Flip-charts and Phillip Schofield- why telling our stories matters

                                          

New play alert! the brilliant Pen and Paper Theatre co have started a podcast, and I have the honour of being included in the first!

You can hear it here, performed by the brilliant Phillipa Howe.

My short play 'Flipcharts and Phillip Schofield' was first written and performed as part of The Other Room theatre in Cardiff's SEEN series. A monthly evening where work in progress is shared. I always had further plans for this piece, granted those plans did not include a pandemic and a shift to a lot of online work but here we are.

This piece is close to my heart. In some ways its a thing ripped straight from the heart. Albeit delivered in a format that makes me think of Fleabag, not for the blatant one-woman-show manner but for the cutting line that I can't quite remember but is basically 'not everything needs to be delivered like a stand-up punchline'.

Which for me, and shows like Fleabag, that way of speaking about it, that mask of humour, is the way in. To get to the real stuff. And yes, maybe because we all like to think we're a bit funny.

This piece is a humourous look at what it means to be a bisexual 30-something today. At the fact you fancy exactly 5 men as the tweets suggest. And that if you don't dress like a lesbian, but also don't have a husband...you tend to confuse both sides of the sexuality divide. That at 30-something, you're also possibly dead in Gay years. And if you try and hang out at a cool Lesbian night, you'll feel like someone's dowdy Mum in the corner. It's about feeling like you want to be down with the cool generation coming up after you...but also they don't quite understand what it was like being Queer 15 years ago when you started to figure this stuff out.

It's the feeling of not having had emojis in social media bios. Or having to 'Come Out' one by one instead of an Instagram post...and it was not having lots of cool role models to choose from when it came to being Queer. And that's why one man (and his Gopher) coming out in 2020, meant more than maybe younger kids who don't remember the Broom Closet (which now takes on a whole new meaning) understand.

It's a minefield putting stuff like this out there. People won't agree with me talking about Phillip Schofield's coming out in this way. I know I've literally had the emails. To be honest I'm not that emotionally invested in Schofield as a human, some of his politics have been questionable at best. But that wasn't the point. His story was a useful jumping-off point, a reminder that the 30 somethings have had a foot in each camp- part the generation who were able to grow up online, but part the generation who were still a bit left behind. LGBTQ+ visibility was playing a lot of catch up through our lives. As the line goes in the play 'my 25-year-old brother had to google section 28, I lived it'. We're a sandwich generation between one which was devastated and decimated, and even more hidden than we were and a generation that sometimes can't fathom what it was like for us. And that's why I wrote this piece, as a jumping-off point to starting that conversation, with myself, and with audiences.

It's fitting that this comes out as Pride Month begins. A very different Pride Month than we're used to.

I'm always anxious about putting work out there- who wouldn't be as a writer, creator, whatever. But this piece especially. Any piece that deals with sexuality still runs a risk to some degree. Just before Jordan at Pen and Paper Theatre asked me if they could use this on the podcast, I was sat sobbing at my computer, because I'd received an email detailing what a vile person I was for writing this piece. That it was offensive to all kinds of people, and that I was a terrible person for putting it out there. From creative work to academic work it's not the first time, and it won't' be the last similar comments have been made (my 'favourite' still being the academic who asked if I was 'really allowed' to write about 'those people' but that's a story for another day).

Maybe I'm over-sensitive. Maybe it's a case of 'you put work out there expect criticism' but I think for people who have never experienced that side of the coin, this isn't criticism, it's the fear that we all grew up with a little or a lot...that as soon as you stick a head over the parapet a bit that's what you still, even today run the risk of.

And I say that from my very clear place of privilege- as a cisgender White woman. But that's why it's also important, in writing about this piece, that I acknowledge what even I get leveled at me. I'm able to cope with a bit of a cry at the particularly nasty stuff and go on doing what I do. And so I should, I think in order to allow others to as well.

It's also important that we all tell these stories, take ourselves out of our Broom Cupboards, because that's the way to keep moving forward.

