The Weight We Carry

My life changed this week, over the course of a single hour. I’ve been struggling on a lot of fronts. I was sick of my life, there wasn’t a single area where I didn’t feel stuck, frustrated or downright lonely and whatever I did, nothing ever changed. The only common denominator across all these areas of my life is me, so I realised that if I wanted change, it had to start with me. That’s how I hit on the idea of hypnotherapy and a lot of googling of the efficacy and how to avoid the snake oil merchants, I found Project Rewire and booked an appointment.

I’ve been working very hard on my health and my happiness for a long time. I exercise regularly, cook all my meals from scratch, only drink on special occasions and limit caffeine. I get plenty of fresh air, drink lots of water, take my supplements, meditate and get a good night’s sleep. In short, I live a tediously wholesome life. In addition, I have a whole bag of my own personal tricks, from diving headfirst into a book to taking myself to the cinema or getting regular manicures just so one part of me feels polished.

I didn’t know if hypnotherapy could help. I felt like so many things were wrong that it might be too diffuse an issue. I mean, maybe I’m just a loser. Early in the session it was clear that all the trauma from recent years that I’ve been holding on to was suffocating me. Those who know me well know what it took out of me when my Mum was unwell, particularly before doctors would accept what my sister and I knew was happening. The stress of it is likely to be what brought on my hypothyroidism, and I had an uphill struggle getting a diagnosis for that, too.

I don’t how to explain the session. It happened over zoom, and over the course of an hour I managed to lay down that burden – all the stress, all the fear and all that armour built up so that I wouldn’t ever break, because at times my Mum’s life depended on it. After the session, I cried – the first time I’ve cried in years. I thought, now the work begins to start again, but it turned out that profound relief was just the start of the story.

All those things I’ve been doing that I mentioned earlier? I hadn’t been feeling any benefits from them, I just ploughed on because it wasn’t actively hurting me, and it kept me busy so that I didn’t slip into depression. It turns out that I wasn’t just keeping hold of the heavy weight of those tough days, I was keeping everything down. The next morning, I felt so awake, so alive, that I couldn’t stay in bed. I went for a walk around the harbour with a coffee just for the joy of it.

That evening, I went to my exercise classes. I genuinely believed that all the talk of endorphins being released during exercise was either only for sporty people, or it was something sporty people made up to make mere mortals feel bad. It turns out those endorphins were just another thing trapped under the weight of my past and suddenly, everything seemed different. I have been attending those classes for years and in all that time, I’ve never felt anything other than progressively more tired. I used to look at other people and wonder how they seemed to build more energy as the class went along while I just struggled to get to the end. I thought it was just me being lazy, or somehow useless. Now I get it, and I get why those classes build to a big finale track which previously just used to feel like spite.

A moment of appreciation here for Mel’s exercise classes. If you’re local to Chichester, I recommend checking them out. I’ve been a regular for years because the classes are so positive, the music is great and Mel has such kind, inclusive energy that it infects the whole group. I’ve made friends with some very cool people at those classes. I used to go every week to see those ladies, to enjoy excellent music at the volume it should be played (loud enough that people can’t hear you singing along), all accompanied by disco lights. When I started going, I would be worn out before the warmup track had finished. I’ve slowly built up my strength and stamina and I felt supported all the way. You’ll never find a class that is more fun, or more kind. Trust me, I’ve been coasting through those classes for a long time on vibes alone.

The next morning, I ran faster than I ever have. I’ve been running three mornings a week for a year and like the classes, I hadn’t ever felt any mental health benefits beyond the abstract satisfaction of the fresh air or watching the slowly changing seasons. I got by with a curated playlist and the running apps Zombies, Run and Marvel Move, which interrupts periodically to continue a serialised story that gives you little missions. I kept going because I wanted to know what happens next the same way you tune into a favourite TV series. I’m pretty sure that I’ll always be more motivated by stories than how fast I’m running, but I’m grateful for the extra joy that has been injected into those early starts.

