Working in a shop doesn't make me less than you.

I shouldn't have to write this. I should be doing the 101 things I have to do for work, and 101 other things I'd rather be doing. But I feel compelled to.

If you are an academic, or a creative or anything else for that matter, and you are currently working in retail, temping or any other 'survival' job: this does not mean you value your work less.

Sounds logical right?

Well this morning, an academic said that they could 'easily' get a job in a shop but they don't because 'I feel there is loads of value in what I do' and that in so doing she would no longer be 'a good role model for her daughter'

I mean there's so much wrong in this I don't know where to start.

Firstly how about insulting all the people working in retail and raising their kids, and being perfectly good role models thank you? Secondly that age old view that working in retail is 'easy' and something anyone can do? Girl come back to me when you've worked a Christmas Eve that's also a Saturday and then we can talk. And I don't mean when you were 16. I mean now. As a grown up, and yes a grown up with qualifications 'beyond' retail. Because they don't make you better than retail.

Because here's the thing. Retail is a perfectly valid career. It's one with a lot of prospects in management, and a hell of a lot of transferable skills. It's also a career many people love. Not everyone is built for a career sat in an office, and an office job isn't a 'better' one. A dear friend of mine left teaching, and decided to pursue retail jobs, because they just suit her better. In the work, in the lifestyle.

And on the flip side there are those of us who are 'stuck' in a retail job in the short term (or long term). And we are no lesser.

And that leads me to the second point: Working in retail does not mean I value my work as an academic less. It means I value it more. It means I am willing to do whatever it takes to pay the bills, and survive so I can do my work. I don't have kids, but if I did I would be setting them a solid example in hard work in order to achieve your goals.

All this came off the back of another discussion I tried to have with this academic. Who thinks not only teaching, but research is beneath her. Who has 'refused' to do any more teaching because she is not suitably recognised for her research.

To which I say: utter bullshit. No academic is better than teaching. Teaching, in the abstract and the literal sense is our entire purpose. Get the fuck down from your ivory towers all of you who think you are better than teaching. To call someone a good teacher isn't an insult, it's the highest compliment you can pay them. And if you don't want to do it, move over and let the 50 people waiting in the wings take your place. And let them do a better job than you, because they actually want to do it, they don't just want the praise for doing it.

Because here's the thing none of these hollow voices in the echo chamber of popular academic twitter want to here: none of you are any better than the 50 people waiting in the wings. We are all middling-to-decent early career academics. We are all as good as each other. We are all replaceable.

But what I cannot stand is people from an extraordinary place of privilege telling others we are doing it wrong. Because we are all out there doing the damn best we can. And if that means working in a shop, if that means being an office temp, if it means cleaning houses. I salute you all. You value your work, and yourselves and you're doing a bloody good job.

If you don't have a partner to support you,  if you don't come from money, if something in life stops you being able to apply for those academic jobs. OR even more importantly if you chose to do another job and do your work in your own time, your work is just as valuable. You are just as valuable. You are still part of the academic community.

And don't shout from the rooftops about kindness when you tell fellow academics to 'fuck off' for raising a dissenting point of view.

New Year same...well.

Well let the record show we got 4 days into 2019 before I cried. I mean 4 day is something right?

But on the 4th January I reached the point of being already so overwhelmed and exhausted that I broke. And then I picked myself up and went and sorted things out in my chair of the board role, and then I came home and got on with work while crying a bit more at my laptop. Because what else do you do right?

But we should also talk about it. Because I'm not alone in arts or academia (and I'm going to keep saying I belong in both, despite being told otherwise). We're all struggling against everyone thinking their thing should be our priority, no matter what our own is. We're all trying to juggle all the unpaid stuff with our real jobs. Or in far, far too many of our cases, juggling the unpaid stuff against never having a secure or liveable income. Against constant job hunting, or seemingly endless unemployment or under employment. So I'm using this blog to tell my version of this because I know I'm not the only one going into January feeling like this.

It's just hard sometimes. All the time at the moment in fact. And at the moment I'm barely functioning under a load of, well too much.