Listen to Flipcharts and Phillip Schofield here

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'You don't look ill' and other stories (World IBD day)

On world IBD day (try saying that after a gin) I guess the main thing is to be visible about invisible illness. But also, a pretty taboo one. Really all invisible/chronic illness is terrible, but I couldn’t have got a slightly more socially acceptable one instead of the literal shit one?

Anyway for the record this is what someone with IBD looks like...

Pretty normal (aside from my hair) 

And here's me when I was first diagnosed...

 Also totally normal looking at graduation. Because I've never 'looked ill' not in public anyway. But I still managed to get a pretty gross, pretty life-impacting illness nobody wants to talk about. 

Also the one nobody has heard of. Crohns, sure lads we know that one. Famous people have that one. Oh and it makes you skinny right too?

Sigh.

Or ‘oh I get IBD if I eat too many carbs/dairy/sugar/fried chicken’

No, that’s not the same thing. Firstly IBS and IBD are totally different. And indigestion or food intolerance is neither of those. My body has decided to attack itself from the inside and picked my colon as its weapon of choice. Which is ya know, fun.

So no, I got Ulcerative Colitis, which is ‘sorta like Crohns but not’. And no, you don’t HAVE to be skinny to have them. Sorry to disappoint but no I (thankfully) never (so far) got ill enough to be super skinny. But I do love the idea that I must be lying about it, or it can’t be that bad because I’ve still got massive thighs…I still spent quite a lot of time going to the toilet into double figures, and yes that involved quite a lot of liquid and blood. Told you it was gross. And scary as fuck when you don’t know what’s going on. Which is most of us, for quite a long time.

My diagnosis was…a shit show. Pardon the pun. The thing is that they have to let you get really sick before they’ll concede there’s something wrong. Even when all the signs point to IBD…you have to stick out 6 months of peppermint tablets and ‘are you sure’ first. In fairness to the nurse who prescribed them she actually apologised saying she knew they wouldn’t work, but she had to ‘prove’ we’d tried before we could proceed with referring me to a hospital. The NHS is a wonderful thing if you’re actually dying…not when you’re trying to get a diagnosis. I was lucky, to be fair I didn’t get so sick it was really dangerous before a diagnosis, which I know is better than some people get.

I have a suitably ‘theatrical’ story about my diagnosis, that’s funny now I look back. I’d gone for what was the ‘final’ diagnosis appointment at the hospital that included a barrage of tests, and the day after I’d hopped down to London for work, and to watch for the final time Punchdrunk’s ‘The Drowned Man’. I’d gone off for lunch with a friend between things and not looked at my phone…I got back to a very confusing message from my Doctor that essentially seemed to say ‘come back to the hospital’…well now it was 3pm and obviously I was miles away…my Mum and I were frantically calling the secretary (and of course he’d left no note)…who equally was confused. At this point I was quite ill, and quite scared already. I ended up sobbing in Paddington station, to the point a woman walked past, then doubled back with a tissue. My memory of that Punchdrunk show is that of both being stuck in the toilet for IBD reasons (not ideal in a run-around-a-huge-building show) and sobbing in a toilet because I was so scared.

And I tell that story because on the outside that day. Sobbing in Paddington station aside, I looked fine. My friend I had lunch with had no idea. My friends I stood in line with for the show, and hugged goodbye after, had no idea. Anyone in the show would have seen another masked audience member wandering about, looking like everyone else…and weirdly that seems a really good metaphor.

Because most of the time everything looks normal. Whatever normal is. And in the scheme of things, I’ve not done too badly.

