A loose list for 2019

If I were to pick a word to describe 2018, it would be hard to go past ‘shitshow’. A year that cost me my marriage, along with several other significant relationships, and even my beloved dog, isn’t likely to attract gleaming accolades.

But I am nothing if not an optimist and last year was valuable beyond compare in terms of finally leaving behind old and dysfunctional ways of thinking and being, and finding a version of and vision for myself I am positively and all-encompassingly excited about. It was also extremely useful for observing and understanding patterns in relationships. It’s tempting to sit and blame other people for fallout (and to be fair there’s been plenty of blaming, I’m hardly claiming to be Zen-like here) but it’s a far more useful exercise to reflect on my part in it all, and consider what I could do differently in the future and conversely, what I would not do differently. The changes of 2018 were harrowing but they were all the right changes.

I also had my first novel published, an event that sadly was completely overshadowed by the disintegration of my personal life. The book is out there in the world and hopefully remains the start of something, as opposed to a catastrophic symbol of the price of creative expression and ambition. In my darker moments I think of it as just that, but those moments are becoming less frequent.

Writing goals do remain out of reach at the moment so for 2019 my to-do list is primarily cycling related. One of the advantages of divorce and shared custody is that I have a lot more free time, and what better way to spend it than on a bike? Interspersed with the odd bit of skating, swimming and surfing. In no particular order, here are the plans for this year.

1. London-Wales-London: A 400k audax (aka ‘bloody long bike ride’) that came on my radar thanks to sports psychologist Josie Perry. I’ve never ridden anything like this distance in one go but am assured it is possible, and the second I read about it, I was pretty much in. Training for LWL will involve a fair few distance events, all of which are excellent excuses for a weekend away on the cheap, which is essentially 50% of my 2019 plans in a nutshell.

2. London series BMX: I only started BMX early last summer but it’s safe to say I’m completely addicted. I managed one race last year, at the Olympic track in Stratford where I and one other ‘mature’ female were shoved in with bunch of men on cruisers (BMX bikes with larger wheels) and I tailed around last and finished about fifty metres off the pace. Regardless, it was one of the best things I’ve done. BMX is ridiculously good fun and completely immersive, builds general bike handling skills, is excellent for all-round fitness and is one of the few things that takes me completely out of my own head, largely through blind fear, and allows me to occupy my body 100%. For a deep thinker like me this is gold dust.

3. Cycling instructor training. I have wanted to do this for years but for various reasons it wasn’t possible, this year however I have taken the plunge and will be training in February. Once the course is done I will be able to work as an instructor, ideally mainly with children but also with women, especially mothers and older women who might feel they don’t have the time to cycle or it’s just ‘not for them’.

4. Mechanicals. Along with starting BMX, learning how to maintain and fix my bike properly was one of the best things I did last year. I went to drop-in sessions at London Bike Kitchen in Hackney, where the extremely tolerant and very lovely Amy provided tea, great conversation and expert coaching in how to wrestle with various metal implements. I have also taken to frequenting my local bike shop, Wallington Cycles, where I am learning a great deal in return for tea, snacks and general banter, which seems an excellent deal to me. Most recently we built a wheel with a dynamo hub, a nifty little invention that uses the power generated by cycling to run lights and even charge things via USB (the shrieking when we were able to charge a mobile phone from it was off the chart). Tinkering with my bike setup is enormously satisfying and if you want to get all deep about it, which obviously I do, building my competence has been absolutely vital to restoring something of my rather shattered self-esteem. In short, doing stuff is super empowering.

5. South Downs Way. I grew up very near the South Downs and that landscape has a strong and profoundly soothing emotional effect on me, a bittersweet combination of home, awareness of the passage of time, and righteous suffering. The latter might be all the hills. At the moment I ride there on my cyclocross bike but even my plucky, can-do attitude is failing in the face of narrow drops, no suspension and a saddle forged straight from Hell. It’s really more mountain bike sort of territory. I haven’t been able to look at my mountain bike since my marriage ended, as it was representative of one of the few things my ex husband and I did together. However the last time I rode on the South Downs I concluded that the emotional pain of dusting off my mountain bike would still be lesser to the physical pain inflicted by my cross bike, which is progress, in a weird way. I’m less bothered about riding the whole 100m end-to-end, as it’s really a landscape I like to wander around on rather than rip through, however my cousins live in Winchester providing an ideal place to collapse at the end of it, so at some point it probably needs to be done in a linear fashion, either in part or in full.

6. Hills, hills, hills. Climbing and descending fill me with a combination of excitement and fear - or nausea, as it’s generally known. In terms of using physical activity as a way to address one’s fears, hills are a prime contender for me. I also happen to really love them even if I am prone to anxiety over heights and I worry hugely about corners when descending, thanks to being a generally off-kilter, right-handed-left-footed sort of person and the lasting physical impact of two pregnancies in quick succession. A few weeks ago I dug out a list of the top 10 climbs in Surrey and nailed four in a day, which felt like a good start.

Jersey and shorts courtesy of Liv Cycling.

7. The one I can’t even write about yet. A while ago a friend contacted me suggesting a cycling challenge that filled me with incredulous terror, so obviously I said yes. We are now making plans. I’m too worried about jinxing any of it to say what it is, but it will happen in September, take around two weeks and be Lots of Fun, Hellish and generally Quite The Adventure.

8. Stand up on a surfboard. I mean, this has to happen at some point, right?

9. Observe my response to landscapes. A bit existential, this one, but I am fascinated by the concept of a personal response to a landscape or environment. After my marriage came to an end I went on several trips to parts of the UK that hold meaning for me, and observing and experiencing my emotional reactions to these places was enormously healing and really deepened my knowledge of who I am and where I came from. Fundamentally the desire to know where we’re from is steeped in our DNA. Whether I was on a bike or in water, the way I interacted with these landscapes brought me understanding I couldn’t have gained in other ways. For example Northumberland, where I was born, holds deep associations for me with the mother bond and significant formative relationships with females including my relationship with my own daughters. This year I want to continue interacting with a range of landscapes that hold significance or curiosity for me.