All these changes have been a revelation, and of course it’s crossed my mind to wish that I’d gone for hypnotherapy sooner or that those things that weighed so heavily on my had never happened. For the former, I do believe things happen when they’re meant to. I had to hit a point when I was ready to let go. I can’t be too sorry about how I reacted to my situation either because, right or wrong, I saved my Mum’s life. I also see the last few years when I’ve been trying to claw my way out of those dark days in a different light. Yes, it is a shame that I didn’t get the benefit of everything I’d been doing sooner, but how incredible that I was so tenacious that I kept going despite that. That’s a powerful foundation for the future. My life is by no means “fixed” after one hour, but I see myself and each challenge in a different light and I feel hope because of all I’ve done up to now.

There’s also the fact that I find it all quite funny. Life is full of surprises and moments of wonder in amongst the hardships and disappointments. I’ve been clinging on to my mental health by my sparkly fingernails. I never had it on my bingo card that the things that made the great weight bearable and kept me holding on would be disco lights, zombies… and Clutch.

A love letter to the cinema

I was so sad to wake up to the news that Cineworld is set to close its doors. The cinema means so much to me and in the last decade or so that I’ve had a membership, it’s sometimes been a saving grace. I can’t really imagine life without it, which may seem melodramatic, but it’s about so much more than the films themselves.

When I was younger, the cinema was always the ultimate treat. I always opted for a cinema trip as a birthday treat and in my teenage years, I used to go with my Mum based on the principle that she’d go and see what I wanted on the understanding that I’d go to see things she wanted to see that Dad wasn’t fussed about. We both saw films we wouldn’t otherwise have seen thanks to that deal. 

After the general life collapse and return home of my early thirties, I had to start everything again and my Cineworld membership was part of the foundation. I was broke, alone and trying to rekindle old friendships and make new friends. I couldn’t afford big nights out, girls’ weekends and shopping trips then - having a cinema membership was an affordable way to meet up with people and build connections. Also, some weekends when I was on my own the whole time, it was a reason to go out anyway – if it got to Sunday evening and I’d done nothing with my weekend, I’d take myself down to the cinema. Even now when I’m much busier, I still love going to the cinema on my own, it feels like sneaking away from real life for a while. 

The membership also ended up functioning something like that early deal with my Mum – I happily tried films I wouldn’t have otherwise seen if someone suggested it, and I usually ended up loving them. When Dad died, it became a very low maintenance way for me to keep in touch with friends while I was coming to terms with it. I distinctly remember watching The Equalizer with a friend not long after Dad died – I didn’t say much and the film mostly washed over me, but it got me out of the house, checking in with people without having to talk about everything and all because of this little card that let me see any film at any time. 

Every Boxing Day, I go to the cinema with my Mum and we love our little tradition so much that we start looking out for what film we’ll pick as our “Christmas film” in the summer. I’ve been looking forward to the Bond film for months. I have friends I see costume dramas with, others who are always up for a good horror film, often busy people who appreciate a date in the diary to meet up before life takes over. I’ve seen countless plays I wouldn’t otherwise have seen thanks to the special screenings, attended exclusive early previews and been to see hundreds of films with friends who are also members. Those friendships began in the ease of going to see a film, and now we do so much more and they’re people I couldn’t live without.

I was back in the cinema the first day it re-opened this year and I’ve tried to support as much as I can. I can see how hard Cineworld are working to keep people coming, I’ve been to classic screenings and new films, brought friends along with me, seen things more than once. I can’t understand why film production companies aren’t showing the cinemas more support. I understand that their objective is to make money rather than fulfil all these emotional attachments I have to cinema trips, but if they wait too long, there won’t be any cinemas left – then how will they make money? It seems very short sighted to me. Not to mention, with so many films pushed back to next year, how will anything get any real notice in such a crowded field? Taking a hit on a few films or waiting for the returns on a longer than usual run seems more practical than simply letting cinema die. Perhaps they could release a whole back catalogue of films to cinemas if they really want to hold back their new releases? I saw Goodfellas at the cinema earlier this year, I was too young to go when it came out and even though I’ve seen it plenty of times before, it all felt new and fresh on the big screen. If all the cinemas have to offer for the next few months is more of that, I’ll be there, but I imagine it needs film producers to come to their support. Seasons of major directors, franchises or even particular actors would all be amazing - imagine the response if we all had a chance to watch Chadwick Boseman on the big screen in his many incredible roles, for example, or the opportunity to disappear into the wonderful world of Wes Anderson week after week.

