret...sometimes I still can't quite believe it either.
I haven't worked in Academia as my full time job since I got my PhD. I've taught, and when I do I'm introduced as 'Dr Emily Garside'. This is a marker of my achievement in my career, of my expertise on the subject, and my 'role' in that situation. But equally when I teach outside academia (as I do in thaetre occasionally) I'm introduced as 'Dr Emily Garside' again for the same reasons. This is judged as 'kind of ok' by the men saying we shouldn't.
But I also use my title elsewhere. When I worked in Professional Services at a University, my email sign off included my title (it was the culture at my institution for everyone to use their title be the Ms Mr Dr Prof etc). My business email signature also includes Dr, as does my CV. Why? because firstly it's a professional qualification. Secondly because it's a big part of my identity.
I never inisit on being called 'Dr' to my face. And that's no different to if I was a Ms, or Mrs. My incredibly working class roots mean I would never want to be addressed formally, other than something like at the start or a talk or lecture. My name is Emily. That's what I expect students and colleagues to call me wherever I work. Some of that is also doing a PhD in a post-92 institution. I called the Dean by his first name when I was lowest rank admin and when I was a PhD and for me I wouldn't want to work somewhere I had to bow and curtsey and call someone 'Dr this' or 'Professor that' when we are colleagues. I also don't expect students to call me that, my name is Emily, my title is Dr.
My friends jokingly call me Dr G and I jokingly refer to myself as 'Dr Angels' on social media, I imagine my learned friends the men would take issue with that. But I do it because actually that's what I'm known for. In an utterly wanky description it's part of my 'personal brand' in an utterly honest one, it's part of my identity. You try researching something for over a decade and have it not become part of you. It's jokey and fun, but also if my friends are saying it their way (I think!) of also saying 'yeah we know what you achieved and we like it' (and also when they call me 'Dr AIDS' their way of making fun of it. And Dr Mrs [insert actor crush name here])
A pause for a story on that. I post on a theatre forum regularly. When Angels in America was on at the National, I was naturally posting a lot about it. Mainly because people would ask me questions about it. Naturally I referred to directly and indirectly my PhD during that. A man on that forum got so incensed with the I assume attention this was getting, and after arguing with me about my referencing my PhD IN RELATION TO THE TOPIC UNDER DISCUSSION has since changed his username to 'Dr' **** on that forum. But a woman using Dr on her debit card is ridiculous?
My PhD was hard won. I am not being dramatic when I say I will bear the scars of it for a long, long time. But I'm also immensely proud of it. Yesterday happened to be the anniversary of me getting the final bound copy. Whatever has happened since, I am so very proud of that ridiculous thesis. It is the greatest thing I have ever achieved and as a result of that achievement I was given the title Dr, and I wear that with pride. It is a marker of what I achieved.
Nobody questions a Reverend going by their title in everyday life. Nobody questions someone from the military doing it. Why as a Dr, and as a woman am I different?
I admit to this striking particularly hard due to my current employment situation. I'm temping (again) and working at a hospital. I spend my days surrounded by Doctors, while having it assumed I am not one. That's hard. And believe me when I say the minute one of them (or a patient) crosses a line of rudeness I will be uttering the words 'That's Dr Garside to you by the way' . Here's the flip side though, it's interesting to me how medical doctors use and perceive their title to afford them some elevation over others. I don't believe I should be treated any better or worse because of my title, and yet in my current role where it's assumed I don't have it...I'm at the very bottom of the pecking order. I do wonder what might happen the day I turn to one of those Doctors and say 'By the way...it's Dr Garside'
And here's what will actually happen: 90% of them don't treat me as any less of an intelligent human being because I'm a receptionist. If they find out I have a doctorate they would be surprised I'm working there, interested in what I've done and possibly have a conversation with me as an 'academic peer' on discovering we have something in common. That's all that would change. The 10% who would suddenly treat me differently, were clearly asshats to begin with who value titles over basic human decency.