10. Skate like a girl. Skating is about the only thing I do that has no purpose, goal or achievement attached other than the experience itself. As a friend observed, most skaters really are ‘just about the skate’ and in the adult world it’s rare to have something you do just for the sake of it, for no greater ambition or with nothing to prove. Skating is also what the always-brilliant Lucy calls a site of mutual fulfilment - something my daughters and I can do together that feels exclusively ours and impacts on our confidence in and unity with one another. Skating is by far the most fiendishly difficult of all the sports I do, takes the most effort for the least obvious gain, and holds that fear factor that renders me unable to think or process anything other than the moment.

I want you to know how it feels when you look at me

I know you are looking at me because I can feel your eyes on my body. A quick glance in your direction confirms it. You, and your friend.

I’m glad I have sunglasses on, so I don’t have to either catch, or avoid your eye. If I catch your eye I might imply my acceptance of your scrutiny. Even take responsibility for it.

If I avoid it, I defer to your power. I make myself your subordinate, and concur with your evaluation that I am there for you.

Underneath the front of my dungaree shorts, I am wearing a cropped vest. I know you can see the sides of my body, my naked skin, from around the bottom of my ribcage to the top of my hips. I can feel the air on my stomach.

I remind myself that I don’t need to justify how I dress. I shouldn’t have to automatically point out how hot it is, how I like to feel air on my skin, how I am not wearing this with the specific intent of soliciting attention from you or anybody else, that I’m a married woman and if nothing else would deter you the fact I already 'belong' to another man might.

I shouldn’t have to.

I am acutely conscious of the motion of walking. How am I walking, exactly? What messages are you interpreting from my body as I put one foot in front of the other? Must make sure my hips don’t swing too much. Or that my buttocks aren’t too revealed by the length of my stride. Shorter steps. Must not look like I’m strutting or parading. Exhibiting myself.

You and your friend lean back, your eyes still raking over me. You’re smiling. Nodding. Talking in a low tone.

Thoughts rise before I can stop them. I should be flattered by the attention. I should take it as a compliment. I should think it’s empowering.  If I were attracted to you, I would feel totally differently about your scrutiny. I would be enlivened, excited, validated. I would be floating on air.

I’m a hypocrite.

This discomfort, the anxiety rising in me, it's all my own fault.

I should have put on baggy, knee-length shorts. I should be wearing a loose-fitting vest that conceals my femaleness. That would still be light and airy. I don’t have to flash so much flesh to stay cool. I must have secretly wanted your attention and now I have it, I have absolutely no grounds for disliking it. I’m getting exactly what I deserve.

Silly little girl. Silly little girl who argued so vociferously that women should be able to wear whatever they like without judgement or assessment.

Foolish, naïve child to think I could expose any part of my body whatsoever without it instantly becoming sexualised.

Silly little girl, to think my body belongs to me. 

Shame washes over me. Crashes over me. I reach for my four-year-old daughter’s hand, wanting the protection of her innocent presence to remind you that contrary to my appearance, I am sexually unavailable.

I turn my head to listen to my six-year-old daughter as we pass you and your friend so I don’t have to see you even behind my sunglasses, because I can already feel my cheeks are flushed with mortification.

With my other hand, I pull on my dog’s lead to urge her closer to me.

As the distance between us increases, I still feel your eyes on my departing back. I still taste my own shame, thick and rank in my throat. Silly little girl.

I tighten my grip on my daughter’s hand.

Reading, synchronicity and the shadow

Synchronicity: ‘A coincidence in time of two or more causally unrelated events which have the same or similar meaning’. Jung.

The Surface Breaks, Louise O'Neill; Mind of a Survivor, Megan Hine; Owl Sense, Miriam Darlington

I often find themes emerging in my reading, where unrelated books come together into one particular area of inquiry. I love these happy little coincidences that I see as synchronicity in action because they remind me of the profound magic of books and reading, and how truly powerful books are.

My latest bout of unwittingly thematic reading has concerned another Jungian phenomenon, that of the shadow.

The shadow is the unknown dark side of our personality and it exists just beyond our consciousness. It’s where we tend to hoard our more base and less Instagrammable urges – greed, anger, selfishness, sexual longings, power cravings. I like to think of my shadow as the world’s most debauched party taking place just where I can’t get to it, which is probably just as well, because the hangover afterwards would be off the chart.

The shadow is in my view essentially a structure created by fear of the true nature of ourselves. The parts of my nature I fear the most are my imagination, and my emotions.  And the reality of my shadow is that I do everything in my power not to come across it, which means severely tempering both of the above.

But the student must have been ready, because along came three books that opened the door to that debauched party in my psyche.

I went to an evening with bestselling author Louise O’Neill to listen to her talk about The Surface Breaks and from the second she came into the room I could feel I was in the presence of somebody unafraid of the shadow.

She’s open about her goals for writing, as she said, she doesn’t care if her characters are likeable, she cares that they are honest. They are. And how. Raw and brutal. I admire her more than I can possibly express for her comfort with discomfort, or rather her willingness to endure discomfort.

And when I read The Surface Breaks, which I did in one sitting like a woman possessed, what stayed with me afterwards was how incredibly uncomfortable it was. The main character is in permanent discomfort at best, excruciating pain at worst.

The book, a feminist re-imagining of The Little Mermaid, is beautiful, and powerful, and thoughtful, and brave, but it’s also really uncomfortable. The antithesis of my happily-ever-afters with their quaint teashops, cosy nights in front of a roaring fire with hot chocolate, and other simple pleasures.

Life, after all, involves both.

O’Neill inspired me to think about my own shadow in my writing, and reminded me that writing is a journey. It’s a lifetime’s work to get to know oneself, especially when we change all the time, and I see all creative endeavour as a product of deep self-knowledge that allows the truest expression.

If we don’t explore the whole – the bad side, the shadow, the darkness – how can we express the real?

After The Surface Breaks I picked up Mind of a Survivor by Megan Hine, which has been on my TBR for ages and of which I was reminded after listening to The Wild Show.