But what nobody sees is the not-normal days…mostly I’m able to hide them. But you don’t see the doubled up in pain moments, the rushing to the toilet however many times a day. The doing mental gymnastics over ‘is this bad enough to ring the hospital or do I sit it out’. You don’t see the runs and workouts cut short running to the loo…or doubled up in pain. You don’t see the days where I’m so fatigued, I can’t even get out on a run or a workout. (I’m endlessly amused I never manage to work out its IBD fatigue until after its over). The monthly PMS/Period making ALL of it worse (thanks being a woman etc). The ‘is this some weird new side effect of the drugs’ and ‘hmm can I not eat this thing now or was that coincidence’ a million and one tiny things a day that sometimes add up to exhaustion.

Then there’s the ‘looking forward’ in life and the endless questions. I’m pretty damn pragmatic, and with a fairly vocal online community I’m not especially scared of the future. For me it goes one of about 3 ways….

1.     Plodding on with average amounts of medication, and the odd mild and odd really bad flare up.  

2.     Increasingly bad flare ups, heavier and heavier bouts of medication and hospitalisation periodically.

3.     Surgery and probably a stoma bag.

All those are discounting the rarer, but possible scenarios of ‘sudden severe flare-up’ ‘sudden severe issues in the bowel and emergency surgery’ and yes, the real possibility that the outcome of any of that would be not surviving it. Thankfully that’s rare. As is an increased risk of cancer, but it’s there for both those. And I don’t dwell on it. But also it’s not a set of things I planned on reflecting on at 29 when I was diagnosed.

But around all the physical health stuff that I can quite honestly cope with mostly. I take my medicine like a good girl (mostly, I do still forget) I subject myself to procedures when they say so, I’ve had more blood taken than a vampire…I’ve even got over most of my fear of hospitals. But the mental health impact is often neglected.

All the above, the facing that lot at 29. The being scared out of your mind by Doctors. The ‘what ifs’ it’s all an adjustment. I (shameless plug) wrote a play about the impact of chronic illness diagnosis. Different illnesses, similar mental health impacts. (you can watch it here) 

Because you know what gets me, not the ‘will I get ill again’ it’s the ‘will this mean I’m alone?’ in a romantic way, sure but also in an isolated by illness way. Because we often are. For friends who might not understand why I’m bailing- if we’re acquaintances I’m hardly going to text with ‘Sorry I can’t come I’m literally shitting blood 20 times a day’ (lord I wish that was an exaggeration). Or ‘I can’t come there because I don’t know what the bathroom situation will be’ or ‘I am just so bone-tired I can’t actually get up and I’ve been that way for 2 days now’ or ‘I’m just in pain’…Even for close friends, it’s a really hard thing to say. In fact, I’ve never said it. But all those times I cancel, you bet that half of them are my IBD working flawlessly in tandem with my anxiety (or you know I’m just stuck in the loo).

But add to that, another taboo…romantic relationship. These, my friends, are not a romantic disease. I think it’s different if you’ve got a partner going into it, they should if they’re worth their salt, accept it. And if not, show them the door. But I look at all of it, all the possibilities above and I wonder ‘who would want this’ I mean who would sign up for all that? And also, for me, it’s a really hard thing to show someone the reality of it, the vulnerable nature of it. One thing, to make jokes about shitting the bed in a blog post…quite another to explain to someone it might actually happen.

Or what about work? Life in my industry is precarious enough, without the possibility you won’t be able to work…be that freelance or that an employer will be a little bit of a shit and not renew your contract because you missed one too many things…all of this bubbles away inside…

On the outside I might not have looked ill...but the physical and mental toll is still there. And we shouldn't be embarrassed to talk about either. 

https://crohnsandcolitis.org.uk/

Gobby Bisexual of the Internet #IDAHOBIT2020

Today is International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia, and Transphobia. And it seems, as ever the best way to mark it is to say 'We're here' if we're able.

Also I bought a gay gnome yesterday and outed myself to the neighbours and Facebook so this seems an appropriate bit of timing.

Also because someone called me their 'favourite gobby bisexual' this morning, so it seems right to honour that title. I might start using that on my Tinder profile (joke, as if I'm on Tinder, I'm far too lazy...)