• My book. Due at the end of January. That's been pushed back for everything, and every man and his dog over the past year. For which I'm going to have to beg another extension, and I am terrified that will mean it gets taken off me. And I think if it does that might be the thing that finishes me. 
• A chapter of a book. End of the month. Haven't written a word. 
• A final draft of a play. Like yesterday. 
• Scenes for a book of a musical. And a composer for it. (the latter isn't my whole job or my fault but it's another thing). 
• Picking up the commissioned play. Start of Feb. This is luckily the one thing I might have wiggle room on luckily. 

None of these things are easy. None of these things are quick. And I'm bloody sick of the idea that writing shouldn't take priorty. That somehow it just magically happens. I don't pull this shit out of my arse (ok well I do but it takes time). And my book is a fucking real thing. With a contract and publishers and deadlines. I swear people think I'm pulling a Rocky Flintstone and just writing porn in my shed or something (niche reference, I see you perverts) 

On top of that I'm juggling paid work, currently a mix of a couple of 'employed' days and freelancing. None of which is enough to live on properly. I've been job hunting for 14 months. I've been officially shittly unemployed/underemployed (it's a term) for a year now. 

And I am fucking exhausted. 

Not least because job hunting is exhausting in itself. But that job hunting on top of working in whatever means possible to keep a head above water, on top of doing all the above to try and pursue the 'real' career has finished me. 

And on top of that are people. Glorious people. The kinds of people who have fallen on their feet at a young age and just don't understand how at 34 I can be so damn useless to be unemployed for so long. I don't resent anyone their employment, I don't wish what I and many others I know have gone through but lord if some empathy were possible that would be swell. Some understanding of the toll it takes on a person, the constant stress, the uncertainty of not being able to plan beyond a few months times (if that) and yes the lack of financial freedom. 

So I start January this year exhausted. Partly in the literal short term sense. Christmas wasn't really a thing this year. A combination of a retail based job and all the above, meant Christmas Day and New Year's day were all I had off (the latter simply because I couldn't get myself going and felt horribly guilty all day). And there's no let up. There's no weekends or days off there's just going out to paid work, or working at home on 'real work'. And I'm not complaining at having so much 'real work' to do, but that doesn't mean it isn't exhausting. Especially when I'm now at a point of 'finish these because you started, then get a real job'

Because none of this is sustainable. Not without a partner to support, or family money. That's the real truth of it. 

And then what? 

Who knows. I've learned to live without a plan. Because it's too hard having it not work out yet again. 

But I write this, partly to get out some of the frustration, the anger and yes the tears. But also because I know I'm not alone. If you're heading into January not feeling like it's a 'fresh start' but more like you're already buried under the weight of the year or already despairing that it's going to be no better than the last endless chasing disappointments. And if you're already sick of everyone saying how great 2019 is for them, and for you if you just think positive. Then this blog is for you. For all of us. 

It probably won't be brilliant. But we'll survive it. Whatever you're drowning under, whatever January is already throwing at you. You got this. 

I'm on twitter, my DM's are always open for anyone who needs an ear (or just enjoys my occasional drunk tweeting) @emigarside  

I'd rather write this Christmas (than play board games)

Over on Academic Twitter I've a tweet that's getting a bit of attention.

Hey academic twitter rather than the “We have to work over Christmas” V “You are terrible if you do work over Christmas” how about adopting “You do you” and letting people do it their way?

— Dr Emily Garside (@EmiGarside) December 22, 2018

What started (as most good things do) as a good old fashioned subtweet has come to sumarise some of my feelings about the season. And created a few more.

The point of the tweet was that many academics (and creatives for that matter) will be spending part of Christmas working in some capacity. Many of us will be working at our 'Day jobs' in retail or hospitality, or indeed at our 'real jobs' in the theatre for some of it. Whether it's for money or creativity, well done, and may the Christmas asshats be few (I'll be running the gallery Christmas eve, and grateful this year it's unlikely I'll get shouted at by customers on Christmas eve).

But many of us will be working elsewhere over the break as well. Many will be reading, writing, editing beavering away on projects because the Christmas break gives them some downtime, and more importantly headspace to do that.