Because when I ask to be called by my title, it's not a cry to be treated better, more reverently, or regarded as superior. It's simply a request to have my earned, and chosen title recognized. Nobody questions a woman saying 'Mrs' and insisting on that post-marriage. Why then is insisting on Dr (the process of which lasted longer than many a marriage) any different? Some women grow up waiting to change their name to Mrs (and all love and no disrespect to that either) I always wanted to be Dr. (For anyone interested it was of course Dr Dana Scully that made that a dream). For me it's also a useful gender-neutral and irrespective of marriage signifies- I personally wouldn't have used Mrs if I'd got married and stuck to the more neutral 'Ms' because that's just not for me. Many women take great pride in the prefix Mrs, and all love and respect to them. Be proud you are married, proudly take your husbands name. I 100% support you. I personally wouldn't, but I do wear my Dr title with pride.
But the bottom line is: I earned the title Dr and I'm damn well going to use it. No matter what any man tries to tell me to do.
Tuesday, June 5, 2018
Save and Send (getting to draft 1)
This blog has languished somewhat in the last couple of months. Partly because I've been writing. Which is probably a good thing right?
The last 6 weeks or so have been a blur of constant dedicated writing on a play, and when I finished the first draft on Sunday, to send to my collaborator/producer I had planned to write a blog reflecting on that moment, and the achievement of getting that far.
Instead, I was too exhausted, and drank gin and watched TV.
And now, three days later what you get is not a blog of elation and 'look I did it' but one of anxiety and neurosis. Which let's face it is a far more honest writing blog.
To rewind however, the last I'd say 6-8 weeks have been both the most concentrated work I've done on a project in several years, the most all consuming but also incredibly rewarding. This project has plodded along since around last October/November with some batting about of ideas etc and early in the new year I did my first chunk of substantial writing on it.
It was a disaster.
I'm not used to having to share work so early with someone and let's just say the work I did share I'm now so mortified about that I have not actually looked at it since. Lesson learned, don't agree to share until you're ready.
Again skip forward, some more successful sharing/collaboration/ideas and I somewhat foolishly in hindsight agreed I could indeed finish the damn draft by June.
Back to the writing itself in a moment. But this project has been beset by a variety of 'real life' interludes, roadblocks and well call it what it is: an utter shitstorm. I first got approached about it weeks before I was set to lose my job. Maybe it's a sign, it's probably not. But hey I had no job I might as well give writing this a go right? And so when January rolled around and I got kicked out of the admin job that was going to sustain me financially while writing this (Do read more about my adventures in Domestic Homicide investigation here) and my life went into disaster mode.
Some writers do their best work while depressed. After the work I churned out in January I can categorically state that I am no such writer. That may in fact be some of the worst words I ever committed to paper (and I once wrote about a flying Unicorn for an Eisteddfod competition).
What I did do however was make a decision to give this opportunity (and a couple of others that came my way) the best chance I could. So instead of chasing 'proper' jobs I dedicated myself to the writing for the next few months (more on that here) But that in itself is hard. It's hard to shut out the pressure of the rest of the world to get a 'proper' job. It feels selfish to 'hit pause' and do what you think you need to do.
And it's a scary leap. And I'll be honest, one I feel guilty about often. But I put up with a temp job, poor pay and getting shouted at by the public to try and drag this thing into fruition. And mostly it was a wonderful thing to immerse myself in something I loved again. I found joy in writing again. There's a moment when writing is going well that it feels like music- I'm a piss poor piano player but it's the equivalent of bashing out notes that soar on the keys. It's, as this soprano might say hitting the high note every time and finding the harmonies. Even when it's hard (and is it hard some days) it's that good hard, that ache in your brain from doing something that stretches every part of you. It's engaging everything so it feels like the lights have come back on. And it's that exhausted but satisfied feeling when you stop. Those days, the minimum wage and the shouty Joe public is worth it because you might be onto something.