This is nothing like gritty fantasy-based YA. This is nonfiction, part memoir and part guide, a deep look at the mindset of survival and examples of that mindset in practice. 

And while some of the incidents Hine describes seem carved from fantasy – a night in the middle of the Nairobi desert warding off a pride of hungry lions armed with nothing but a small campfire, for example – this book is no less real. No less aggressive in its shattering of some pretty little myths we’ve long carried around with us.

Hine reminds us that survival can be as much about self-preservation and caution as it is about heroism and courage. And she also reminds us that the wild is neither nurturing and protective, nor hostile and unforgiving, but utterly indifferent. It does not care if we live or die.

I think that indifference, that truly bleak knowledge that somebody or something just does not care, is worse even than the darkest parts of the shadow. It’s the least human characteristic of all. Even a desire to cause harm, is generally rooted in a universally shared human experience like pain or fear. Simply not caring, is non-human to a terrifying degree.

Much of our relationship with nature relies upon us humanising it, controlling it and cutifying it to better cope with this vast indifference. I thought of this often as I read Owl Sense by Miriam Darlington, one of the most psychologically aware pieces of nature writing I’ve ever had the pleasure to read.

Her study of the native owl species of Europe takes her on a journey of inner and outer knowledge and progress and Owl Sense is as much a personal development book as it is a study of nature and wildlife, in my view.

She talks often about how we both mystify owls, using them to inform legends, and attempt to bring them under our control by turning them into cute must-have fashion accessories. She talks about her discomfort with the growing pile of owl memorabilia she accumulates during her quest, the piles of knick-knacks, bags, cushions and other accessories with cute owl prints and motifs.

Through nature, she draws attention to human nature. How fragile our perceptions can be, how easy it is to ride roughshod over the true nature of a thing in our attempt to reduce it to something within our understanding and ultimately, control.

In her tale of the Exeter eagle owl, she demonstrates how even the most awe-inspiring predator and creature of legend can be reduced to a pathetic joke if it exists out of time, and out of place.

I think we can do similar for the shadow. Not mock it or dismiss it like Darlington’s poor eagle owl, but simply accept it. Acceptance of a thing removes its power over us.

Funny, how we try so hard to humanise nature to remove its power, projecting onto the great outdoors what we’re afraid to apply to the microfacets of our own selves.

Stop everything! You can now pre-order my novel!

I’m UTTERLY ECSTATIC to let you know that Summer at Hollyhock House will be published on Thursday August 2 2018.

And as if that weren’t enough, it’s now available for pre-order. 

Even more excitingly, if you think you can handle any more excitement (not sure I can tbh) at the time of writing it was only 99p so please HOTFOOT IT OVER TO AMAZON RIGHT NOW to snap it up at this most bargainous of bargain prices.

But what’s it all about? I’m so glad you asked. Here’s the blurb, just for you.

An uplifting romantic comedy from a new voice in women’s fiction! Perfect for fans of Trisha Ashley, Debbie Johnson, Jenny Colgan and Holly Martin.

 Wow, am I in esteemed company or what? I adore all those authors from the bottom of my romantic little heart and to be compared with any, let alone all, of them, is just beyond flattering. What do you mean you didn’t ask for a running commentary? Point taken. On with the blurb.

One long summer changed Faith forever….

 Faith Coombes should have been over the moon when her long-term boyfriend proposed to her. But instead, she broke up with him. Rob was safe, reliable, nice and…boring. Nothing like the only person who had ever broken her heart…

 Unable to afford the rent on another flat and desperate for a new start, Faith takes the plunge and moves back to the village she grew up in, returning to the house that holds so many memories for her.

 Hollyhock House, the family home of her best friend Minel, also belongs to the boy who meant so much to her all those years ago.

 As Faith falls back in love with the sprawling surroundings at Hollyhocks she also finds herself falling all over again for the only person who has truly hurt her.

 Can Faith come to terms with her past? Did she make the wrong decision in breaking up with Rob?

 Or does her heart really lie at Hollyhock House?

 Summer at Hollyhock House is a charming romantic comedy full of lost loves, missed opportunities and second chances. This summer read, perfect for the holidays, will have you laughing out loud in parts, close to tears in others, and above all, championing Faith as she searches for what is most important to her.

So there it is, my debut novel, summarised in 219 words. I can’t tell you how truly, madly, deeply in love with this book I am. I honestly poured my heart and soul into it, and I am so beyond grateful to now be able to share it with you.

How to be a writer: Write the book you love

I saw one of those posts on Twitter a while back. It was two pictures, the first captioned ‘drafting my debut novel’ was of a beautifully iced and decorated cake, gleaming white and sparkling with edible glitz, resplendent in its sweet perfection.

The second was captioned  ‘drafting my second novel’ and depicted a cake-shaped inferno.

I was experiencing the very same phenomenon at that precise moment. My second novel was rapidly turning into my own version of the difficult second album.

Somehow I was struggling more than ever to connect with the work, to really lose myself in the story I was trying to tell. The plot and characters felt vague and undefined, and I wrote myself round in circles, always coming back to the same point and deciding to begin again with a different premise, a slightly different treatment, hoping this time it would stick.

It did not.

Somewhere along the line I’d stopped writing the best book I could. The task at hand became more effort than enjoyment and this is always a very bad sign.

If I don’t enjoy and immerse myself writing a book I can hardly expect anybody else to enjoy and immerse themselves reading it.

I know that my creativity is fuelled by me doing other things, by periods of me not actively working on a novel. I know that scheduling does not work for me. But I was increasingly forcing myself to sit down with my laptop and write to a schedule.

And so I asked myself, if I know what I need to do to create, when did I stop doing it?

I stopped the exact moment I began to pressure myself that this book ‘had to be’. It had to be written as quickly as possible so I had a follow-up in the bag once Summer At Hollyhock House was published! It had to be every bit as enchanting and magical to me as that first novel, but better! It had to be finished as soon as possible so I could begin to churn out books and establish an income stream and eventually, a career! It had to be created and put out in the world before everybody read my debut then promptly went away and forgot all about me….