The flip side: if you need Christmas off to totally switch off and recharge, then come back at it in the New Year. Crack on! you do you.

Of course the 'You need a break, it's bad working practice to work over the break' neglects a key factor: many academics (and creatives) have a job outside their 'real work' to pay the bills. So the shut down over Christmas is a rare and ideal time to do some 'real work' when the rest of the world has stopped for a couple of weeks. It's actually a privilege to have that 'You must have a real break' mentality. And maybe some people need to remember that, and check their privilege before they tell others how to manage their time, run their lives or their careers.

Oh also the minor detail perhaps that not all academics (or creatives) are Christian....or celebrate Christmas in any way. And as I said in a follow up tweet, I'm not suggesting anyone references over Christmas dinner, but by 27th December when it's pissing down with rain and there's nothing good on TV...well a few hours writing sound like utter bliss to many of us.

Because here's the other thing, this 'take a break for Christmas' assumes everyone has a log-burning-on-the-fire-families-playing-games Christmas.

And that's the other side of what I've been thinking a lot this year.

I'm sick of feeling second-rate because I don't play board games at Christmas.

Firstly, board games are fairly hard to play when you're an only child and it's just you and your Mum. Secondly, the board games playing, no TV on Christmas, presents after lunch...seems like a weird Middle Class parallel world that looks nothing like my Christmases past or present.

More importantly the frankly nauseating refrain of 'Christmas being about family' but meaning a very specific version of 'family' that involves large gatherings of extended family makes people like me, with no real extended family to speak of, feel a bit...well flat inside.

So while I might joke that Christmas involves drinking gin and watching crap telly with Mum because I'm common as muck. But also you can't help but feel like not having a family to sing carols with in some pseudo Dickensian manner around a tree is somehow a personal failing.

Add to that the being a certain age and not running around with partner, kids etc of my own. And my Hallmark Christmas gets viewed as more and more tragic. I don't know what it is this year, but because I'm not 'driving home for Christmas' being so excited to see a plethora of extended family or celebrating with a picture perfect family, but instead staying where I always do, contemplating what work I can get done in the quiet time...I feel like I'm failing at Christmas.

None of that is to judge anyone who does, and genuinely enjoys that kind of Christmas. That's great, and truly I'm happy for whatever makes any of us happy. But I know there's loads of us out there with weird mixed up families, people we'd rather not spend time with. Odd traditions, no traditions. And all those who've lost people they wish were here. This is all for you. Just because your Christmas doesn't look like a film. Just because you do your own thing (maybe you go to the pub, eat Chinese food, celebrate a day early or late). This one's for you. Let's all do us.

More importantly I'm sick of feeling a bit rubbish and sad because Christmas for me doesn't look like it 'should'.  Honestly? Christmas films don't do it for me. I'm not big on Christmas parties. I'm not big on family (having never really had one of those big family-type families). You know what I'm big on? making and eating a metric shit tonne of food. Hanging out with my Mum. Watching crap telly. Drinking. All of these things bring me actual joy.

And on Boxing Day, if I feel like doing some writing, rather than sitting there feeling guilty about wasted time. I bloody well will. Because in the long term that'll make me happy too. In the short term as well. Because there's only so much shit TV I can watch.

'Just write it' and other stupid/sensible advice

This is a blog about how writing a book is so much more than sitting your arse down and writing (though that helps).

In recent weeks (months?) every single night without fail, at around 9pm until sometimes Midnight I've had a tightening in my chest and a sense of being paralysed with panic, for not writing the book. No matter if I had (rarely) worked on the book that day. No matter how flat out I'd been with other things. No matter if I was too ill to be working (but had anyway). I went to bed each night utterly gripped with the fear of failure- and that I'd brought it on myself.

This totally came to a head last week, which was the anniversary of getting the contract. I've had to ask for several extensions. It should have been done long ago, and I still don't know if it'll be done in time for this deadline.

Everything I say sounds like a million excuses. Which they are.  But while writing a book is sitting your arse down and writing, it's also a million other things. It's earning a living first and foremost. Unless you're very privileged. It's living life day to day- buying food and walking the dog. It's also keeping a social life, self care, whatever else you want to call it. Because you need to stay sane. Especially if it's a subject that needs a little bit of your heart and soul.