But part of days like today, and perhaps especially this year, when Pride season will be a muted affair, that those of us able to be a bit gobby on the internet do so.

As ever 'why do you need a day' etc etc. Mainly, for everyone is not able to be a bit 'gobby on the internet' for everyone still hiding. Be that our brothers and sisters in countries where they can't be themselves. Be that for our friends who can't be out to their families, friends or employers. Or for any of us (so all of us then) who have had one of those comments shouted at us. Or worse. Because there's so much worse all the time.

I think it's easy from the bubble of heterosexuality, sometimes even from our bubble of liberal, leftist, city-dwelling Queers, to forget just how much prejudice, and yes violence, there still is against our community. Or simply how difficult it is to fight that wave of prejudice. For some of us it's the micro-level. The 'jokes' in the workplace (nowhere I've worked recently thankfully) that make you falter, stop...worry that you're about to be found out. It's 'banter with the lads' in the pub (remember pubs?) that goes a bit too far. Or it's the 'oh well you're all right obviously but...' or the family gatherings where Aunt Karen has a lot to say about 'those people'....it's a million tiny things. And that reminder that you never stop 'coming out' and every time you do it there's a knife-edge moment of 'is this the time, is this the time it goes horribly wrong'.

And we need to address the nuances of this. I can't speak for the other parts of this community. I'm very conscious of the terrifying ordeals my trans friends go through. And I know I can't pretend to understand, only empathise, and use utilise my superpower of a really big mouth so that I support them best I can. So I won't speak of their stories here, those are those to tell. Only say that when we speak of the LGBTQ community, we have a responsibility from our own places of privilege to make sure we include and fight for the T in that acronym.

As for myself, the stories I can tell are of the 'B' and the need to remember that as a distinct but included identity. As a bisexual woman, I can't play with the 'proper lesbians' sometimes who see any inkling of not being 'pure' (Dunno do I have to prove the number of times I've been near a penis?) meanwhile I'm too 'gay' for the straight world (it's not my fault I'm just really fucking fabulous ok?). It's everything from how you dress- if I wear dungarees like the true theatre wanker I am, then I'm trying to be a dyke...if I wear a 50s dress, because frankly, your girl looks fabulous in one, then I'm perpetuating straight standards of beauty. I get it, clothing and looks are indicators in both camps, and we can't get away from that....but maybe, I just really like both dungarees and 50s dresses. Just like I really just like all genders. Trust me life would be easier if I just 'picked a lane' as people are fond of saying...but what can I say the heart wants what it wants, and what it apparently wants is to be rejected by people of all genders and to be a crazy dog lady...so let me be ok?

(I wrote a play about this, and Phillip Scofield which you can read here Go Go Gopher)

Seriously, however, our community has its own divisions. Biphobia is one of them. But the best way forward is sometimes through. And for that, all I can do is stand up and say 'I am a bisexual woman, and this community and the wider world has to accept that.' That's all I can do. Some days I can't do that, sometimes the weight of it, the fear of it, stops me. I might be really privileged, lucky even. No scratch that, I shouldn't say I'm 'lucky' to be accepted for who I am. That should be a given. And yet, so often it isn't. So often you have to spend time second-guessing, can I 'come out here' can I reference this part of my life, or gently skirt around it. 

It's my dream that one day I won't have to worry about starting a new job about being 'outed' or having to awkwardly confess. That I won't have to shuffle uncomfortably in a social setting when hilarious 'jokes' are made...more importantly I long for a year that I don't hear of someone I know, or indeed someone I don't, suffering abuse for being who they are. I long for a time all of that is true.

Sometimes it's true, and it's a weird glimpse into the 'what could be' ...easier for us in our liberal bubbles. Our arts bubbles. I spent this week able to talk freely about my Big Gay Play (tm) with people because I felt safe. That's not always the case. I spent a lot of time as an academic of Gay History, and much of academia didn't feel like a 'safe space'...I was asked was I 'allowed' to research 'those people' I was grilled about my HIV status...about my sexuality. It's messy and its complicated all of it, but none of it should impact my doing my job...or living my life.