In amongst all that pressure I was putting on myself, and on this poor book which is still yet to be brought into the world, I had totally forgotten the reasons why I write in the first place.

I don’t write for money, or fame, or to please anybody or so my mum and dad will be proud of me or so I can boast on social.

I write because I love and need to write. I tell stories because storytelling is a fundamental part of the human condition and it’s one that’s particularly pronounced within me. I write because the words form in my brain and press physically against the inside of my skull until I release them via the channels of my arms and hands.

I write because I love and need it, and therefore I only want to write books that I love and need to write.

It really is as simple as that.

So write the book that you love. Write the book you wish somebody else had written, so that you could read it. That’s the book you were born to write. That’s the book you need to write.

Not the book that ‘is bound to sell’ or ‘the market is crying out for’ or  ‘is just like (famous author’s) book that sold really well’ or ‘that will establish me as….’ All of these are great to have, but they’re unreliable. The market will shift and change, demands rise and fall, trends come and go, fashions change like the seasons and pass by like the wind.

By the time you’re halfway through the book that’s ‘totally right for the market’, the market will have moved on.

Write the book that is pressing insistently into the inside of your skull. Write it because you can’t not.  Trust that the process will be enough, that the journey will be reward, and that if it’s meant to be, the market will make itself known when the time comes.

If you've enjoyed this post, I'd love you to sign up to my newsletter to be the first to get exciting book news, writing tips and advice, outdoorsy whimsical musings, and the odd exclusive offer or freebie! Just click here to sign up. 

Why I set my novel in summer

As you’ve probably guessed from the title, Summer At Hollyhock House is set in summer. I started writing it in earnest about this time last year, as gunmetal-grey skies rolled over bleak, spindly silhouettes of bare trees and the only sign of colour and warmer days to come was the crocuses and narcissi poking their cheery little heads through the relentless gloom. Maybe I was just craving some warmth and life and colour but it wasn’t so much the imagery of summer I had in mind when I was writing, as the feeling.

I grew up in a small village in rural Sussex that does summer very well. The village green, its crowning glory, is always packed in the warmer months, surrounded by majestic horse chestnut trees and playing host to cricket, football, rowdy mobs of children and families enjoying picnics and games of rounders. A walk around the outer rural lanes is like a stroll through the Chelsea Flower Show, magnificent gardens heavy with high-summer blooms sending sweet, heady scent wafting into the air. It’s always lively and busy, there’s always something going on, everybody’s out and about and full of chatter and activity and the odd inevitable complaint about how hot it is.

It’s impossible not to feel happy on these heady summer days, happy and hopeful and like you belong. That’s one of the feelings I was looking to capture with my novel, the sense of belonging.

But when I really think about summer, and what it means to me, and what it was I wanted the book to capture and reflect, I think about the mornings.

Now first things first. I am not a morning person. I drag myself protesting out of bed every. Single. Day without fail and while yes it’s easier in summer when there’s soft light pouring in through the windows and the air is balmy, I’d probably still rather just roll over and go back to sleep. I’ve always been this way, since I was a young child my mother had to shake me complaining out of bed every morning. In fact there was only one thing that could stir me into action voluntarily, and that was if I was going out to ride horses.

Horsey people start their days early, some yards get cracking at 6am. I worked for several such yards in my formative years and the prospect of a day of the irresistible combination of manual labour, the company of animals and time outdoors was enough to boot me out of bed and get me moving. Up, get dressed, eat breakfast half-asleep then out of the door and onto my bike. Even then I’d be half wishing I was still in bed.

Outside the sun would already have risen in the sky and the air would be fresh, not yet warmed up after the cool night. The dawn chorus would be in full swing and the village green would be basking in the early morning rays. On these mornings, there was rarely another soul to be seen, the odd solitary dog-walker maybe, making the most of the peace and quiet before the serious business of the day began. But usually I was alone. Just me and my bike and wherever it was I had to be. Whizzing past those gardens as their glorious displays began to unfurl themselves, ready for another day of basking in the sun. There were hardly any cars on the roads at such an early hour. At dawn the village didn’t belong to people. It was its own world, private, secretive and busy with the movement of insects and birds and foxes returning home after a night of pillaging, but devoid of human activity.

Despite the aloneness I never felt lonely. I felt infused and imbibed with the magic that surrounded me and it really was magic, not hocus-pocus but true and deep earthy magic. The dew on the grass, the fat, pale droplets gleaming irrediscent on the petals of roses. My favourites were the peachy-yellow ones that turned pink at the edges. I wondered if fairies drank that dew from the petals every morning, before the world awoke. If the sun was already heating up, mist would rise from fields behind thick hedges over which I could just see, from my vantage point on my two-wheeled steed. Rabbits often frolicked in the morning rays, even the odd deer, enchanting looking creatures of fable who would be alerted by the noise of my tyres on the road and raise their heads, startled, ready to run lest I pose a threat.

No, not lonely, I’ve always enjoyed solitude since I was very young, and the whimsical thoughts in my head seemed too uncool to consider voicing out loud. But it did often occur to me how much I would have liked to share this with somebody or something. If instead of the bike, I was riding along on my own pony, a chestnut Arab with a gleaming coat and pluming tail, skittering and darting at the shadows cast onto the road. Or a dog, trotting along faithfully at my heels, occasionally breaking away to bounce into one of the fields and pursue the unfortunate rabbits.

And then when I got older I would sometimes wonder what it would be like if that person was with me. That person, the one who saw right into my fanciful heart and didn’t scorn my notion that the world of the morning was a bridge between two realities, the one of people, and the one that lies beyond most of us. The world of my favourite childhood authors, where trees have spirits and animals can talk and there is magic and mystery beyond the human eye, visible only to those who really want to see it.

Sometimes, I wondered if I let my eyes lose focus and let the landscape around me meld into a blurry mass, radiant with colour and texture and scent, I would be able to see it. And then if I turned my head I would find beside me that person, they would have materialised next to me, and they would be able to see it, because they could see me too.