And all the above has been a struggle in the last 12 months. Everything has frankly been a struggle. I  feel like I've been ground into the ground by this year. The truth of the matter is the book has been bumped off time and time again, because there's always something else.

But the truth is also, you can't give something like this the attention it deserves if your head isn't functioning as it should. For me the biggest cause of mental health issues is job related stress- more accurately lack of job related stress. This year was a year of it. And so in January this year there was the murder-admin job, that destroyed my confidence, and very much messed with my head. Then came months of temping in the Hospital. Only this week, a friend reminded me he'd told me to quit, because of what it was doing to me, but I couldn't. And so the book wasn't getting written. As much as unemployment should serve writing, it doesn't when you worry how you're going to pay the next bill.

It me, despairing over the state of things

And then there's the creative projects. Two plays, which I couldn't say no to. But I found out in the summer, that there isn't enough room in my head for two intense plays and an equally intense book. Luckily after one spectacular breakdown, my incredibly understanding producer let me shelve our project for a bit. And as a brilliant friend, every time I try and pick it up reminds me that the book comes first now, for a bit.

But that's the panic, in this world, that we can't let a single opportunity pass us by. So I kept saying yes to everything else, every opportunity, because we're all conditioned to not let anything pass us by, lest that was our 'ticket' to the thing we wanted.

But the thing was all that was distracting me from the thing I wanted, which I already had: the book. But because I think nobody will care, because I think everyone thinks the more important thing is to get a real job, to get back on the prescribed career path, be a proper grown up, I kept sacrificing the one thing I wanted, for everything else. Which then left me awake at night, paralysed with fear and guilt about not doing it.

Someone said to me this week, maybe I'm scared to finish because I don't know what's next. And while that's not wrong- I've been living with this in one way or another for so long, being without it is a scary thought. It's more than that. I think some people build to the big thing, the thing that's most important to them. And it feels like, for now, and the foreseeable future, there won't be anything like this for me. And that's a scary thing. It's a scary thing to think about being over yes, but it's also about the pressure to get it right. The sense of having got this far, and then royally fucking it up is really what's terrifying me, what's holding me back.

It's also, as my friend pointed out today, a result of the damage caused by m academic experience. That work- the first half of the book at least- is directly from my PhD. It's all the work that time and time again I was told wasn't good enough. Told that I wasn't good enough. Because also, contrary to what some people think criticising the work is and always will be personal, if it's done badly. Which it was. It's no secret that my PhD broke me. I know now that I was better than they let me be, I know that my work is better than they ever gave me credit for. But undoing that level of systematic bringing down, well it's hard.

And because, despite it all, I love it. I love it so much. And it is so ridiculous, and so difficult to explain to anyone. I love these plays. I love the productions (yes even the one with the penis). I love that sitting through and writing about a Kushner play is a particular kind of self inflicted torture.  I love every stupid thing Andrew Garfield said to the press over two years. I love James McArdle (obviously). I love the stupid rain machine I've dedicated far too many words to. I love pulling together my love of Cold War Politics and theatre. I love screaming 'Have you no decency'. I love my group of fangirls and boys who know exactly what I mean by that. I love Marianne Elliott just for all of it.

And I want to do this work right, by all of the above. (Even bloody Tony.)

I don't know what I'd be without this play. But I also feel like I've got a lot to prove with this work. But to pull those two together, I just have to write it like I love it. Because that's all I can do.

My friend Kirsty gave me the greatest Christmas gift this week- she got me to come and stay with her and her family for a few days, and work on the book. Now I didn't bash out 1000s of words, locked away in a room like in a 'proper' writing retreat. That wasn't the point. What I got was far more valuable. I got two full days of just sitting and working on the book- but with someone in the room to a) make sure I did, and didn't just do another thing b) someone to talk to about it who understands. More important than that, really, was taking me out of my everyday life for a bit. I haven't had a break this year, and stopping, being in another place, having kids to entertain and gin to drink (not at once honest) and just stepping back for a second.