I know what some people think… Everything that’s happened this year and this is what I’m upset about. It’s actually the wider picture of how the arts have been thrown under the bus that upsets me at a time that we need solace and some escape. Given that the cinema is at the most accessible and affordable end of that scale, it’s particularly upsetting. The cinema is my safe, happy place. The lights go down, the film starts and just for a couple of hours, everything else in my life fades away. I need that more than ever for my mental health; that brief respite is what keeps me going in these tough times, what helps me stay strong enough to look after myself, connect with and help others. I really can’t see streaming at home replacing all that. 

I don’t know what I did this summer

I’ve just spent the morning getting my website back up to date. I fell behind on keeping it updated with my latest publications, just like I fell behind on everything after lockdown. Six months into the pandemic, I’m noticing a growing trend of articles about the importance of resilience, perhaps as it becomes clear that there’s no quick solution on the horizon and we all need to prepare for the long haul. As I start the work of catching up, I am guessing that I’m exhibiting resilience – I’m still here, after all – but I don’t particularly recognise myself in the articles about it. I wonder if a bit more honesty and a bit less insta-filtering would be helpful to everyone when we consider what resilience really is and why it matters.

Traditional media likes a good story – “I lost my job in lockdown but now I run a successful business”, “I used lockdown to get to my ideal weight” – and social media demands that those stories look good. In addition, everything is quick and condensed – “five steps to building greater resilience”, “three habits that all resilient people have” – in a way that may be easy to read but doesn’t leave much room for human frailty. I’m just a middle-aged woman in cheap leggings and an 80s Bon Jovi t-shirt. I’ve lost four pounds since lockdown, not enough to be transformative or even noticeable. I haven’t started a multi-million-pound business, signed a six-figure book deal or found my true love. By media standards, I’m a total lockdown loser. Despite this, I do have faith in my resilience. 

Here’s what I have done in the last six months, every single day –

• Got out of bed;

• Taken vitamins;

• Meditated;

• Gone outside;

• Read something new.

Not much, is it? Not really the stuff that double page spreads and loyal social media followings are made of. I also stopped doing a few things. I stopped drinking; I took twitter off my phone and limited all other social media accounts to 15 minutes; I let go of any thoughts where I compared myself to others. Again, nothing headline-grabbing in there, nothing that can inspire and teach others. Am I resilient or deluded?

The reason I believe I’m resilient is because I used the time – time when I clearly wasn’t becoming a serene yogi, baking banana bread or transforming into an entrepreneur – to think about what was important and what my goals should be in our altered world. Then I went towards those goals. Faced with financial ruin, I set aside time every week to apply for jobs, I reworked and refined my CV until I got responses and I learned how to deliver a good interview over zoom. I managed to get myself a new job and I started this week. Struggling to care for my Mum during lockdown, I asked for help again and again until I got what I needed. Feeling isolated, I spoke to my friends a lot. Whatever else the future holds for me, I know they’re at the heart of my happiness so I did my best to be a good friend, even when I was hurting – and I always will. 

We’ve all got stories of hardship and worry from the last six months and it’s tempting to join the misery Olympics but it’s worth asking yourself if you want to win that race. Personally, I think I had it worse than some, better than others. However it feels, that’s where most of us will fall. That’s not to say I spent every day as an upbeat and hopeful person – some days I got my to-do list of essentials done by 8am and just watched the clock until it was a reasonable time to go to bed. Overall, though, I chose to suck it up and keep going. That is all resilience really is. 

I am loathe to give advice, I don’t know what I’m doing most days and I’m nobody’s role model. I would say, let go of all the media noise, hold on to what matters and don’t give up. I appreciate that “suck it up” isn’t a particularly inspiring insta-quote, but it’s all I have. That and patience. One of my favourite books is Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. It has great insights about writing (and life) and contains many lessons about resilience. The most important of those is to take things step by step – or bird by bird – and just keep going. You can’t solve everything overnight, just keep trying. I have to keep reminding myself of this. I can’t catch up on six months of lost time in a weekend. I can’t ever recover everything I’ve lost. All I can do is keep going – and that’s resilience. 

Permission to look terrible in shorts

Until today, I haven’t worn shorts in public for over 30 years. Aside from gym shorts worn on the treadmill I have at home, I haven’t worn them in private either. At some point in my early teens, I decided that I had “weird” knees, that I should not wear shorts and that was that. 