Can't find the time to write? Try this one tip.

Yesterday a lovely woman in an equally lovely Facebook group I frequent posted about her creative block. She's desperate to find the time to write, but as a mother of two children under five, she has no idea how to fit it in.

Sound familiar? Yep, to me too. About two years ago I went on something of an epic quest to find the time to write. I read books, blogs, features and articles all devoted to helping writers carve out the time to dedicate to their craft. All the advice was helpful, but none of it actually helped me achieve what I was looking for. As the mother of two children under five at the time, both at home full-time, I literally could not find the time to write.

I think this is a really common problem. You don't have to be a mother to struggle to find the time - you could have a busy job, or ageing parents in need of constant care. I don't think many of us are sitting on great swathes of free time, ready and waiting for us to devote ourselves to our creative work.

Last year, something changed. I did find the time to write - or more accurately I made the time to write. Nothing in my circumstances changed, however. My children got a bit older, but they were still at home full-time, Noel was still at work from 7.30am to 7.30pm five days a week.

What changed was this one little tip I'm going to share with you now, and I promise you if you follow it through fully, it will change your situation too. 

I took my writing seriously.

That's all. 

Truly all that needs to change is how you view your writing. Once you stop seeing it as something you'd like to do one day when you have time, and start viewing it as an important part of your day to day life NOW, the rest will follow. 

I learned this the hard way. If you're thinking now that I sat down and made a schedule and set myself a word-count a day and allocated the time accordingly, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed. I did take my writing seriously but not in a positive, thought-through, structured way.

What actually happened was I became so compelled by the reflection I'd been doing, and the story that was forming in my head (you can read more about that process here) that I turned my writing into a kind of guilty secret. An addiction, almost. I wrote frantically and furtively whenever I could and I felt racked with guilt the entire time. I write for a living, but I was at the time a full-time home educating mother of two children five and under. Any time outside the children 'should' have been devoted to housework, family time, my marriage, and any paid work I could round up to help keep the coffers at a reasonable level.

I didn't have a book deal to justify the output of time and energy. I wrote because at the time I felt I had to, this story was literally pouring out of me, pressing physically against the sides of my skull, and if I didn't get it out my head would explode. I told myself I had no choice. I had to follow this compulsion, and so I did. But I did it whilst filled with shame and guilt and a nagging feeling that I was being selfish, unfair on my family, and neglecting my duties.

Nonetheless, it worked. I took my writing seriously. I prioritised it. I made it essential, and in doing so I found the time, and the belief, to see it through.

What I learned from this was mind-altering. I learned that:

I need to write. This is a fact and it's irrefutable. I can't bury my creative urges any longer.

Writing is a priority. It's important, it's part of who I am and it demands to be respected. If I don't respect it thoughtfully and positively, I will do so negatively and through crippling shame and self-doubt. But I will do it anyway.

If I view my writing as essential, as a part of the whole that makes up who I am, I can view it differently. I can make the time, set aside the time and find the time. I can justify the odd CBeebies marathon when I absolutely have to nail a scene and the children are at a loose end. I can negotiate with Noel time at the weekends to write in a more thoughtful and respectful way, making allowances for everybody's needs. I can sacrifice Netflix, get up early, stay up late as and when I need to, because the writing takes priority. It doesn't feel like a sacrifice, or a chore. It feels essential.

If I view my need to write as shameful, selfish, indulgent or 'not important', I will write anyway, but I will do so through a cloud of negativity. I will not feel proud of what I achieve. I will not have the faith in it to see it through to the end. I will sabotage and disappoint myself to prove my worldview that writing is NOT a priority, it's a nice-to-have.

I should not need to justify my writing, but as I do, here's how I see it. It's important for my children to see me doing my creative work and understand it's important to me. It helps them view me as a rounded human being, not just Mummy, and it helps them understand their own creative callings are important, positive and to be respected.

I can - and do - make money from writing. But this is not the goal. I didn't write my novel to get published and make heaps of cash. Now it is being published, heaps of cash would be lovely, thanks. But that's not what I had in mind when I wrote. I wrote it purely and solely because I wanted to. The process was the reward. Finishing it was the goal. Everything else comes afterwards, in its rightful place.

And so now I do prioritise my writing. I make the time. I take it seriously. I do it positively. I haven't quite got to the stage of planning daily word-counts yet - I don't think I'll ever work this way. But I do make time in my days, and in my weeks, to write. I treat it as important and allow it the time and space it deserves. 

To prioritise your own writing, try the following:

Think about why you write. Do you want to make money? If so, that's fine, but if that's the only goal then you will struggle to prioritise your writing until you have a book deal, and you won't get one of those until you write. There's an obvious cycle of self-defeat in there. So think why else you want to write. What do you want to say? How do you want to feel? What creative expression of yourself do you want to put out in the world? How would the process feel? How would a creative outlet improve other aspects of your life, and how you feel about yourself? Those are your initial motivators. The rest will come later.

Think about why you don't write. I know, you don't have time. The bills need to be paid, the kids need to be looked after, the house won't keep itself tidy, dinner won't cook itself, and your boss emails you at 4.30am on a Sunday morning expecting an instant response. What's actually happening here is you are prioritising everything else in your life, namely your servitude to others, over your creative calling. How can you take back some of that time for yourself? Do you need to cook from scratch every night? Do you have to entertain and play with your children 24/7 or could they be persuaded or assisted to entertain themselves from time to time? Would your partner, a friend, a family member, help out? Can the hoovering wait another night?

Look for your snatches of time. The ten minutes you spend waiting for the kids to be ready to head out. The time you spend scrolling while you wait for dinner to be ready, or for the kids to wake up. If your laptop (or notebook) is set up, within reach and turned on, you can reach for it the second you have a second. Just don't forget to save as you go.

Look for your chunks of time. Could you swap the sofa with your partner and Netflix for the laptop once or twice a week? Can you cancel any social engagements you aren't massively looking forward to, stay home and write instead? Could you set an alarm half an hour earlier and get up and try writing in the mornings? You might have to try a few things before you find what works for you. But if you don't try at all, you'll never know.