Which is why days like today, with their rainbow flags and hashtags, are important. So those of us able to stand up and speak out can. So those who can't feel they've got allies. If it feels necessary to you, good for you, I'm glad you don't need it. But if you don't need it you have a responsibility to still stand up for those who do.

We're losing the most important parts of our Pride season this year- the chance to gather and stand together. And that's ok because we as a community know all too well what it is to have a virus decimate your community. So we'll do our bit. Instead, then, it falls to the gobby Queers of the internet like me to shout a bit louder, on behalf of those who can't.

So from your friendly neighbourhood Gobby Bisexual, I ask you to do your bit against homophobia, biphobia, and Transphobia however, and wherever you can. We've come so far, but there's a long way to go.

From me and lesbian gnome....go and be fabulous!

The Last 10 Years....

Not quite as catchy a title as the musical but it'll do....

I resisted writing a look back at the decade because it does feel self-indulgent and wanky. But also, I'm not forcing anyone to read this so if it's just a journal entry for me so be it. And this blog started at the start of the decade...so it seems fitting. 

It was for me a fairly momentous/significant/tumultuous decade (delete as applicable). I don't know that I'm coming out of it better off or as a better person. But I've certainly I guess the word is 'grown' along the way. I haven’t managed to tick off many of the ‘should-haves’ by the age I’ve got to, or over the last 10 years- but honestly, while I’d change a few things (and a few tears along the way) I wouldn’t change the bigger picture.

This decade could have gone a very different way. In 2009 I was halfway through my PGCE. I could have headed towards that and not looked back. Instead in December 2009, I was applying for my PhD and in the decade that followed changed everything over and over again. 

It's been a defining decade for sure. Firstly the years from 25-35 are pretty defining for anyone, it's a move from being a young person to being an 'adult' whatever that means. Its also the decade where people settle down, move away...things change from the friendships and relationships of your twenties. And it's a hard transition often. Harder still if you spend half of that trapped in your PhD bubble, and 'lost' a good chunk of that time. 

And that's really how I feel- I lost the second half of my twenties. That time when you're figuring out life, career, friendships, relationships 'adulting' as we Millennials are fond of saying. It all gets a bit lost when you spend that time doing a PhD. Your life is on pause, or at least in limbo while the world around you moves on. 

I've talked a lot of negativity about my PhD but actually the first years were great. I got to do what I loved, I felt like I was working towards something...later it all went wrong. But I still am not sure I'd change doing it, just how I did it. 

I got through it. I graduated. Barely intact. I lost a fair few friends on the way (that bubble again). I lost a lot of sanity, damaged my mental health...I was accused of lying by my supervisors. Told my dyslexia meant I wouldn't succeed and offered no support...all the while being beaten down by a string of endless job rejections. 

Ah yes jobs. People find it hard to believe I've had over 10 jobs this decade. 

Teacher (secondary) 

Lecturer (HE)

Support Worker (HE) 

Theatre Usher (two theatres)

Theatre bar staff

Box Office

(At one point I did all 6 at once) 

Development Advisor

Development Admin Wench (don't know what my job title was there anymore) 

Bookseller (Christmas temp)

Murder Admin (we all remember that story right?)

Receptionist

Transcriber 

Deputy Manager/Social Media Manager 

Marketing Officer

On top of those, in the last 2 years, also hustling for freelance writing work and other bits and pieces including dramaturgy, script consulting, teaching and anything else I can lay my grubby little paws on. 

You might look at that list and think I'm a bit shit at life (correct) but what that list shows is a decade of fixed-term part-time/zero-hours contracts. It shows self-funding a PhD, and self-funding starting a career in the arts (without the blessing of 'buying' an in with a certain local MA course). It shows graduating into a recession, twice. It shows the failure of academia as an industry. 