It is about sitting your arse down and writing. And I have, having counted today 139, 000 words of the book (way more than I need). I have done work. It is there. It will be there. But it's so much more than just sitting down and writing. And it takes a village to do that.

And as it's Christmas. As it's been a year, a big thank you to everyone who has listened to the writing of the book (or indeed the not writing). And everyone who has believed in it so far. Every time one person tells me they want to read it, I think it's worth it. You are fabulous creatures, each and every one.

Coming out - Ulcerative Colitis (or my body hates me sometimes)

It's Crohn's and Colitis awareness week, and I decided fairly last minute to put this blog out there. It feels like coming out of the, as Joey Tribiani would say 'non gay closet'. And actually harder. I'm happy being a raging Queer. Not quite so happy sharing the sometimes disgusting ways my body has betrayed me in the last five years.

I have Ulcerative Colitis. I don't even get the cooler older sister Crohns that people have actually I don't know, heard of. So I don't even get to name it mostly, I just say 'it's a condition like Crohns'. Diagnosed five years ago, and something of a dirty secret of mine since then. It's not, let's face it, a particularly sexy disease is it?

What is it? well this blog here explains it better than I do in medical terms. But basically it's an inflammatory bowel disease and autoimmune condition. Incurable, if treatable with a whole host of secondary symptoms that make life super duper fun. And of course it's about stomaches, and let's face it, poo. And nobody likes talking about that.

Funny that I spend my professional life shouting people should talk about HIV and sex, but my own illness, I hide in the non-gay closet over. It still very much feels like 'nice girls shouldn't talk about that' but well, since when have I been a nice girl anyway?

So yes, I have Ulcerative Colitis. It's a big old bag of not fun. But it's also a hidden chronic illness, which comes with a whole bag of issues. Including if I'm honest a sense of shame about it. That because I usually function fairly well, that I'm not ill 'enough' to claim chronic illness. That if it doesn't totally disable me then I'm not impacted enough to talk about it. But of course it does, I've just adapted, and of course there's the looming possibility of what it might do to me in the future.

My diagnosis was awful. From about 9 months going back and forth to GPs (not their fault, even when they know what it is they have to 'prove' they've tried enough before referring). I was on peppermint pills for months. Because it settles a stomach. They do nothing, funny enough for autoimmune disease.

It's a terrifying illness pre-diagnosis. Mainly because your body offers up a vast array of symptoms that make no sense in isolation, or indeed together. The most terrifying of course is bleeding. Yes. You bleed when you poo (I said this was going to be honest). I don't really have to explain how this is terrifying right? Also often accompanied by excruciating pain. Let's be real about this, this set of symptoms, especially if like me, you come from a family where everyone dies of Cancer, you pretty much think that's what you're going to get. Added to this around the same time I got pulled in for a dreaded second Cervical Smear, and I remember saying 'I always knew I'd get Cancer I just thought I had a bit longer than 30 before I did.' It was a terrible time. And didn't get much better with diagnosis.

And oh the story of my diagnosis. I went to the hospital. I got poked in ways I will spare you. The one Doctor called in another (always a reassuring sign, right?) and muttered 'UC right?' before the other left. He gave me a cursory account of the condition, packed me off to X Ray and out the door.

Bad enough.

It gets worse.

The next day I'd gone to London, to see a show. I'd gone straight to lunch with a friend and didn't pick up my phone until about 3. I had a message from the Consultant that boiled down to 'You need to come back in' Well that's not a message you want right? Right. Between my Mum, his wonderful Secretary and I we spent a couple of hours chasing phone messages. He'd left no indication of what, why or how urgent. And the longer it went on the more panicked I became. Did I say all this was taking place in Paddington Station? at one point I was crying so hard a woman walked past, walked into a Pret, and brought me back some tissues.

Long story short, the last time I saw The Drowned Man I spent much of it convinced I was dying (but hey what a way to go...)