Think about how you'd do it if you were being paid. If you had a book deal, or an hourly rate, or a brand interested in working with you, you'd find the time. How?

Then go find that time anyway.

I'd love to know how you get on, and how you find the time to write.

Ways to overcome creative block

If you're in any way creative you'll be familiar with block. It's the moment when you sit staring at a blank screen, unable to type a single word. When you look at the scene in front of you and the image on your camera and the difference between the two feels insurmountable, and the disappointment washes over you.

It's that voice whispering in your head 'what are you doing? You're not a writer/photographer/artist/maker and you never will be. Who do you think you are, nurturing your grand ambitions? You'll never do it. Just do us all a favour and stop trying.'

It could be a lack of inspiration, or it could be that the inspiration is clearly formed in your head, you have a vision of how you want your creation to look, how you want it to make people feel - and the reality is you have blankness. A nothing. An empty space. 

For me, and I suspect for many of us, there is nothing more intimidating than empty space. 

There are entire books and courses devoted to overcoming block and I thoroughly recommend checking them out, and finding what works for you. But at the end of the day it's unlikely anybody else can solve the conundrum for you. Nobody can unblock you. You have to eventually work out how to do it yourself. It can be with the help of others, but the final push always has to come from you.

Here are some ways I overcome block. I'd love to hear your strategies so please do leave your insights in the comments below.

1. Go for a walk. Yes, that old cliche, but for me it truly works on two levels. The regular experience of being in nature fuels my creativity, in ways I don't fully understand yet. Truthfully I don't know why it works, I just know that it does. I take in much of what I see on an unconscious level and store it somewhere in my mind, waiting for it to become relevant. A walk is also hugely helpful for smaller blocks - struggling with plotholes, connecting scenes or even just working out what relevance that isolated chapter I wrote has, and where it fit into the overall story. The physical act of walking and the immersion in nature occupies the body and the senses and leaves the mind free to find the answers.

2. Talk to somebody. And choose them carefully. Last year I met an amazing woman, the very wonderful Sas Petherick, at Sisterhood and something about her really stuck with me. When I was wrestling with a block and all my usual strategies had failed, her presence crept into my head and I reached out to her.  She didn't tell me how to overcome the block, because that's not something somebody else can do. But she helped me see how I could overcome it myself. Her warmth and wisdom and aura of complete belief in me was the real gift, this is what helped to thaw out whatever icy armour I had constructed around myself. I highly recommend checking out Sas's work - her fantastic podcast Courage and Spice is a great place to start.

3. Sit with the feelings. When block hits often what I am truly afraid of is exposing parts of myself, because creativity is such an expression of self. Let yourself feel the shame and doubt and mortification and fear, let yourself feel whatever it is you have to feel without distraction. For me there can be guilt too, about devoting so much time and energy to a creative endeavour for which there is no guarantee of any monetary return. I 'could' have spent all that time doing paid work, or tidying my house - no sorry, that one isn't going to fly - but the point is, I 'could' have been doing something more worthwhile. But then what's more worthwhile than your creative work? 

4. Search for inspiration. Look at the work of others in your field and allow yourself to reflect on what you admire about them. Don't try and copy them - trying to do somebody else's work will never produce anything as valuable as the work you alone are meant to do. But look to them for inspiration and remind yourself that others have walked this path, and you can too. Chances are that person you are so admiring suffers from block too. The only difference between you and them is they found a way to overcome it. 

5. Switch off and sleep. Don't consciously continue to ponder the dilemma but don't push it away either if it continues to prey on your mind. Watch your thoughts and let them float up and away. The ones you need will always stick around. Don't leap out of bed to scribble down flashes of inspiration - trust that what you need, will still be there in the morning.

6. Alter your expectations. While you should never compromise your creativity and devalue your work 'to get it done', accept that all work is essentially work in progress and will never be perfect. There are times when you will have to make creative decisions that will cause you a great deal more work than you initially anticipated and if your gut tells you this is what has to be done, you've just got to suck it up and do it. But other times, anything is better than nothing. I struggled massively with writing a synopsis for my novel. I was putting unbearable pressure on that short document. It had to sum up the plot, introduce the characters, reflect the style and setting of the novel, encapsulate my personality, and be written in the tone and feel of the novel. In 500 words. And it was vital I got it 100% perfect because if nobody read my manuscript because the synopsis didn't sell it in the right way, that was me screwed. Yeah, not going to happen. So I wrote a basic plot summary and sent it off before I could question myself. It did not reflect my unique style and introduce every character and showcase the setting and it was not written in the tone and feel of the novel. It was, however, 500 words of plot summary. That, I hoped, would be enough. It was. 

7. Love the pain. Once shouted at me by a seriously fierce personal trainer who wanted me to hold a squat position plus two 8kg kettlebells for two minutes. LOVE THE PAIN, CATHY! Yeah my butt did NOT love the pain. But I did it anyway and my butt is off the scale KAPOW/vaguely toned. Sometimes things are going to hurt but there's beauty in all human emotion, pain included. If you're creative this pretty much comes as standard. Fierce weeping is part of the process whether that's tears of relief, joy, sadness or just downright frustration. Love it. Embrace it. It won't last forever. And if you are feeling the pain it's a sign that you're in touch with your true self, and that's where creativity comes from. Yourself. 

How I wrote a novel

This year I achieved a lifelong ambition. I wrote a novel.

I've wanted to write a novel since I was about six years old. I have multiple unfinished drafts saved on this computer, on previous computers, on computers lost to time, on computers that probably predate time (BBC Micro, anybody?). Until this year, I never managed to finish one.

I would begin and I would know how it ended. I could never do the middle bit, connecting the dots, getting the characters from A to B. Slowly my interest and motivation would slip away, or I would start afresh, try again only to find the same cycle repeating itself.

This year, that changed. I wrote an entire novel from start to finish, sent it to my agent, she got me a book deal and I will be a published novelist in 2018. The whole process was breathtakingly quick. I began in January. I had a deal by July.