There was a point, about three weeks before the draft was due, that I felt myself getting really down, irritated and generally out of sorts. I eventually realised that I'd been sucked into the play that much that I was taking it with me everywhere. My characters had at that point fully infiltrated my head and I was taking their thoughts and feelings and everything with me. Actually by that point I really just wanted them to shut the hell up and go away. Then there were the three days when I had three separate incidents (redacted for spoilers obviously) that could have been straight out of what I'd just written that I began to question my sanity. This was also a point I found myself unable to use my brain to concentrate fully on much else- reading complex things, TV or film that required concentration. In fact for a full week all my brain could cope with TV wise was Greys Anatomy and The Inbetweeners. (let's face it not a bad TV week anyway right "friends" you did the voice. You did.)
I'm not sure I recommend working on such a tight timescale- this is the first time I've been writing to anyone's deadlines but my own. On one hand it means it gets written. On the other, even when working part time to accommodate it, it was a struggle. I calculated last night that I'd actually written much of it in 20 days, and I had had one day off in 6 weeks. This is not generally a sustainable model of working.
But I think it is what I needed as a bit of a 'Baptism of fire'. The reason I felt so relieved, and proud of myself when I hit save and send, was that this is the biggest writing project I'd undertaken since my PhD. I'd proven I could still do it. That I could always do it.
While it may well be a pile of utter shite. While nothing may come of it still. I had gotten to the end. I'd written (with discarded bits) probably 300 pages of dialogue. Since the PhD the longest I've managed is a long-form academic article and a handful of short plays.
For people who haven't undertaken it maybe that sounds a bit lazy, a bit like I never really wanted to. And it's hard to explain- having been consumed by something for 4 years. Having written 100, 000 words (well probably twice that in all) on something. Having had that something ripped to shreds and then some, the idea of putting pen to paper at any length was overwhelming. It's not news either to anyone who knows me that the PhD destroyed much of my confidence. Not least when I suggested to my supervisor that I might write my own play about HIV as a creative response to my research. I won't repeat her response here, but let's just say it was less than positive (pardon the pun).
Well, as of Sunday, I did.
I wish I could make this a blog of cheering achievement. Of how satisfying it was to have gotten that far and that it didn't matter now becaue I've proven I can once again churn out the words, carve out something at least sort of creative, and that I am no longer afraid.
Well I'm afraid fuck all that because I'm a writer. I'm an ex academic, I'm a woman and I have raging anxiety problems and insecurity. Did I mention I'm a writer?
No sooner had the elation of hitting send worn off (well ok no sooner had the gin worn off) than I was beset by the fear, and quite frankly the genuine nausea of what would happen next.
It's hard to explain to someone whose brain doesn't work like this, what it does to you. Firstly there's the immediate worst case scenario brain logic. Then there's feeling mortified- not just embarrassed- that you've done something awful. The disappointment in yourself. The panic that you've done something wrong. The trying to decode. The mind racing five steps ahead of where anyone else might be. And it's physically exhausting. The nausea, the tightness in the chest. The mental exhaustion manifested as physical. The trying to breathe properly. And no none of it is logical, that's the point.
Waiting for someone to read your work never stops being terrifying. I found it hard in the PhD but there was at least an academic (pardon the pun again) detachment there. When it's creative work, it's so personal. I once read somewhere (I know where but it's embarrassing) that to make art you have to carve out a piece of your soul and not expect to get it back. I'm not wanky enough, or self important enough to think I'm making "Art" but I do believe to make something, anything good, you have to give a little of yourself away. And in what I've written this time, there's a lot of me.
And so when waiting for someone to read it. In even getting a tiny whiff that they don't like it, that it's wrong, it tears the heart out of you. To someone else it might be 'Not personal it's business' but to quote my favourite film 'It's personal to a lot of people, it's personal to me'.
