Creating habits

Writing makes me feel good. It’s that simple.

When I’m immersed in a world of words and phrases, I’m in my happy place.  I feel elated when I can express how I feel, articulate an idea, nail a description.  Words just make life better.

Receiving recognition from my peers is an added bonus, and something that, I confess, will always make me a little moist eyed.  So, when I read the current (Feb-Mar 2018) issue of The Victorian Writer featuring my article about plunging into the writing lifestyle in 2016, it was no surprise that the text seemed a little blurry.

A screen shot isn’t easy reading, so here it is, in its entirety: –

It’s Never Too Late.

I did a random Google search today entitled, life after writing your first book. Succinct and self-explanatory; it’s exactly where I’m at right now.

Amongst other things, the search came up with an article from the UK newspaper, The Telegraph (28 Feb 2017) by Saffron Alexander: ‘The authors who prove it’s never too late to write a book.’ It outlined a network of men and women whose debut novels were published when they were over the age of 40. The group have named themselves, The Prime Writers, not only to celebrate their collective life experiences and their novels, but to inspire other writers in their prime to complete that novel, and get it published.

The story resonated with me as it would for other late developers, people with busy lives, or those of us who may have started to think it’s too late to begin a writing career.

Like many writers my output has been limited by the constraints of a day job, but I’ve had that ‘manuscript under the bed’ for more than a couple of decades, certain that one day I’d find the time to take it to the next level. In a gap between jobs in January 2016, I finally had that opportunity. The certainty that this was the right time came after the first month of rewriting. There was a shift as something clicked, ideas aligned, and there I was falling down the rabbit hole.   I really could do this. At last. It was the moment I’d been waiting for.

But what about income?   I’d always worked full-time and earned a decent wage. How on earth would I cope without a regular salary?

There’s no need to panic, I told myself, thinking about the abundance of free Wi-Fi, and the comfortable (ie: heated) surrounds of the local library. Plus there are the petrol-sparing joys of a pushbike.   Life would be lean, but surely I would cope?

So, I stepped off the nine-to-five merry-go-round, and turned my life upside down. I found weekend work. I didn’t have to drive through peak hour traffic. I was deliriously happy.

I thought I’d write for six months, but it ended up being twelve.

At the outset I’d made the resolution that I wasn’t going to languish in anyone’s slush pile, or endure the endless ping-pong of corrections and rewrites.   There would undoubtedly be a surfeit of critics and editors who would be pleased to disembowel my manuscript and tell me all the reasons it didn’t work, that they didn’t like it, or that it lacked the requisite plot points. But I don’t have that sort of time to waste, and there really is no pleasing some people.

So, I self-published. I chose the most cost-effective option for a large (456 page) colour book, which was the US based POD service, Ingram Spark.   The Titanic of printing, I’m led to believe, and notwithstanding their stress-and-angst-inducing file stipulations, they offer a quality service.

I got that print book in my hand in February 2017 and I almost wept, except I was too busy leaping over furniture and texting all my friends. It is pertinent to give-in to joy when it arises. That is why so many people have written odes to it.

Now, no-one expects to be facilitated, or in my case self-propelled, into the stratosphere after their first book. I’m wearing my reality-check hat for that one. I don’t expect to be lauded, applauded or even rewarded in financial terms. No, I’m not watching my bank account grow, and in fact everyone else seems to make a great deal more money than I do in this venture when you weigh-up the actual profit margin and the expected royalties. So I won’t be resting on my laurels, nor will I be appearing on Graham Norton’s show anytime soon. Although if you are reading, Graham, please seek me out on Facebook whenever you’re ready.

However, there is ultimately a rather unexpected consequence of this year long mission.   What follows all of the above is the difficulty of relinquishing a habit. I’m an addict now. My name is Angela, and I’m… A Writer. It isn’t easy to quit. I’ve had a year of feeding my habit, and already the withdrawal symptoms are manifesting. Rashes, itching, a general abhorrence of facing the corporate world again, with all of its homogenised floor plans, air conditioning and beige partitions.

Nobody talks about the difficulty of reaching this juncture. They don’t say anything about how to handle your inner scribbler once it has been let out of the box. It’s not just about deciding if you want to live on love alone, for that of course is why writers write. For love. Not money. All those writing muscles have been developed as a result of your discipline and persistence, and income has never had anything do with it.

It’s about addiction, wanting to satisfy your inner author, and giving in to the hunger.

The experience has been like unpacking one of those DIY IKEA furniture kits, and finding that you can’t dismantle it and fit it all back into the packaging again. Somehow it has become larger than it was when you started.

Yes, there could be a second book. There could very well be a whole series, but that’s not the point. When I started this I didn’t have a five year plan or anything. There was no career defining moment.   It was a seat of the pants decision.   Write full time (for nothing), and then go back to the comforts of a normal work schedule (for money) that permits a return to the casual but stealthy jottings on the backs of menus, receipts and ticket stubs.   Yet, in my heart I’ve always known it would feel like a burger instead of a steak.

I didn’t expect this, but I feel transformed. Reinvented. Perhaps I don’t want to find my way out of the rabbit hole yet. I’ve become an accidental writer, not someone who does some writing in their spare time. It’s tantalising, the idea of continuing. I just have to earn enough money for food, avoid recreational shopping, and keep that bike chain oiled.   I can do that.

I’m old fashioned, which goes without saying given I’m a Prime Writer. I love the smell of paper, especially when it’s covered with all my own words. Quite an addictive aroma.

The Hero’s Journey has long been a standard guide for storytelling, based on the work of the mythologist, Joseph Campbell.  The call to adventure launches the main character out of their ordinary world.  There are mentors and threshold guardians, there are tests and trials.  Ultimately we all have to come back to the ordinary world from whence we came, but we return with our experiences of another world, and if we’re lucky, in this analogy, a book deal.  I’m not looking for overnight success.  But I’d like to do some more furniture leaping.

I still have plenty of marketing to complete, but after that I’d like to think I can continue to feed my habit, just for a few more months. Whenever you’re trying to quit an addiction they say you have to fail a few times, right? So it’ll be hard to fight the cravings. Ultimately, I’ll let you know if I take another call to adventure, and whether I return with the elixir.