In fact the whole process was breathtaking, full stop. It was fascinating. If you search online for 'how to write a novel' you'll come across many well-thought out blogs and articles and tips and exercises all designed to help. Most of them involve things like, planning and writing out the story structure, getting the plot outline completed, developing your characters, going through various creative exercises on paper (if your character went out for lunch, what would they order?) and other very sensible and helpful tips. It's all highly organised and linear. 

I did none of the above. I have no Instagrammable notebooks filled with spider diagrams, scribbled notes and sketches. The process of writing my novel was as far removed from a planned and organised creative exercise as it's possible to be. It was completely unlinear - it was cyclical. Here's how it all worked, and what I learned.

1. I got depressed. I began the year in a pretty bad place in terms of my self-image and general mood, and it got worse as I approached my 36th birthday. I felt impossibly low, stuck, drained, self-defeating and had no idea how to get myself out of it. On a surface level I continued 'as normal' but inside me everything was on hold. I had literally nothing inside me other than empty space and lack. 

2. I got reflective. Through a series of events and happenings my personal history became pressing in my mind and I became fixated upon my teenage years. I listened to music from the era on loop, remembered the people I knew, the places I went and the emotions I felt, and I played it all through as frequently as I played The Prodigy and Utah Saints. At first I wondered if I was experiencing a period of mourning, having entered my late mid-thirties, for times long gone and emotions and experiences I would and could never repeat. But then the internal processes began to change - again - and I started to wonder what might have happened if I'd made different choices or decisions, if I'd avoided certain people or become close to others - I began to play with my own history.

3. I got inspired. I began to write a story that was in no way based upon my own personal life or experience, but was definitely informed and inspired by the process I'd been through above. I have had this happen before - a creative surge, out comes between 15,000 and 40,000 words, and then it stops. I ride the wave and then lose it and have no way of getting it back. I assumed this would be the case, and I wrote anyway. 

4. I dug in. Parts of the book were excruciating to write, for reasons that would make no sense to anybody but me. Although not autobiographical this book was a creation of mine, something generated and put into the world by me alone. This meant exposing the parts of myself about which I feel most vulnerable. At times I literally could not type the words, I knew what I had to write and I could feel the words in my head, waiting to flow down my arms and onto the page, and I could feel resistance and blockage along with shame and humiliation. I could sit for hours staring at the screen, waiting to be ready, waiting for the excruciating feelings to pass. I believed enough in the outcome to override the fear, and so eventually, I wrote what I had to write. This was the first time I had found the courage to write what I needed to write and not duck out.

5. I couldn't let go. When the first roadblock happened, the first indication that this was not going to work, I was running out of steam and losing the creative flow, I expected I would just stop. I didn't. I kept going. I started again, a different iteration of the same story. I did this several times. I wrote chapters that kept to a chronological order and chapters that didn't fit anywhere but I felt that they would do at some point, and I felt I was writing them for a reason, so I did.

6. I went to the other side. I put all other aspects of my life on hold (as far as this is possible) and wrote. I wrote from the second I woke up until I was needed elsewhere, and until the second I went to bed, usually at about 1 or 2am. I was bursting with energy. I didn't need much sleep, I had to force myself to remember to eat, I lost a ton of weight and I felt a true vibrance within me, a genuine connection to the flow of creativity, that I hadn't ever really allowed myself to experience before. I'd skirted around it, had moments of inspiration, days here and there when the words wouldn't stop coming, but I never let myself really lean into it. This time I went all the way. I dived in and let it swallow me whole.

7. I began to trust the process. I saw that I went through cycles of intense creativity and productivity, and that these would slowly tail off and I would need to rest, get a few early nights, stop trying to force it and wait for the inspiration to return, trusting that it would - and it did. Every time. I wrote whatever I felt I had to write in that moment to keep the flow going. I wrote entire vehicles and characters into the story that I would later remove, but I wrote them anyway because I felt I had to at the time. I didn't really know why, nor did I question it. I wrote whatever my brain, or my heart, told me to write. I surrendered.

8. I abandoned all goals other than finishing. It became clear to me that if I kept trusting the process - trusting myself - I was going to finish this book. I put all thoughts of publication out of my mind, stopped worrying about whether my agent would want to read it and whether she would consider it worthy of submission. I didn't have to encourage myself or 'fake it til I made it'. I genuinely wanted to finish the book, to finish the book. That was the only goal. I retained of course an inkling that this could become something big for me if I did finish it and if my agent liked it and if somebody picked it up - but at this stage that was too many 'ifs' and all were out of my control. The only thing in my control was whether or not I would finish the book, so that became the goal, and that's what I did.

9. Once I'd finished, I started at the beginning all over again. I read and re-read and re-read and made change after change. Some small, some big - some so big they entailed almost a complete re-writing of vast parts of the book. I continued to trust the process. If my instincts told me something had to go, it went. If my heart said 'this isn't working,' I stopped trying to make it work. When I saw I needed to make changes that would mean yet more hours upon hours of writing and rewriting and would be difficult and an effort, I made every single one anyway. I trusted that it would all make sense in the end, and I kept going. I also trusted that I would know when I was done, when it was ready, when it was time to stop tinkering and go on to the next stage. 

10. I sent it to my agent. This was a HUGE step. This was the start of me stating my intention to put my work out there in the world. I was terrified and the 'what ifs' were off the scale. I've been working with my agent Isy since 2009, but only on non-fiction. This was something entirely new and different. We hadn't worked together since The Girl's Guide to Life on Two Wheels was published in 2013 - this felt as scary as starting from scratch, but with the added fear of losing the respect of somebody I value. What if she came back saying 'no this is just not going to work, please stick to non-fic in future'? I believed in the book 100% and I felt magic in it. If she didn't get it and feel it too, would that invalidate everything I'd worked towards?

11. She loved it and asked me to prepare it for submission. I froze up temporarily and struggled to rework certain parts based on her feedback. Then I struggled to create a synopsis - I think I spent about three weeks staring at a blank screen, completely unable to even start. The prospect of falling at the final hurdle loomed large in my mind. I tried various strategies, and they all failed. I wanted my synopsis to be PERFECT. What I finally sent was not perfect. It would do. That was all I was capable of, and it would do.

