Readings, redrafts and...cake again.

In the spirit of attempting to keep this updated, this is both another play progress, and life/writing/creative update.

We had another read-through of the play this week. There was cake.

Cake. Everyone will be fat by the time we finish this thing it tastes better than it looks.

It was a nerve-wracking experience as it always is. Afterwards the director said I always look- I’m not sure, miserable? Worried? Terrified? Well firstly as discussed elsewhere I clearly have an epic resting bitch face which I’m sure gets worse when I’m concentrating. Secondly, I AM TERRIFIED. I mean having been locked away with it for however long, going in and hearing people read it aloud is terrifying. Especially this time when I had changed/added some substantial parts.

Luckily, it transpired I knew everyone in the room. Which can go either way. One actor I’d met only briefly at another event we’d both been involved in, but that’s a kind of helpful familiarity. I’ll admit at first the second actor filled me with more terror than usual- the week before I found out a friend of mine was reading one of the parts. Luckily he’d had the foresight to forewarn me, and confided that he assumed I’d find it more terrifying with someone I knew involved. He was indeed correct. I admit (and have to him, so I hope it’s ok to say!) that I had a moment of utter ‘ohgodohgod’ at the thought of having to sit with someone I know well reading it at this stage. Not everyone will think like that of course- the other way to think about it is ‘oh good someone I know’. And ultimately that was the case, not only did he do a great job, but we’ve been able to talk about it in detail since, and continue to do so, in a way I haven’t with other actors, simply because we have an existing relationship. Which is great! Still doesn’t mean I wasn’t absolutely shitting it to have someone I know reading my work.

And what about the state of the play? The state of play isn’t too bad. If I had to I’d be ok with it going ahead as it is. As is, I have time to play with it. And what were initial tweaks have, based on a couple of conversations morphed into a few edits, a bit of bits and pieces threading through. Not a major rewrite, but enough to elevate it a bit more.

None of that is deliberately vague or obtuse, just that sort of explaining the plot blow by blow none of it will make sense. But I go back into it, perhaps this weekend, perhaps in a few week’s time with a new sense of what I need to do. It’s not finished, it’s never really finished. But it’s an odd feeling being ‘almost there’. And I’ll be honest I’ll miss the process when it’s over.

There’s a sense, which I might not be able to articulate properly here, but after that read through there was a sense of this being almost there. I had my list of little tweaks that were practical things that I needed to fix. But I had a feeling of something not quite being there. That I could feel, but couldn't see. It's a nutty-writer-wanker description, but it is like there's a blind spot and it's just out of reach. But you can feel it over there. I can feel it but I can't quite see it yet. But it's almost there. And then finally last night a few of the pieces settled into place and I can feel it and see it. 

Two people recently helped with this. Firstly the incomparable Kevin Jones, the writer ‘ahead’ of me in the Clock Tower season. He told me recently I’m the most honest writer he knows. And I realised actually there’s bits of this piece that aren’t as honest as they could be, and that perhaps I’ve held back a little. That’s natural I think, as you develop a piece, a kind of self- preservation thing. Related to that, my friend Tom, who through virtue of mis-hearing something in our discussion at the reading, sparked a conversation that unlocked some of what might not be as honest as it could be. And suddenly things seem to be falling into place for the strange thing that seemed missing on hearing it.

And that’s what rewrites are for too. Yes, for logistics, yes for making sense of it. Yes for my dyslexic brain that can’t tell the difference between definitely and defiantly (slight issue when the question is ‘should we have sex?’). Rewrites are also for making sure, when I set it free, it’s the most truthful version and the best version I can make it. And of course that the cake based puns are A-game.

Not only am I a writer who loves a re-write (I’m an editor, not a perfectionist in first write) but of course there’s a moment when these characters stop belonging to me. When they get handed over to other people…and I’ll kind of miss them. This project, probably of everything I’m currently working on, feels most personal, and I certainly have the most attachment to these characters. I know them, I love them, I’m fiercely protective of them… but I also can’t wait to set them free in the world (not least so they get out of my head for five minutes).

But it’s worth recording, what a supportive, and joyous experience this has been (I mean aside from these read-throughs where I feel a bit sick, but even them). It’s such a rare and wonderful thing to work with a team of people with the patience to help you work through and improve your work. I know the draft I sent in to them originally was far from perfect, but I’d always believed there was something, buried in there, about this story I was trying to write. And I don’t quite think I can articulate how grateful someone else saw that. More importantly, that they then spend time working with me, supporting me, to make it a better version of it.

And so, as I get my head down to get this final (?) version of this done, I’m really thankful to the team. But also, all the actors who came in and read drafts. All the friends who have listened to endless conversations about cake based puns, and endless further neurotic waffle about this play. Who put up with me when my rants morph into one (or more) of the characters. And who put up with my almost weekly breakdown that putting my heart and soul into this sometimes is at the detriment of other things. And who then remind me, that if I’m doing it, I have to do it right. And be happy with it. And you know what I just might be...