Anyway it turned out there was an issue with clarity on an X Ray. Which you know, would have been nice to know. But the nightmare didn't stop there. Which treatment to have varies wildly from Doctor to Doctor, and I was on a personal mission to avoid being put straight on Steroids. The ins and outs (pun intended) are not important. But eventually we settled on one of the milder medications, and a 'wait and see' attitude.

And so it's been five years, and that's where we still are. Things are no worse overall, though it's an illness that flares, so some days, weeks and months are worse than others. I'm on asacol, a form of mesalazine, which, well let's face it I don't know what it does but for now it works ok. Since the first year went ok I was moved to nurse led treatment, which is a dream. I go in, she remembers me, and as long as nothing much as changed we carry on as we are. I love my IBD Nurse for that attitude. When it needs interference, we'll interfere.

That's not to say it's plain sailing. Others with chronic illnesses will recongise maybe the difficulty in taking medication daily. Especially when it's for an illness you can't alway 'see' or 'feel' you think you can come off them, you don't need them. There's a sense of shame, about taking them. About being broken. So you go off, you get ill, you make things worse. Chronic illness diagnosis is a mental health impact as much as a physical one, and it's taken me five long years, and no support on that side to figure that out.

And physically too, there are times when it's, frankly horrendous.  Not only does my digestive system decide to wage war against me, in many disgusting and painful ways, but there's a multitude of other symptoms that go hand in hand with autoimmune diseases. Tiredness. I often wonder why I'm so exhausted, and it turns out to be a bout of chronic illness related fatigue. Muscle and joint aches are another one. Side effects from medication. My migraines also. It's all a wonderful disgusting mish-mash.

And then there's the fear. The fear looking forward. Yes there's the increased risk of bowel Cancer, though actually with regular screenings and *Shudder* more colonoscopies than I'd wish on my worse enemy, it's likely anything of that nature would be caught far sooner, so hey maybe I'm lucky!?

But then there's the very real likelihood of having an ileostomy or colostomy. Fun times right? (basically removal of large chunks of the bowel and having to, well have a bag to do all that stuff attached to you, depending on how it's done). I'd be lying if I said I never thought about it, or it didn't scare me. But it is what it is. And in the last year, watching Youtuber Hannah Witton go through it, a bit younger than I am, and cope, gives me hope it'll be alright- if not easy then alright- if/when it happens to me.

In fact for anyone curious about all of that, I highly recommend her videos:

And so that's it. That's my dirty little health secret. One that's harder to admit than coming out of the closet. One that doesn't affect me, yet affects my daily life constantly. As well as my mental health. But it's worth being able to talk about. To say that maybe cancelling plans last minute isn't because I'm a ditz (sometimes it is) sometimes it's because my body just doesn't want to play. And it's worth sharing for that hypothetical day in the future where it all goes really wrong. Or to help someone else out there too. 

Overload (or trying to do it all and doing it badly)

Firstly this blog isn't designed to 'glorify busy' or play that competitive game of 'I'm busier than you'. We're all busy. I get that. But I think also for my academics working outside the academy, for my arts professionals juggling a day job and the real job, it's also important to talk about when we feel overloaded. To acknowledge this happens to all of us, and because frankly having a moan sometimes does good, to get it out there.

So this is getting it out there: this week I've felt like I was at breaking point. I've got a moment, a day today where I still have everything going on, but nothing as urgently pressing as it has been. So I can slow down a bit.

A bit, means taking it slower on the work, and a couple of hours off later to go out for a coffee. The last several weeks have been 7 day a week, 8-14 hour days. Combining day job and freelance and creative, and academic and who only knows what else. And it's hard.

It's hard when people with 'real jobs' see you as a bit of a 'slacker' because you technically 'only' work part time. When in fact, you're working all the hours.

A week or so ago I sent a friend of mine a list of everything I was working on that week, and his response was 'wow I had no idea'. Right, and I'm not alone in that. I thought about listing it, but that's not the point, the point is day to day jobs, reviewing, teaching and long term creative projects all piled up at once and there's only so many hours in a day, so many days in a week.

I've been doing teaching prep for the first time in a long while. I long to get back into teaching more, but equally, jumping back in is stressful and time consuming.

It's been review season on acid or something in Cardiff lately and I've had them coming out my ears.