12. Feedback took a while to come in and the first couple were rejections, but still positive and encouraging. Then the offer came in and I basically didn't tell anybody other than Noel and my mother and one close friend. I had thought I would be screaming it from the rooftops. Instead I said nothing. Eventually I put something on Instagram. I've struggled to refer to it much since. Too many what-ifs again. What if they change their minds? What if they're not happy with the final edit? What if it doesn't happen, after all? What if it's a spectacular failure and everybody laughs at me and I get review after review saying 'this is shit'? WHAT IF?

The process is ongoing, in a cyclical way. At the moment the second edit is with my publishers, and soon there will be more editing, refining, tinkering, titles, cover designs and all the exciting stuff. But all cycles come back to the beginning and right now that's where I am - almost back at the beginning, one cycle has ended and I'm waiting for the next one to start.

Throughout this process there have been standout moments. Finishing, getting good feedback from my agent, getting a deal - they were all huge. But the real standout moment happened much earlier. It happened after those awkward, difficult times when I sat staring at a blank screen knowing what I had to write and feeling unable to write it, waiting to be ready to break through the block, refusing to shut down my computer and let the novel slip away as all its predecessors have done, because I couldn't find the courage to do what I had to do.

The standout moment was when I realised I was going to finish. That I was not going to stop and I was going to do whatever it took to finish the book. Not in a half-assed 'well I'll just put up with some parts that don't really work for me just to get it done', but finish truly, with the knowledge deep inside me that I'd done the absolute best I could. I hadn't shirked or taken the easy way out.

That was when I realised that the hard part - the middle bit, the connecting chapters, keeping the story going, retaining the flow - wasn't hard at all. In fact it was the easiest part of all. 

That was the moment I chose to trust the process, while realising that the process isn't really a 'process' at all.

The process is me. When I chose to trust the process I chose to trust myself. I chose to believe in myself. That was the moment it all changed. That was the magic. 

All change

Life with two young children is, for me, characterised by extended periods of intense predictability, followed by rapid change.

The transition from winter to spring is something of a metaphor for this state of being. By the time February rolls it feels hard to believe that in a few short months the mornings will be light, the days mild and pleasant, and the garden, woods, allotments and fields will have sprung from bleak and bare to abundant, joyful life. 

It almost seems impossible to believe that such a dramatic change can happen, in so short a time. Even today as I planted a peony in the garden part of me was wondering, will this actually grow? Will this cherry tree ever blossom and bear fruit? How can life spring from what looks like dead wood? Will I ever get rid of this sinusitis - a condition I have very fortunately never had before and am deeply not enjoying, not least its longevity.

It's the same with my children. At times it feels life has been and will remain the same forever. This is partly very comforting as I know when my children are older I will miss these days, this time when they are so very innocent and so very very wanting of me. One day I will be chasing them around asking 'do you want to watch a movie with me?' and they'll be all 'oh go away Mum, we've got ACTUAL LIVES y'know' and I don't want to look back and wish that I'd watched Nemo or Jungle Book or bloody Frozen with them a bit more.

I don't ever want to wish I'd cuddled them more, spent more time with them, given them more attention, been kinder, been more available. loved them more.

I don't think on my deathbed I will look back and think 'I wish I'd spent more time working and tidying my house'.

But it's partly frustrating because of course my own self prickles and pushes at the back of my mind. Hello, she needles. I'm here too. I want to write, run, ride, sit, drink tea, do yoga with you - I want some time and attention. I want some space. And a good night's sleep wouldn't go amiss either.

And at those times I feel I am rather trapped here at home with my young children, with ideas and motivation buzzing around my head with nowhere to go. Last night I had a dream that felt significant and important and as I woke up I knew I should record it before I lost it. But instantly I was ambushed by two wriggling bodies, yelling their adorable infectious excitement that 'Mummy's awake!' and by the time I was able to get to a pen and a piece of paper the details had faded.

I wrote down what I could but I know there are huge chunks missing. This happens frequently, with dreams and with concrete ideas. 

I'd say about 5% of what I conjure up in my imagination makes it into actual form or being.

Other times changes hammer in hard and fast, one after another, like dominoes falling. When this happens part of me freezes a little with fear, because often these changes are a step into the unknown.

And each and every one brings with them a bit of fear. What if it doesn't work out?

What if it - what if I fail?

What if I drop this baby lamb?

What if Violet hates the preschool she will start attending for two short morning sessions a week? What if she can't cope without me - not realistic, not rational, but no less a fear that lurks in the back of my head.

On top of, am I being selfish? Sending her now, at just two and a half, instead of waiting for her to turn three? Is it for her benefit or for mine? And if it is really for my benefit, would that be so bad?

What if I don't get the volunteering opportunity I have my heart so set on? So very, very set on - I am beyond excited about the possibility of spending one morning a week at a local wildlife shelter. To do this I need to put myself first, I will need to organise getting Cherry and Violet dropped off at their respective preschools and I will need some help for one morning a week in the school holidays. None of this is impossible or even that difficult, but it will take some planning and it's not like I can justify it to myself with 'but I'm getting paid!'

This is something I want to do purely, entirely and solely for my own self and nothing and nobody else. 

What if I don't manage to set up a nature play group? What if I'm just not the right 'sort' of person? What if I do it and nobody comes?

What if I can't cope with the allotment we are taking on? 

What if Cherry hates school in September and transitions badly?

What if?

I find that however longed-for, change is so much scarier than the status quo. Unless it's a change like Violet suddenly and unexpectedly sleeping through the night like she did this weekend. That kind of change I am ALL OVER and she can make that a permanent fixture ANY TIME SHE LIKES.

Maybe I find it so scary because it often comes all at once. Or maybe it's just because I'm a mother and a human, and worrying about stuff is what we human mothers tend to do. I need to get all the fear and worry out of my system then I can be all 'I'm a leaf on the wind, watch me soar.'