So I'm raising a slice of cake to the team at Clock Tower who really do take the cake, for helping me get it this far. And saying just how delicious (yes) it's been to work with such a caring, supportive, intelligent team who helped me turn this half baked (yes) idea and watched as it's risen (yes) into a tasty bake (ok that just sounds dirty, also fitting for this play) that hopefully just needs a bit of icing....and of course the cherry on top will be an audience. 

Did someone say cake? On drafting and redrafting

After man interludes it seems like the time to get back to writing about writing plays.

The current state of affairs there is, one play is paused while I finish another, and the book. After the second draft the producer and I after a lot of discussion decided on an alternative route, which is really all ok, and really brilliant. But needs time and work. So that's what we're giving it.

Elsewhere there's a semi-secret musical project (ok not that secret, just early days and I like a bit of drama)

We're not discussing the book here. Let's just say it's happening. Let's just say there's suddenly more than one book and leave it at that. (and a muffled scream)

But the main focus in recent weeks/months has been 'Don't Send Flowers' my play with Clocktower Theatre. Something I can say has been an utter joy in a sea of angst and real life terribleness. So where are we? what's going on? and what's with all the cake?

All valuable questions. We had an initial read-through which you can read about here

After digging this play out of a drawer, finding someone did want to put it on. Going through the nerve wracking experience of hearing it for the first time I was so relieved and elated that it went well.

And then I went away and re-wrote. Based on feedback, based on what we discussed, and my own mad, mad thoughts. And I over-wrote. I did on redraft, then in a fit of enthusiasm, did another. I was really pleased with a lot of it. But I made it long. Too long.

And so when we had a second read through it was too long. Also there seemed to lose some of that spark I'd felt the last time. Was it me? was it never going to live up to that first time? had I broken the play? I admit when our director cut the read through short for time, I was crushed. It wasn't the intention but in my writer- brain I'd made it so bad we couldn't even get through it. Then when the actors didn't find my new final scene quite as hilarious as the rest of us did I thought I'd really, frankly, fucked it up.

Taking a step back, stopping reading and spending an hour getting actors' thoughts was the right call. And they gave us excellent notes, and a lot to think about. The wonderful thing about this play has been every read through, every meeting people have brought their own stories about things that they relate to in it. That alone was telling me I was onto something. If people were bouncing back with 'this reminds me of...' and often telling me some heartbreaking and hilarious all in one tale, made me certain something was working...just buried fairly deeply.

And so, after picking up my writer's ego, we got together to make a post-it plan for what the play should look like. After which the play looked like this:

It was big and messy and then somehow condensed into a list. With I think 8 scenes with major re-writes and a restructure. It'll be FINE.

And the thing is it was. There's something about this play that once I start working again, I know it, I know them so well by now, that it sucks me in and I can't leave until it's done. It's also a world I'm loving being lost in. I know it sounds a bit narcissistic because I 'made' them, but I really love these characters. They're totally fucked up and sometimes not very nice people. But they're funny, and weird and I do kind of love them. I love bringing them out to play, and seeing what they (ok I) am going to come up with in their weird little minds next. There's a darkness to the humour that people think is strange in real life so it's nice to give that a run around.

Of course following that I had a writers meltdown. I'd broken it again. The new structure didn't work. I'd lost some of the essence of it. But then sitting down with my director and seeing it through someone else's eyes, no Em you haven't. You might be a dark and twisty bitch with a bit of a cake and undertaker obsession. But you haven't broken it, in fact you might have fixed it. And you might just be having a lot of fun in the process.

Amid the fun it's hard. Sometimes, in an oddly satisfying way. There's a lot of personal stuff, some might say personal baggage, I'm pouring into this play. (Like cake it is cheaper than therapy). For as much as it's hard, and will probably be a hard watch when the time comes, there's also a lot of meaning to it. A lot of heart, and I think a lot of emotion. Some of it is really hard to write. It's digging into things that probably are better off buried in the depths of my mind. It's saying things that are uncomfortable, that are really really upsetting sometimes. But all that feels, not to be too worthy, but important. And start some conversations. Maybe.

And there's a lot of chatter about cake.

But I think the emotional core of it (and the cake let's be real) is what makes this a joy, and what drives it. As wanky (that's a great word) and artsy as it sounds, genuinely if one person tells me they were moved by it, that it meant something, it'll have been worth it. And if not, well there's always cake. And perhaps, yes therapy for me after it all too.

The most important thing aside from this has been what a joy it's been. The arts, theatre feels like a battle most of the time. This hasn't. This has felt like a true collaborative, let's make the best thing we can and put it out there process and I have loved it. It feels like this kind of working is what we all do battle for.