And you know what else? a fuck tonne of resilience. 

I defy a lot of friends and acquaintances to survive half of that (especially Murder Admin) and those, of whom there are many who have survived similar, I salute you.

And that really feels like what this decade was; survival. I survived the PhD and what came after. 

And in the middle of all that I got ill. I got diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis in 2015. It’s a chronic illness, which means there’s no cure. And the fun filled times in my past, present and future involve endless testing, medication of various delightful side-effects, surgeries and who knows what else. On good days it’s mostly fine, on bad days…well. And it’s an underpinning exhaustion to everything I do…and a constant future question mark. But you keep going, no point worrying about what hasn’t happened yet, enjoy the present while still healthy-ish.

And there’s nothing like stressful times, and illness to shed a few friends along the way right? Right. Really it’s a natural part of life, of growing up. I don’t have any malice for the ones where we grew apart (though I do wish we’d all been mature enough to handle it better). I hold a little malice for the ones who behaved like the Mean Girls, but then I shrug and think ‘that says more about you than me’. More than anything I’m learning to go into the next decade knowing to fight for my friends but not to fight to make anyone my friend. I’ll no long hang anxiously by my phone waiting for people to message, I’ll just send a message to those I know will. When it’s right- be that friendship or relationship you don’t need to fight for someone to be in your life, they just will be. I’ve also learned to let go of my idea of what I ‘should’ have. I don’t have a cohesive friendship group. My friends are scattered here and there. I don’t have a big new year’s party with all my friends, because most of them don’t know each other. And that’s fine, I’m an introvert, I do small and meaningful better than big and loud and that’s fine. Most importantly I’m going into a new decade with a solid group of reliable friends. And that too is a great achievement.

Someone once told me it's where you are 5 years after the PhD that counts. I'm not sure that's a perfect measurement (some science bro PhD will tell me I'm sure). But I will say this, for me the turning point came three-ish years ago. 

In 2016 I heard the National Theatre was doing Angels in America and I went to the work toilets and cried. Because I'd 'failed' so badly in my career goals that it was happening and I felt worlds apart from it. 

And then my dear friend Jan told me to 'send an email' and sent me a link to Marianne Elliott's agents. 

People roll their eyes when I tell them that production changed my life but it did. My decade is bookended by this play- from my PhD to it shifting and meaning a new chapter in my life. That chapter is still a messy first draft but without Angels happening…it would have been a different story. And I’ll forever look back on this decade for that. For the brilliant amazing experiences it led to, to me growing professionally, as a writer, as an academic and everything in between. It truly did define me. It also brought me some amazing people into my life. And I’m even more grateful for that every day.

And you know what if that is my one take-away from this decade: good friends fighting your corner and having the balls to give it a go. That's it. That's what I learned. 

I came out of the first half scared, and a bit friendless. Totally lost. My friend supported me and I sent that email. 

I earned everything that came from that, I fought hard and proved myself. I'm still fighting hard, not quite getting there. But I'm braver now. And I have friends who cheer me on, who want me to win. 

I've managed a lot this decade. I bore people, some people think I'm an 'Immodest woman' for mentioning my PhD, but it is my greatest achievement to date, and a hard-won one. Since then I've published- on my terms, work that I wanted to. I've started to make creative work, I've had things performed, this year I got my very first proper play performed. I wouldn't have dreamed that was possible a decade ago. 

The second half of this decade was as hard as the first. Harder maybe because the first half there was an end goal in sight. Now it's just 'keep going until you have to give up and see what happens'  I can't tell you how many times I've picked myself off the floor (literally). I can't tell you how much of a failure I feel most of the time when it feels like all the doors are slamming in my face. I feel like I've been kicked when I'm down more often than I can count, this year was no exception. In the face of a 'highlights real' where I've done some amazing things, there are a dozen other times I'm crying into my coffee, or cursing the universe. It's hard seeing people a decade younger overtake you. Of still not knowing what is next ever. 