Yesterday I went down a full on rabbit hole of exhaustion induced anxiety. I did a full day of work. Read an email that destroyed any confidence I had in my work (accidentally) burst into tears and hit a wall of exhaustion. I went to choir and couldn't decide if I was going to fall asleep or burst into tears. The last 6 weeks, hell the last 9 months have taken the life out of me and I currently have nothing left in the tank.
I will pick myself up. And if the criticism on the draft is bad, I'll pick myself back up from that. But right now? right now I climbed a mountain to get it that far. I'm proud I got up there, but I'm going to need a minute before I can climb the next one.
The last 6 weeks or so have been a blur of constant dedicated writing on a play, and when I finished the first draft on Sunday, to send to my collaborator/producer I had planned to write a blog reflecting on that moment, and the achievement of getting that far.
Instead, I was too exhausted, and drank gin and watched TV.
And now, three days later what you get is not a blog of elation and 'look I did it' but one of anxiety and neurosis. Which let's face it is a far more honest writing blog.
To rewind however, the last I'd say 6-8 weeks have been both the most concentrated work I've done on a project in several years, the most all consuming but also incredibly rewarding. This project has plodded along since around last October/November with some batting about of ideas etc and early in the new year I did my first chunk of substantial writing on it.
It was a disaster.
I'm not used to having to share work so early with someone and let's just say the work I did share I'm now so mortified about that I have not actually looked at it since. Lesson learned, don't agree to share until you're ready.
Again skip forward, some more successful sharing/collaboration/ideas and I somewhat foolishly in hindsight agreed I could indeed finish the damn draft by June.
Back to the writing itself in a moment. But this project has been beset by a variety of 'real life' interludes, roadblocks and well call it what it is: an utter shitstorm. I first got approached about it weeks before I was set to lose my job. Maybe it's a sign, it's probably not. But hey I had no job I might as well give writing this a go right? And so when January rolled around and I got kicked out of the admin job that was going to sustain me financially while writing this (Do read more about my adventures in Domestic Homicide investigation here) and my life went into disaster mode.
Some writers do their best work while depressed. After the work I churned out in January I can categorically state that I am no such writer. That may in fact be some of the worst words I ever committed to paper (and I once wrote about a flying Unicorn for an Eisteddfod competition).
What I did do however was make a decision to give this opportunity (and a couple of others that came my way) the best chance I could. So instead of chasing 'proper' jobs I dedicated myself to the writing for the next few months (more on that here) But that in itself is hard. It's hard to shut out the pressure of the rest of the world to get a 'proper' job. It feels selfish to 'hit pause' and do what you think you need to do.
And it's a scary leap. And I'll be honest, one I feel guilty about often. But I put up with a temp job, poor pay and getting shouted at by the public to try and drag this thing into fruition. And mostly it was a wonderful thing to immerse myself in something I loved again. I found joy in writing again. There's a moment when writing is going well that it feels like music- I'm a piss poor piano player but it's the equivalent of bashing out notes that soar on the keys. It's, as this soprano might say hitting the high note every time and finding the harmonies. Even when it's hard (and is it hard some days) it's that good hard, that ache in your brain from doing something that stretches every part of you. It's engaging everything so it feels like the lights have come back on. And it's that exhausted but satisfied feeling when you stop. Those days, the minimum wage and the shouty Joe public is worth it because you might be onto something.
There was a point, about three weeks before the draft was due, that I felt myself getting really down, irritated and generally out of sorts. I eventually realised that I'd been sucked into the play that much that I was taking it with me everywhere. My characters had at that point fully infiltrated my head and I was taking their thoughts and feelings and everything with me. Actually by that point I really just wanted them to shut the hell up and go away. Then there were the three days when I had three separate incidents (redacted for spoilers obviously) that could have been straight out of what I'd just written that I began to question my sanity. This was also a point I found myself unable to use my brain to concentrate fully on much else- reading complex things, TV or film that required concentration. In fact for a full week all my brain could cope with TV wise was Greys Anatomy and The Inbetweeners. (let's face it not a bad TV week anyway right "friends" you did the voice. You did.)