The team as well I can't say enough about. Firstly every actor who has read the parts, for being first brilliant, and second giving me insight into my own characters I had missed. From just their reading I learned so much about my own play. From their comments and questions so much more. And in particular actors who let me bug them after the fact for 'But what if?' (No Em, you can't write a scene in Narnia in it...) Alongside them Director Louise (whose name I have to be careful not to mis-spell as Louis one of the characters in the play, she won't thank me for that comparison). Louise has been a ball of energy and enthusiasm from the get go, and much needed for a pessimistic creature like me. Ashley our Assistant Director is such a thoughtful, insightful person, who really has the best interests of the play at heart. And then there's Steve, the artistic director, for supporting this madness (even if he won't let me set fire to a cake).

When I left a meeting yesterday, Louis told me to 'enjoy it' as I went back to re-writes. And she's right, and I intend to. I intend to enjoy the time I have playing with these characters I adore. Writing something I'm passionate about subject wise, and as a project. And I intend to enjoy every moment of working in such a positive way, because that's unfortunately rare.

Oh and I'm also going to enjoy cake. Did I mention there's cake?

So that's where the writing is at. It's so close it's exciting, because next we get to bring it to life. But first I get to make it the best I can. It's like...ok yes it's like baking a cake, and it's just starting to rise in the oven....I just hope it tastes good when it comes out.

Being Bisexual means getting rejected by everyone

Last month I wrote this for Bisexual Visibility Day. I decided not to publish it. For various reasons. But as bisexuals come out twice as often as anyone (joke, see what I did there) publishing on National Coming Out Day seems just as significant.


Earlier this week I thought I’d missed Bisexual Visibility Day. Which in itself is something telling.

On one hand it’s a fun skill. Stealth. Like a Superhero. And it’s a well-known fact bisexuals like a striking outfit. Something in lycra usually.

A note on semantics: I used bisexual as it’s the term I grew up with/into and feel most comfortable with. I used it interchangeably with Pansexual. All to say, my personal attraction is inclusive of all gender identities, and how anyone chooses to express that identity. (Basically, if you hot, or funny or both I am into you).

So why do we have to visible? Well on one hand the same reason the rest of the LGBTQ+ community needs to- the wider world is rife with homophobia still, and as bisexuals we still experience that. Bisexuals also tend to disappear- depending on who we’re in a relationship with. If we’re in a same-sex relationship, we’re gay, if we’re in a heterosexual relationship we’re straight. Apparently our own identity isn’t up to us, but for external factors to decide. But also sadly because despite being the B in LGBTQ+ we get at best ignored, at worst told we don’t belong by our own community.

So that’s why we need to be visible. To have a day where we wave a flag (Queers of all kinds like a flag, let’s face it). And to tell our stories.  

I was also lucky that I grew up and came of age in an era before all pervasive social media. As much as the resources of the internet and the ability to find a bisexual community would have been nice, I spent about 10 blissful years unaware that even the LGBTQ+ community questioned whether I belonged.  At 17 I heard Alan Cumming describe himself as bisexual, worked out what it meant and said, ‘I’ll have that’ and didn’t question it for many years.

But increasingly I heard the questions slip in ‘Are you SURE?’ ‘Are you gay and just pretending?’ ‘Are you pretending just to get guys attention?’ (trust me Bab, you don’t want that sort of guy’s attention). Really though I don’t stroll up to my straight female friends and ask them ‘Yeah but how do you KNOW you like dick?’ Why? Because that’s a dick move, and it’s rude. Heterosexuals predominantly don’t seem to get this. Meanwhile, the gays assume you’re on a stop over to their ‘side’ at best, at worst tell you that again, faking it for male attention. REALLY love, I wouldn’t put this effort in for a bloke, I’d get my straight mate to snog me in a club and job done and even then it’s a lot of effort to put in for at best a mediocre bloke...(if they’re impressed by lesbians, fake or otherwise, mediocre is a generous description)

Why is it seemed ok with bisexuals to accuse someone of lying about who they are? Or that it’s a ploy for attention? I can’t speak for other bisexuals, but attention to who I do or don’t want to sleep with/be in a relationship with isn’t the kind of attention I want. It’s nobody’s business but the person I’m doing those things with.

Ah, the person I’m doing those things with. Shall I let you in on a secret, the deep dark secret bisexuals have been keeping from you all this time?

Being bisexual doesn’t mean we’re having twice as much sex. It just means being rejected by twice as many people.

I know right? Shocker it’s not the sex-fest it’s made out to be. Not that I personally want it to be. Another shocker, people aren’t bisexual because they want to have a lot of sex with a lot of people. If you’re not hard-wired that way, you still won’t multiple genders or not (No judgement on those who are, you do you! Have fun, be safe).

As I hurtle further into my 30s, and contemplate, somewhat lazily at times admittedly, having a relationship of some kind, I realise bisexuality is a real barrier for many people.  I don’t know if it’s fear of the unknown, paranoia, or a lack of understanding. But aside from the lecherous comments that any woman learns to brush off in life, my sexuality is met with at best suspicion at worst outright rejection.