And what is next?

Honestly I don’t know. 

I do know. Finish the fucking book Emily, finish the fucking book. Someone hold me to that in 10 years time.

But seriously what else?

The book.

The play (s)

The other book book.

Kick my freelance writing into gear again.

Get a job at a theatre (Anyone need a marketing wench or a new work wench?)

(get a job at the National Theatre)

Oh and I’d like to try that whole ‘having a personal life’ thing again. As the girl in the red dress once said ‘I’m ready now….’

The Last Five Years (or five years of being a Doctor)

It's November 2019. I've had my PhD for five years. That's 6 whole months longer than it took me to get the PhD. 

The above is a super nerd level reference that maybe three people will get...but it pleases me (stay tuned to the end for more).

For everyone else, yes, it's five years since I was able to put 'Dr' in front of my name (or more accurately correct people when they said 'Miss'). I usually count from the day the corrections actually got signed off (a torturous 7 months later) but what the hell if nauseating couples can have many anniversaries, so can me and my PhD.  

What have the last five years meant? well much like the musical 'I'm still hurting' and I would need a 'miracle to happen' for much of it while I long to be 'a part of that' (I can't help being a stagey bitch...but that musical is an apt metaphor) 

If anyone had told me at the moment 5 years ago, that the following 5 years would be harder than the PhD years, I wouldn't have believed them. My PhD years well hellish. Especially the last, but the ones that followed were worse in many ways. Partly because at least with the Ph.D. there's an endpoint either way- you'll either finish or fail. But it has to end sometime. After it can feel like being stuck in a never-ending limbo of...well failure frankly. And also of never knowing ‘what next’.

And what jobs wise has the five years post-PhD given me?

Nine jobs in five years. That’s right nine. Some of them overlapped because guess what full-time work is hard to come by. Some of them were very short term by nature (or because I got fired. Give you three guesses which one that was). I share this list bellow because I want all the ‘normal’ people in my life to know what it’s like, all those people who judge to know what this snapshot of life was like. But also for the (slightly entitled) current PhDs who think they’re going to walk into an academic job/alternative career. So, this is what five years Post Ph.D. looked like for me:

1. Support Worker (in a University, I actually took notes for students in lectures I'd written, and on modules, I'd designed that someone else was now taking credit for). Paid minimum wage. 

2. Research Development Advisor. It should have been a great alt-ac job. Actually paid an academic level salary. They ended the job after 12 months and I spent half a holiday crying about going back to work. 

3. Development Admin for a funding body. Nice admin type job, nice people. Got booted out in a restructure. Paid decent admin wages (around 20k) 

4. Christmas Retail Temp. Pros: it was in a bookshop. Cons: Christmas retail. Paid minimum wage. 

5. Murder Admin. Let's tell that story again. I don't think they ever actually paid me. 

6. Private Hospital Receptionist. Got wee thrown at me and had to call men 'Doctor' when they couldn't be bothered to remember my name. Paid minimum wage. 

7. Transcriber. On a super fun Hip Hop project.

8. Gallery Manager/Marketing Manager. Lovely job, lovely people. Not enough hours to live on sadly. Paid minimum wage. 

9. Marketing Officer in the Heritage sector. Lovely people lovely job. Pays low-end arts admin wages. Part-time.

And what did those 9 jobs in five years do to me? they nearly broke me that's what. Somewhere between Murder Admin and Private Hospital, I remember sitting on my living room floor sobbing. There were times where I'd say, 'I can't carry on' or 'I don't want to be here' and mean it.

The Ph.D. destroyed my confidence. It destroyed my faith in my ability to be what I wanted to be. But the post Ph.D. years took that and ran it into the ground. Take the frustration of not being able to get a job (any job) with not being able to do what you wanted to in life. Add a sprinkling of society’s judgment. Throw in the uncertainty of never having a job for more than a year. Then for added fun mix in people snottily saying ‘Well WHY are you doing this job then?’ with the undercurrent being ‘You must be a bit shit’.