I'm not sure I recommend working on such a tight timescale- this is the first time I've been writing to anyone's deadlines but my own. On one hand it means it gets written. On the other, even when working part time to accommodate it, it was a struggle. I calculated last night that I'd actually written much of it in 20 days, and I had had one day off in 6 weeks. This is not generally a sustainable model of working.
But I think it is what I needed as a bit of a 'Baptism of fire'. The reason I felt so relieved, and proud of myself when I hit save and send, was that this is the biggest writing project I'd undertaken since my PhD. I'd proven I could still do it. That I could always do it.
While it may well be a pile of utter shite. While nothing may come of it still. I had gotten to the end. I'd written (with discarded bits) probably 300 pages of dialogue. Since the PhD the longest I've managed is a long-form academic article and a handful of short plays.
For people who haven't undertaken it maybe that sounds a bit lazy, a bit like I never really wanted to. And it's hard to explain- having been consumed by something for 4 years. Having written 100, 000 words (well probably twice that in all) on something. Having had that something ripped to shreds and then some, the idea of putting pen to paper at any length was overwhelming. It's not news either to anyone who knows me that the PhD destroyed much of my confidence. Not least when I suggested to my supervisor that I might write my own play about HIV as a creative response to my research. I won't repeat her response here, but let's just say it was less than positive (pardon the pun).
Well, as of Sunday, I did.
I wish I could make this a blog of cheering achievement. Of how satisfying it was to have gotten that far and that it didn't matter now becaue I've proven I can once again churn out the words, carve out something at least sort of creative, and that I am no longer afraid.
Well I'm afraid fuck all that because I'm a writer. I'm an ex academic, I'm a woman and I have raging anxiety problems and insecurity. Did I mention I'm a writer?
No sooner had the elation of hitting send worn off (well ok no sooner had the gin worn off) than I was beset by the fear, and quite frankly the genuine nausea of what would happen next.
It's hard to explain to someone whose brain doesn't work like this, what it does to you. Firstly there's the immediate worst case scenario brain logic. Then there's feeling mortified- not just embarrassed- that you've done something awful. The disappointment in yourself. The panic that you've done something wrong. The trying to decode. The mind racing five steps ahead of where anyone else might be. And it's physically exhausting. The nausea, the tightness in the chest. The mental exhaustion manifested as physical. The trying to breathe properly. And no none of it is logical, that's the point.
Waiting for someone to read your work never stops being terrifying. I found it hard in the PhD but there was at least an academic (pardon the pun again) detachment there. When it's creative work, it's so personal. I once read somewhere (I know where but it's embarrassing) that to make art you have to carve out a piece of your soul and not expect to get it back. I'm not wanky enough, or self important enough to think I'm making "Art" but I do believe to make something, anything good, you have to give a little of yourself away. And in what I've written this time, there's a lot of me.
And so when waiting for someone to read it. In even getting a tiny whiff that they don't like it, that it's wrong, it tears the heart out of you. To someone else it might be 'Not personal it's business' but to quote my favourite film 'It's personal to a lot of people, it's personal to me'.
Yesterday I went down a full on rabbit hole of exhaustion induced anxiety. I did a full day of work. Read an email that destroyed any confidence I had in my work (accidentally) burst into tears and hit a wall of exhaustion. I went to choir and couldn't decide if I was going to fall asleep or burst into tears. The last 6 weeks, hell the last 9 months have taken the life out of me and I currently have nothing left in the tank.
I will pick myself up. And if the criticism on the draft is bad, I'll pick myself back up from that. But right now? right now I climbed a mountain to get it that far. I'm proud I got up there, but I'm going to need a minute before I can climb the next one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)