You never stop coming out. That’s the lesson any Queer person learns early in life. Yes, you have the big moment where you tell your parents, friends etc for the first time. But then you have to keep coming out, every new person you meet, every new job, club you join.

For straight up gays (see what I did there) that at least doesn’t include every new relationship, hell every date. But at some point, whether I attempt to date a woman or a man I have to ‘out’ myself as bisexual. And it’s a moment of dread, a moment of will they accept this, or will they run. Will they try and ‘fix’ me? Will they laugh at me? Will they suddenly ask inappropriate questions? Will they ask if I’ve got STIs? Will they ask if I’ve got HIV (yes this really happened, I have no idea why this makes me more inclined to have STIs than any straight person but hey ho).

Or worst-case scenario will it unleash some kind of homophobia? Because a lot of people forget bisexuals are subject to homophobia too. That we get a ‘pass’ if we’re in a relationship with a man isn’t good enough. We still hide our identities. We still risk the same attacks, the same judgement as other Queers if we’re visible. So, for all the years I kept quiet. All the years I changed an outfit for fear of looking ‘too gay’. For all the years I kept a shitty haircut because I was afraid short hair would mark me as too gay. Also fancying men, a bit didn’t save me from any of that.

And you end up explaining it feeling at best like some kind of mythical creature because they’ve ‘never met a real one’ (I know I’m as fabulous as a Unicorn but come on). Or see, above start telling you it isn’t real.

And because for some reason, being a 30 something single bisexual scares the shit out of potential dates. And I’m sick of having to come out on dating apps, or a fledgling friendship-could-be-date shutting down when they find out I’m a bit Queer.  I can’t count the number of online dating conversations that have either dwindled off when I dropped the ‘B’ word or turned creepy/lecherous. I can’t shut down the paranoia that a date I’ve been on ‘found out’ and decided it wasn’t for them. Or who once in a relationship said things like ‘yeah but you’re not any more are you because you’re with me’. So, you start leaving it off, wondering how long you can get away from it. If you can forever maybe.

And we shouldn’t have to hide. Not from straight people, and certainly not from our own community. Our identities shouldn’t be erased by the relationship we’re in. And we shouldn’t be cast on the reject pile based on something that is as beyond our control as eye colour or height. It should be as inconsequential a thing to list on a dating profile as a favourite film.

So, screw that. Here’s my new dating profile:

Bisexual. Looking for non-idiot.

That’s pretty much it. If you like dogs, great, if you like cake even better. Let’s take it from there….and then we’ll discuss past relationships like anyone else on a fourth date: by declaring what a dickhead they were and bonding over that, not interrogating what genitals they had.

I’m bisexual, I’m not stopping waving my flag (Queers love a flag), I’m not putting away my fabulous outfit (lycra is in) come on then, date me if you’re brave enough….

Show a little enthusiasm (Mental Health Day thoughts)

Yesterday I was rejected from a job because I didn't 'display enough enthusiasm for the role'.

On the surface this might seem to have little to do with World Mental Health Day. Aside of course for being rejected for yet another job not being the greatest thing for mental health of course.

But of course I was thinking if I was a happier person, with a sunnier disposition would I have got that job? If I was less prone to an anxious demeanour would I have that job? I'm still unclear how one shows enthusiasm for financial admin but that's another story. This links to my previous temp job, where I was told, in not so many words that my face was too miserable to be on a reception desk and it was buck up or basically fuck off.

Eventually they told me to fuck off.

Now I do just have one of those faces. Not so much resting bitch face, as resting miserable cow face. I can't help my face really. Also can I note I was a medical receptionist, I really didn't think it was great form to greet patients as if they were coming to Disneyland? but hey what do I know.

I say all this firstly because maybe I'm not predisposed to be a little ray of sunshine. Maybe some of us aren't. But I also say this because: both these things did a real number on some already fragile mental health. And I guess I should say what I've spent the above paragraphs trying not to say:

I'm not ok and I haven't been for a long time.

I don't have some witty anecdote for World Mental Health Day about how I overcame it all and life is sunshine and roses now. Firstly I'm not a sunshine and roses kind of girl. Secondly frankly everything has been a bit shit recently and it's no surprise with it my mental health has taken a dip (read nose dive off a fucking cliff). Thirdly, I'd love some narrative about how it's 'Good to talk' (Bob Hoskins eat your fucking heart out, oh wait he's dead). And how my wonderful support network of friends and family saved me. Now don't get me wrong I have a fucking wonderful group of friends. But here's the kicker:

Talking about mental health is really fucking hard.

And why? because half the time I don't know what's going on myself. So I can't just rock up to someone and say 'Hey dude, super bad batch of this today, let's talk about it' because usually it's a whole mess of shit on top of crap. And sometimes it's out of the blue and I can't explain it. So here's a few recent highlights.

