OK, so this isn't really a cry for help. In fact, it's more of a
humblebrag if I'm going to be completely honest. But I quite like that title, so I'm sticking with it.
The thing is, various exciting things have happened this year which I meant to write about at the time and for various reasons I didn't. Now I'm going to have to write about them all at once which I'm not sure I can do without it sounding like I'm bragging - at worst, quite a lot, and at best, at least a little bit. Bear with me.
It started towards the end of last year, when I made a quiet resolution to start doing more with my writing. I wasn't sure what, exactly, but I knew I had to bite the bullet and start sharing my stories with other people. I think I've mentioned before, the Dave Eggers quote I keep pinned above my desk. He says:
"No-one can read the thoughts in your head. They can only read the words you put down with great love and care on the page."
Well, the same can be said for the words you put down with great love and care on the page, and then keep locked away inside your computer. ( Or, which you put down with love and sometimes a bit less care on a blog which you conveniently forget to tell anyone about, I suppose, but let's not go there.)
So in December I submitted a few stories to a few places, and then waited. And waited. And waited some more. Slowly, things began to happen.
First, the lovely Gabriella, who runs a monthly story telling afternoon called Storytails, emailed to say she liked the story I'd sent her and invited me to take part in her January event. A few weeks later I found myself sitting on a stage in a pub reading a story to a room full of strangers (and half of it to the friend who I dragged along, but who arrived late and missed the first bit).
If you think that sounds nerve-wracking and terrifying you're absolutely right. It was. I've been a member of the London Writers Cafe, a critique group come support network for writers of all types, for a while now and have read things out there - a chapter of my novel-in-progress and a couple of short stories. That was terrifying, too, the first time I did it, but it's become easier ever since. Still, there's a big difference between reading to a group of writers who have specifically gathered to discuss each others' work, and reading to an audience who are simply there to be entertained. I worried that they wouldn't like the story, or that I'd mess up the reading of it, or that people would get bored and leave half way through or (worse) heckle, or throw things, or laugh at my shoes.
But you know what? People were lovely. They listened, and they smiled, and they laughed at the right bits (and sometimes at bits I didn't think they'd laugh at), and said nice things afterwards. And then I posted a link to the podcast, and people I know listened to it and they said nice things too. It was such a fun experience that I've been back nearly every month since as an audience member, and even did a second reading at the end of March. I survived that one too.
A few months later I had another email, this time from Josh at Open Pen, a free bi-monthly(ish) fiction magazine which is distributed via independent bookshops. He said some really kind things about both of the stories I had sent in and, while neither of them ended up being chosen for publication it was incredible to think that someone had taken time to read them and offer feedback. It gave me enough faith to keep on trying, and so I made a list of competitions and submission deadlines which I steadily worked through, sometimes writing new pieces and sometimes tweaking existing ones.
Since then, some pretty amazing things have happened. The flash fiction piece I entered in an 'unexpected fairytales' competition didn't win, but the organisers decided to publish all of the entries. So yesterday, I placed an order on Amazon for a copy of the book. An actual book - with words and ink and paper and everything - which includes a story written by me. Later this year another book is due to be published which will, again, contain another story written by me. A full length short story this time, not a flash-fiction piece, and I'm actually being paid for it. Every time someone buys a copy of the book, a teeny, tiny portion of the money they pay will eventually be paid to me in royalty fees. Just like a real author. Just thinking about that blows my mind.
So, my stories are finding homes. It's something I have mixed feelings about. Mostly I am excited, pleased, thrilled, and bubbling over with pinch-yourself-to-make-sure-it's-really-true excitement. But a tiny part of me is terrified. All of a sudden my ideas are out there in the world, being seen and heard in ways I have very little control over. My stories will be read by complete strangers whose opinions I will never know. I won't get to watch their faces as they turn the page, or be on hand to answer any questions they have about the characters. I can't explain why things turned out the way they did or describe how long I spent debating the ending. It's a frightening thought.
And at the start of this post, when I said 'I submitted a few stories to a few places'.......well, that makes it sound incredibly easy. It wasn't. Each of those stories took hours - spread over weeks, sometimes months - to write. They really were put down on the page exactly as Dave Eggers describes - with great love and care. Not the first time they were put down, necessarily - usually that first attempt was just a muddle of thoughts and words which felt laboured and clumsy, but would 'do for now', and which, when I was lucky, circled vaguely around some sort of meaning. But the act of sifting through all of those words and ideas to find the ones which tell a story, and then crafting and refining them until that story has been told in the very best way you can - that requires a lot of love and care. An awful lot, in fact.
Presenting people with something you've worked that hard on - something you've gone back to time and time and again until you are absolutely sure it's the best you can make it - is difficult. Because it raises questions: W
hat if it's still not good enough? What if they hate it? What if it makes no sense? Who am I to think these words are worth sharing?
And it's not just concerns about technique or ability. You end up writing about the things you really care about. The experiences I've had, which in turn have shaped the way I see the world, are inextricably linked to the stories I tell. It's no accident that I've written about unrequited love, or being far away from the people you care about, or - for that matter - having big feet. They're all things I've experienced. And when I've gently poked fun at a characters' snobbishness, or given an underdog his day, or infused some humanity into a difficult situation, it's because I think it's needed. Being able to do this - making the world work in exactly the way you think it should, rather than in the way it sometimes does, is one of the great joys of writing. But it does means that those stories, and the way I've told them, contain pieces of me. None of them are true, but they all hold a degree of truth - abut me, and the values I hold, and the way I see the world.
So 'submitting a few stories to a few places' is more than just clicking 'send' on an email. It's saying to someone 'here's what is fundamentally important to me, told in the very best way I know how, and because I think what I have to say is valuable and important enough for them to be interested, now I'd like you to help me share it with some complete strangers." And in some cases, "Oh, and if you could pay me some money for it, that would be great as well."
It doesn't seem quite so easy now, does it?
And I've mentioned the good things which have happened this year. What I haven't told you about are the other parts. The stories which were rejected, or, even worse, completely ignored. The three months I spent writing almost nothing at all because I got scared, and lost confidence. The way I seriously questioned whether this whirlwind love-affair with writing I've been having for the last couple of years was just a fling. I don't want to labour the point - mainly because I would much rather forget all of those things, which were all horrible - but you get the idea. Writing isn't easy. Sharing what you've written isn't easy. The long waits, the rejections, the worries about what people will think - that's not easy either. But sometimes, just sometimes, things happen which make you realise it's all worth it.
And quite a few of those things have happened lately. My stories - some of them, at least - are finding homes. It's an amazing, exciting, nerve-wracking and in some ways quite sobering feeling. On the 'Writing' tab at the top of the page are some links, and I'll keep adding to this list as and when there is more news.
In the meantime, I've got some more writing to do.
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