I started a new 'day job' and the brain power, plus the routine adjustment for that.

The long term projects; two plays and a musical in progress. A book with a looming deadline. A book chapter un-started, several book and article proposals waiting.

Oh and applying for 'real' jobs on top of that. And worrying where the money will come from in the new year when another freelance gig runs out.

And in both arts and academia there's a fear of saying no, of missing an opportunity. Of constantly having FOMO in terms of every opportunity someone else gets, you think you should have tried for, be doing. Be doing more.

And sometimes there's a personal cost to the profession too. As I found out recently. I can't pretend that having a close friend of almost 8 years end a friendship over me writing an article hasn't baffled, angered and saddened me in equal measure. And while I know perhaps its for the best we're no longer in each other's lives, there's an adjustment no longer having someone you talked to every day, not there any more. I don't think in life we give enough weight to what ending friendships means- we're all allowed to 'grieve' for end of romantic relationships, and a friendship should be no different. And we should acknowledge more, what working in these industries does to relationships of all kinds.

But I've come to learn in life you can't change someone's mind. And if my writing an article was the betrayal they think it was, no matter how hard I try I won't change their mind. In my eyes it's a great shame, and a loss. All I can do is continue to, as I've always done, conduct myself with as much respect and kindness towards others as I can as we navigate these fraught industries.

But I realise as well, I can't do that if I'm at the end of my own rope. If I'm burnt out and stressed and trying to give too much to too many things. I'll start to snap, say things I wouldn't mean, come across badly. And I don't want to be that person, even unintentionally. Self-care in that respect isn't always selfish, it allows you to be a better collaborator, a better part of the community.

Of course creativity burns us all out. And I've come to realise this year especially how much that's so.

For me right now, the creative projects and the book, they take a certain kind of energy. Two have been on relative pause for a few weeks. But the play (most recently blogged about here) is intensely personal, and I'm not ashamed of saying I find it hard sometimes. Often in fact. The vulnerability of putting it out there, the fear of being judged for not just the writing, and the challenge of being a good collaborating while guarding something so personal.

Add to that the book. Which feels equally personal, and a labour of love. And what keeps me up at night.

Here's the thing about the book externally too: it's what people seem to value the most and least. In that people want to know where it is, how it's going. But it's also the thing people frequently force me to push aside. I cried this week when the producer of my one play emailed in response to my slightly panicked 'I'm sorry I'm so behind' and said, basically 'Stop. The book comes first end of discussion.' because nobody, nobody else has seen the value of it lately. And we all have our own agendas, deadlines, things pushing and pulling us. But I feel like everything pulled me away from the one thing I should be doing. That I've fought however many years to do, and not least dreamed about my whole life.

That's not to say the plays aren't important- they are, and my single greatest fear at the moment is that someone will take them off me. But the book's important too. I've put nearly 7 years into getting to that point all told, and I can't throw that away.

So I'm going to ground a bit. Saying no a bit and hibernating a bit with the book. I'm still working hard on the plays, I'm still going to be a theatre critic. I'm still going to work and applying for jobs. But I have to take my friend's advice seriously too: the book has to come first for a bit.

Not least because trying to do it all is breaking me. This has been a tough year mental health wise, which is probably a blog for another day. But this week, I could really feel myself spiralling. From Friday night until, well now pretty much I was consumed with anxiety, I cried a lot, I haven't slept much. And it's partly exhaustion, partly the exhaustion of trying to keep too many things going, and keep everyone happy. And I've probably been doing badly at it all.

So while this blog is in part an attempt at keeping an open, honest conversation going about the strain we're all under, it's also an apology to anyone I've let down, professionally or personally. I'm trying, we're all trying, let's just try and keep kindness in the mix.

So what now? well, firstly I'm trying to just get the other side of this week, the last truly intense one of the year for me. And then focus on what's important right now- which for me is the book. And to try and come into 2019 with a slightly fresher outlook, and start again.

It's been a year, and that's the next blog. And it's broken me a bit, so I'll try and fix that. And still get the work done. But not all at once, because that's not helping anyone.

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.