This week. Right now as I write this in fact, I should be at a job interview in London. Not going was the right call for various reasons that again, are a story for another day. But over the weekend and into Monday the thought of going was sending me into a full blown panic attack. The thought of getting on a bus. Going to London, doing that interview. All the questions and uncertainty it threw up about life. It left me paralysed, breathless, I couldn't think I couldn't do anything. And I couldn't explain it to anyone. Every time I did I ended up feeling ten times worse. I was lazy, I was stupid for throwing away an opportunity. Yes they all judged me. Eventually one friend understood what was under all my rambling about it. Understood it wasn't about being lazy, or not wanting it enough. But that my brain had short circuited yet again and that's what I needed to address. And the next morning someone else got what had led me there, understood my mixed up brain.

Job hunting: that puts me in a perpetual state of anxiety. It's like someone turned the emergency settings up to nine and they haven't come down again. And sometimes they go up to eleven, and then everything falls apart. Job hunting is a constant game of 'what if' and that's not good for anxiety. I feel like I've been scared for a year. And I spend, because this is a fun symptom of anxiety, most of my time thinking about what other people are thinking, saying, judging because I'm job hunting. And I'm always one moment away from anger too. There's the fun anxiety symptom that doesn't get blogs and cute doodles. Anxiety isn't just introverts hiding in a corner or not wanting to leave the house. It's like being a frightened animal backed into a corner and the only way it knows to get out is to snap an bare it's teeth. I'm sorry for anyone who got the snap of my teeth recently. I usually don't know it's coming until it's too late.

In part I blame 8 months of hard customer service in a not so friendly environment. And not realising as we often do, what was creeping up on me. Customer Service and anxiety is like a permanent state of that animal while the man with the net is coming at you.

People think anxiety is just...well being anxious. It's so much more. It's anger- all too often when my anxiety reaches it's peak I'll react with anger. It's also believing that everyone hates you, everything you've said is wrong and eventually being unable to speak for fear of what it will lead to. It's hating your body, whether that's body image, feeling let down by what it does or doesn't do. It's a whole mess of things I don't even understand.

Then you add the creative work into the mix. Put aside the precarious nature of the industry and just think about the work.

I've spent this year working on two plays that frankly emotionally drain me. I've blogged about the process of one here. That sharing work that is intimately personal, in it's raw form with a person who was until recently a stranger. Integrating all kinds of things from the depths of my deep dark brain, and figuring out how to talk about them. It's hard work. And these stories, the characters the dark things you explore in them, take root in your brain.

Then alongside that the other play which in some ways creatively is the bigger joy (just because it's at a much easier stage) is hard. So hard. This week particularly. It deals with a lot of what I went through when my Father died. It's complex and not some easy sob story with tears and catharsis. But this week, on the anniversary of his death (Canadian Thanksgiving eh, there's a story) I was sat pulling apart that play with the directors. And it was fine, and we laughed at my inappropriate humour and made notes like 'keep the penis scene'. And it's fine. But it's also adding to the mass of stuff in my brain. And it's cathartic, but draining all at once.

And that's the point. It's all a mess. There's no easy sit down and say 'How are you?' and you say 'Oh I've been anxious this week' like 'Oh I've had a bit of a cold this week'. Because ask me at 10 in the morning and the answer might be different to 7 and night. Some days I don't even know anything is wrong.

But also despite typing all this out, I wouldn't know what to say anyway.

It's all very well saying we should talk more. But sometimes there aren't the words. I'm a writer I can find the words for characters, even for myself. But even I can't always articulate it all. And anyway I feel like I have to end it one happy note. We're back to that enthusiasm again right? except I have none. Not right now. Maybe tomorrow.

I'm not ok. I'm not ok because there's been a lot that's been going on to make me that way: job losses, career struggles, feeling a little lost to the world. Feeling a little left behind by the world. Feeling a little unloved.

I'm not ok because my brain will always be a little bit broken. Just like it can't add up or spell, it'll always be anxious. It'll never be sunshine and unicorns.

So maybe I'll never get the job that requires 'enthusiasm'. But fuck it faking enthusiasm is exhausting.

Sometimes you just admit defeat

On Monday last week I went into work. By Tuesday I was unemployed again. On Friday I told my agency I was taking a month off. And in all honesty I’m just a bit broken. I’m wondering whether any of it is worthwhile- the writing, the fighting for a career that will likely never be. If I’m too old for all of it and I should just retreat to whatever life can give me.

It’s all a bit dramatic written down. But it’s an exhausting state of affairs, and one that’s worn me down.

Last weekend I thought I’d hit rock bottom. In a very real, very dangerous way. I was walking the dog up the road and feeling like there was nothing left to fight with. I had nothing to give my creative work, couldn’t face picking them up again where they’d gone wrong. Had failed once again as an academic (see here) and there seemed no way out of feeling like an utter failure in life. But of course, just when you think it can’t get worse it does. And having had to give up a ‘real career’ opportunity the week before, the universe saw fit to have a joke and get rid of my temp job as well. Added to that feeling like all the creative work I’d been pouring myself into was dead in the water, that I couldn’t write the book and that pretty much everything was a dead end….And you know what I’ve got no fight left in me for it.