It broke me all of it. And all the while I was clawing my way, chipping away at trying to do all the things that ‘should’ get me where I wanted to be. Translation: working every hour I wasn’t earning a living, for free, trying to get somewhere. Also largely failing it felt like.

Nowhere would give me the time of day because I was an ‘academic’ which obviously is laughable as academia wouldn’t give me time of day for …well not.

But I did keep going. I partly out of spite at being told that I ‘write like a journalist’ by an academic (ok Evil Ph.D. Supervisor) and so I gave it a stab. I’m nowhere making a living doing that, but I’ve written for some pretty cool places (for the record, my American Theatre articles are the ones I’m proudest of). I kept plugging away as a critic and while I’ll never be one of the London Cool Kids I think I’ve proven myself as a good writer about theatre.

I started writing plays seriously when I finished my Ph.D. five years ago. After again being told I wasn’t good enough by the ‘Creative Writing’ lot at my University…I did it anyway. And however ill-advised, I’m chipping away at it. Despite being told by a Leading Playwright I’d ‘never make a living from it’ (never intended to mate), I managed to get a proper production of a proper play on. As well as lots of other bits and pieces bubbling away. And I guess I can call myself a playwright now too? The Magic of the theatre or something I guess…

‘Can I show you what I’m proudest of’ (ever the musical theatre bitch) …it’s my Angels in America work. Writing a programme for the National Theatre, teaching there. After it had been my dream for as long as I’d been both dreaming about theatre, and for the entire PhD. To go full circle with the research and take it back. That made that worth it. And proved to me I did know what I was doing, and that the work was worthwhile. It’s also the thing that made me not give up, a year into these five years. I could have taken the hint to ‘stop moving’ but instead, I turned around and said ‘I want more life I do’ I say ‘I haven’t done anything yet’ (and yes this whole blog is Prior Walter inspired in case you hadn’t guessed yet).

And I’ve got things to do. I still need to finish the book. I’ve got at least two more book ideas that I feel I ‘have’ to write too. Will I fail at those? Quite possibly. Right now, finishing the book, not having it rejected by peer review seems an impossible task. But I know I have to keep trying. People will say five years out of the PhD is too late. To them I say, five years on I’m not bound by your academic ‘rules’ anymore, and you know what…a book is still a book. It’s still a thing I dreamed of as a kid too.

And my employment situation is still uncertain. In 6 months I’ll be unemployed again. And maybe that’s how it’ll always be for people like me. I don’t fit in anywhere. Or maybe things have finally turned around and I won’t see it for another 5 years. I still feel like an outsider, a failure in theatre. That I’ll never get a job doing anything I love. But again maybe in five years I’ll look back and see this as the start of something. I hope it will be. I plan it to be.

Five years is sold as the 'magic point' the point at which you're supposed to look at people for 'what they've done post-PhD' anything sooner is too soon. These things take time. And credit where it's due, the best piece of advice my Evil PhD Supervisor (not to be confused with Nice PhD Supervisor Who Left or Useless PhD Supervisor) said was 'Play the long game'

And let me tell you five years can feel like a Long Game. 

Do I feel like I've won? not at all. Do I feel like I might have figured out enough of the rules to actually play the game? maybe. Am I sure what game I'm playing? is everyone else playing the same one? probably not. Do I feel like I’m still shouting at Angels in a play I spent four years writing about, utterly confused, and unsure what they actually want from me? You bet. But am I like Prior Walter in that scene nobody understands but has some lovely speeches saying ‘I’ve no clue what’s going on but I’m still fighting’ Absolutely; I want to get to my Epilogue.

And so what now? Keep doing more of the same. Keep writing. Keep hustling (as the kids say) writing some more. Finish the book. Get a new job. Who knows. The world only spins forward after all.

Oh, and to academia? I say ‘You should sue the bastard. That’s my only contribution to all this theology’