The last job was hard. I wrote a little about it here. In that we were dealing with 100s of people a day, often very demanding people, in heavy customer service environment. Added to that a level of admin that was a job in itself. Added to that a management that was unsupportive of the employees, added to that I never knew my hours until the Thursday before, and these could range from 7am to 9pm, with no pattern. Added to that even after 8 months I was ‘just a temp’ and had no rights, and no security.  It was exhausting. I couldn’t plan a life, I lived in almost daily fear that I’d cock something up and be got rid of on the spot. I lived in constant fear my colleagues were reporting on me (after several of them did) in an attempt to get me fired.

On top of this I’ve been working on several ‘real career’ projects. The book, two plays, a musical, my usual reviewing duties. I’ve stretched myself too thin and too quickly, but as with everyone I’m scared of missing opportunities. Oh, and on top of that, applying for jobs. I don’t want to complain about any of this. I don’t feel like I have the right to- pursuing the creative work is a choice, often an indulgence it feels like.

And so I hear myself saying I shouldn’t. I should give it all up. Because what’s the point? Would it really make any difference to write the book, to have the play produced? Or would I be back where I was in a year’s time again.

And it wears you down. It’s not one thing but years and years of little things.  Because it’s not just this year. Though this year has given me one hell of a beating. But it’s the year before, and before that. It’s the one-year contracts cut short, the endless looking for a job before you’ve settled into this one. The lack of anything out there. The over qualified and under qualified somehow at once. It’s feeling old as balls as you lose out to people 10 years younger.

Logical me knows it’s not my fault. That maternity covers and fixed term contracts end. That economies and governments go to hell and people like me are at the sharp end of it. It’s not personal, it’s business. But it’s personal to me. It’s personal to a lot of people.

And it wears you down.

What people don’t tell you about unemployment, about being stuck as a semi permeant temp, is how lonely it feels. On one hand because you’re held to ransom financially, you start saying no to things because you can’t afford them. You start to not look for reasons to go out because you know you can’t afford them. I’m lucky, I have understanding (and broke-ass, or previously broke- ass) friends, who are happy to meet at their houses for coffee or go somewhere cheap. I’m lucky my theatre reviewing work gets me out of the house, I’m lucky I have a choir to go to every week. But the self-restriction, the limitation feels lonely.

It also feels lonely in the broader sense, that sense of being left behind. Partly this is a PhD symptom; I’m about five-ten years (depending on how you look at it) behind my peers in career. Having put so much into that, and the ‘time out’ doing the thing cost, I’m so behind where I would be had I been plodding on in a career as others did, straight from University. There’s also that ‘hitting pause’ the PhD causes us in life. I’m behind on things like saving for a house, having a decent car, places I’ve travelled. Because job insecurity and everything that goes with it put pause on that. The elephant in the room here is also relationships. Some people manage it, but I haven’t. I feel like I missed a chunk of ‘dating years’ there and now there’s a big old expanse of nothing. Settling down has never been a major driver in my life, but now it suddenly feels like that option was taken away from me somewhere along the way and I don’t know where or how. Also, that let’s face it, I’m 34 and temping again isn’t exactly an enticing prospect is it? And it all adds up to feeling like a massive failure.

And I see the judgement. ‘she’s STILL looking for a job, what’s wrong with her’ ‘her temp job let her go there must be something wrong?’ ‘she’s got a PhD why can’t she get a job?’ these come from various states of ignorance, or outright nastiness. The thing being those who haven’t found themselves her can’t know. And you know what a part of me wishes they did know. So, they could know the stress- the waking up at night worrying and paralysed with fear. The feeling you’ve let everyone down. That there’s something really really wrong with you. The knowing everyone thinks that about you, and more probably. And the feeling somewhere life left you behind.

The only thing to do in situations like this is to pick yourself up again and keep fighting. I’ve done it more times than I can count. And I can and will. But there’s only so many times you can do that before something gives. I will pick myself up again. But not just yet. Right this moment I know if I throw myself to the mercies of temping right away, I will break. It’s about knowing yourself and knowing where your line is, and I’ve reached mine. I need to retreat however briefly. So, I’ve given myself a month off from it. It’ll be a struggle financially, but I know I was on the verge of really breaking, and I need time to regroup.

It’s a scary thing to admit, and I struggle to do it, but my mental health has taken a hell of a beating. I’m suffering from really bad anxiety- to the point the thought of being sent to another temp job on Monday almost gave me a panic attack. And I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that all this has made me fairly depressed. It’s all, hopefully, circumstantial. But I have the added joy of a chronic illness set off by stress. All of which has forced me to admit I need to take some time. And it’s an incredibly hard thing to admit, and to put out there. But it’s also important to say.

I won’t be taking a break from the creative work, or the book. In fact I need to pour myself into the things that matter for a few weeks. I need to remind myself what I’m fighting for. I can’t go after the things I really want, I can’t even write an application for jobs I really want right now, because I feel so beaten. I can write my play, and my book. I might need to blog a bit more, to give myself some space for this stuff, and so I appreciate those who read it.

I might need a little space, I might drop off the planet a bit. Equally I’d really appreciate anyone who wants to reach out for a real (or virtual) coffee and a chat. This week only stopped being something really horrendous because a couple of people did that.

A part of me hates myself for writing this. And for doing this. I feel self-indulgent and bratty. I feel like I’m not entitled to feel this way or take this time. That I should have been better, I should be better and just get on with it. But I also know that I reached a point I couldn’t carry on without something breaking. And I know I’m not the only one who feels that way. So I’m putting it out there, so others might feel better about speaking out on whatever has taken its toll.

Damnit Jim I'm a Doctor, not your secretary....

Yesterday my Temp job got rid of me. Which in itself is no big deal it's the name of the game. Equally I could have got up at any time and said 'Bored now I'm going'. I didn't because I'm a good little temp, I sit there I get on with it, even when it is spectacularly , well shit.

It was a classic 'it's not what you did it's the way you did it' moment really. After nearly 8 months of 'oh yes we love you, we think of you as proper staff, yes we'll give you a proper contract' suddenly they decided no. The official line was 'no more temps' which, if true isn't a decision you make overnight so someone should really have given me a polite heads up. If it IS a decision you made overnight, well maybe just maybe that's an indication of why you have so many temps...

But this does mean I'm now free to say a few things. Firstly the utter guilt my socialist-liberal-lefty self has had over working in....a private hospital. And a signifier of how desperate I have been for work that I was willing to park my morals at the door. In general actually my feeling was if rich people are willing to pay ridiculous amounts to feel like they're getting better treatment than the NHS so be it (spoiler they aren't). Also I spent much of my time in departments where we served Sports teams (utterly wasted on me) so again, rather their stupid injuries were dealt with privately than taking up NHS time. But I saw a few people who broke my heart. People so desperate for help they'd pay the ridiculous fees. And I saw Consultants who were human. Who were there to make money but not to screw people for money. And of course I saw exceptions, the other end of the spectrum. All of that is another post. Another play probably.

What my main issue was however, is I have never worked in an environment where I had to bow and scrape so much, not only to customers (I refuse to call them patients) but to those I worked with. I've been the lowest of the low in many environments. I've never been expected to act with such...deference to literally everyone else? Three times I got shouted at, and I mean shouted at, by men. Three times I was told I was wrong and everyone bent over backwards to give the men what they wanted because they'd shouted. I deserve better than that, we all do.

I also cringed daily at having to bow and scrape at Doctors. Yes Doctor so-and-so No Mr-so-and-so. All the while choking back at them, and customers 'It's not dear, or love or even Miss, it's Doctor'

I feel like I've been dumped by a bad boyfriend. I knew it was bad for me, I wanted to escape for a long time. But I couldn't bring myself to. And now I'm angry I didn't walk out, slam that door first. Tell them what I thought.

But also like being dumped by a bad boyfriend, it still hurts, however bad it was for you. And because you can only take being dumped so many times before it breaks you a bit. And it's broken me. Not this job so much as the last year. Hell the last ten really. But particularly this last year. I've got no fight left in me right now. Nothing to bounce back with from yet another career and life beating.

Because it's not just your career, it's your whole life. It's an all consuming 'what if' and 'what next' and that great blank space of not knowing creeps into everything- decisions on where you live, plans you make, relationships, everything. It's not just about the job, it's about my life. And right now job and career have run me into the ground.

I'll pick myself up, I always do. What other choice is there right? but it's hard, it's so hard. And there's so many of us going through it. To my friends (and strangers) who are, I see you, I'm with you.

It's cliche but you do find out who your friends are. When you're constantly going through a nightmare, those who send a message, who reach out. Increasingly I'm finding it's relative strangers, or the ones who live far away. That's interesting. The ones I thought I could rely on, less and less so. Again, when one aspect of life falls apart it seeps into the rest.

And again I'll pick myself up. Eventually. And at the very least I'll never have to smile through gritted teeth and say 'Yes Dr Asshat of course'...

Saying no to academia (again)

Yesterday I gave up a teaching opportunity at a University. Today I feel really shit.

This blog is about those things, and some bigger things. Firstly I'm not (just) writing this to have a moan about just how awful I feel about things right now. I'm also doing it to highlight the nature of academia as a beast, both in the way it exploits people, and the way it affects people in that they end up feeling as if they should be exploited, or even guilty about not being exploited.

I say this of course in the broader sense of the exploitative nature of the beast. Not the lovely people who offered me the work, and did so as a means to help. It's not their fault this is the choice in the system, and they very much tried to make something good out of bad.

Anyway, disclaimers over. Here is what I contemplated taking:

Various hours (between 4-6 hours a day)
Mainly project supervision, some teaching.
Term time only (obviously, who gets anything else?)
At an institution 2.5 hours away (so a 5 hour round trip, and so often a 14 hour day).

All of which meant I'd have to take 2 days off other paid work (for prep/marking/exhaustion) and pay for petrol and/or stay over. (even if say £30 Travelodge, plus dinner and breakfast, that's £60 of wages. Plus petrol of around £20-25. That's £85). I put the sums out there because that's what people like me are doing all the time, paying to have a job. Having a job to support a job. And we've stopped thinking it's ridiculous.

Plus I'd be tied to this, rather than getting a proper job. Plus delaying my various other projects. And yet I said yet, until I couldn't any more. Because I felt I SHOULD want it. I did want it. But also because gift-horse aside, it's that sense you HAVE to go and be an academic should someone offer you the chance. No matter how wrong it might be for you, practically and personally.

And I made myself, after an afternoon of crying, say no.

Two types of people will read this. Those who, quite rightly look at that and say 'that is madness' and rightly so. It is. And yes others will look and say 'you would do it if you wanted it badly enough'.

And maybe they're right. And maybe that means two things:

1. Maybe I don't (and that's ok too)
2. That doesn't make it right.

This is far from a rarity. And I am expected to be grateful (again not by the people involved, by bigger perceptions) of this opportunity, no matter how possibly counter productive. No matter, honestly how bad it might even be health wise- exhaustion from the amount of travel and work. The mental health implications. And practically, to end up doing the equivalent of half a week or more's work for probably actually far less than the minimum wage I'd make at my Temp Job. But more that I- we would put ourselves through that. For the validation of being considered a 'real academic' again. Before it's (probably) taken away again.

And it makes me sad that I can't do it. That I don't have that in me any more. I don't have an ounce of fight left in me, to go through all that and be in no better state in a year. I looked at an academic job application yesterday and I knew. I knew I'd never have it in me again. And I should be relieved, but instead it breaks my heart.

Because while I have known for long enough that I'm not good enough to be an academic. Or equally that I don't have the privilege of hanging on long enough to have a shot at it. Because let's be real, far less capable people than me have 'made it' through sheer dumb luck, or more accurately being able to sustain this life of working for nothing for longer than I can. And I mean this sense of hanging on and being able to afford it both financially, which is the primary reason, but also mentally. I can't live feeling like my life is on hold because 'what if' I got a job, 'what if' something happened. I can't sustain another five years of waiting for my life to start.

But despite this, despite all this. Despite the number of times now I've had to 'quit' it still hurts, because the truth is about the short time I was 'inside' academia, I have never loved anything more. I was good at it (well the teaching at least) and I could have maybe, just maybe been good in a meaningful way. That doesn't mean I'm blind to the faults of the industry, before people jump in here to tell me I'm better off without. I know I am, in my rational mind I want my life, that's why I got out. But that doesn't mean it isn't hard to have to walk away again.

And it's fine. I've had a good cry writing this, and I'll be back to knowing walking away from academia was the best thing again in half an hour. It's only worse this time because life is frankly, just really shit right now.

(all things are relative, many people worse off than me in the world)

But a year of unemployment/temping. A slow (or fast) unravelling of various projects. And a general grinding down, not just this year, but all the ones before, has me really, really beaten right now.

And I'm sick of being stuck in a no man's land. Academia doesn't want me. But I keep going back because there feels like there's a sliver of hope. Because it feels like what I'm supposed to do.

Because I keep trying to transfer my skills elsewhere, and nobody wants to know. The amount of times, the amount of time I've spent trying to beat down doors, only to get told 'you're an academic go away' or to get a tiny bit of progress and have it whipped from under me. Usually by someone younger. And I'm past the point in my life where I can work entirely for free, but I am still willing to put the hours and graft in, if only someone would give me a chance. But I think I've reached the end of that road again too.

So what now? Well frankly that's a bloody good question. I clung to this academic offer, no matter how unfeasible, because, well I felt like nowhere else wants me maybe try that again. And people like me have to stop running back. Letting academia do this to us. Letting it break us down for years and years after we should be done. But us arts and humanities lot also need other professions to start taking us seriously, not slamming doors in our face for being 'an academic' when we're really trying to be anything but.

And on the off chance anyone can help, my CV is here: https://emilygarside.com/cv/



Oh and finally,

P.S

The next person who tells me I'm not a 'proper' playwright or should stick to writing books, will get a  resounding fuck you. I'm a good writer. I'm a good playwright, critic and probably anything else I set my mind to (except poetry, I concede I am shit at that). You don't get to laugh at me, or dismiss me just because I've also been an academic. Show me a writer who has never had another career and I'll show you a liar. Or at the very list a person with a rich spouse or parents. I am sick of being dismissed.