This week, I don’t know if it was the extreme heat or an awareness of all the other very serious challenges I’ve got at the moment, but I questioned that assumption. I wanted to walk around in the same unselfconscious way I did as a child, before I became properly aware of body image; I wanted to feel the sun on my skin; I wanted to be like the people I see of all shapes and sizes in shorts, comfortable in the heat. 

If was driven entirely by my heart, I would have bought a pair of shorts yesterday, but I’m not – if my brain doesn’t agree with my heart, then generally my brain will win. I thought about how other people wear shorts and I don’t judge them at all. I thought about how arrogant it was of me to think that anyone would really care. I thought about how I’ve come to terms with gaining weight in the last few years… Don’t get me wrong, I am aware of why I gained the weight, and I’m aware that I need to address it for my health, but I’m kind to myself about where I am and I know I’ve got more pressing issues to address before I get to it. I thought about how, even before I gained weight, clothes for me have always been about camouflage – hiding what I perceive as the worst bits of me. Even in more recent years when, following the very excellent example of my sister who dresses every day like she’s off to a wonderful, colourful party, I chose clothes that made me happy, I still did so within those parameters of camouflage. So, a bright t-shirt with Lloyd Dobler holding up his stereo was fine, even if it’s not stylish or cool, but shorts were not. I thought, too, about summers when I was a child and I shot up in height - a pair of jeans would be made into cut-offs and I’d feel happy I got to keep them a bit longer. Then I spent a long time on the internet looking at shorts. By the time I was heading for bed, I thought I’d spent way too much time thinking about wearing shorts and I was just being stupid. 

This morning, I woke up early to glorious sunshine and the same wish was still there. I made a deal with my brain – I’d go for my early walk in gym shorts, see how that felt and then I’d decide what to do. You already know what happened on my walk this morning… nothing. No one ran away in horror at my weird knees, no one said anything other than a polite and cheery “good morning,” and the sky didn’t fall in just because my legs were on display. What I felt, however, was the sun on my skin, the freedom of feeling comfortable and years of unnecessary worry about my size, my shape, my body all falling away. Honestly, I know I’ve got bigger fish to fry right now.

When I got back from having my breakfast by the sea, I took myself to the shops and bought some denim shorts. This is not a story about how I looked in the mirror and realised all along that I looked beautiful. This is not a story about how I had the courage to wrestle with my body image and wear shorts again. This is a story about what a fucking idiot I’ve been for 30 years, because it’s not about beauty or even about courage. It’s just about the fact that when it’s sunny, shorts are the best thing to wear. Even my brain can’t argue with that fact. 

Getting used to grief

It’s my Dad’s birthday today. Another year has gone by and I still can’t get my head around the fact that he’s not here. When he first died, one of my friends gave me the best (painfully won) advice about grief. She said that time doesn’t make it any easier, but you get used to it. I know that doesn’t sound very comforting, and it’s the opposite of the idea that time heals all wounds, but it helped me. I don’t want this wound to heal. The fog of grief has dissipated but the sharp pain of his absence returns from time to time and I find some solace in that. Maybe I am afraid that if I let all the pain go, I might let him go with it. I don’t know. Years down this road, I still don’t know anything about grief… but my friend was right, I’m getting used to it.

There are times when I miss Dad intensely. Sometimes it is because something significant has happened – like when Indigo chose to publish my book, or I started my PhD, or my sister opened her own shop and I wanted to tell him because he’d be so very proud. Other times, it’s something much smaller – after I watched the TV series of Good Omens, I really wanted to ring him up and talk to him about it. He loved that book, I know he would have loved the series too. The fact of his absence has settled inside me, but it still surfaces, sometimes expected and other times as a bolt from the blue. It hurts, but it’s OK. I’m used to it.

Every year on his birthday, I do something that he would have enjoyed as if we were spending time together. I’ve watched Star Trek, listened to an album with a bottle of real ale or the audiobook of War of the Worlds with his favourite, a cheese scone. Some years, I revert back to what I always used to do on his birthday when he was alive, which is to seek out an amazing book that he would love. Then I read it. I plan these things in advance of his birthday, just as I would if he were around. This evening, I’ll be watching the documentary about his favourite band, ZZ Top, on Netflix. It will hurt a little to do it, these things always hurt a little, but I’m used to it. 

I know Dad would be upset and frankly, furious with me if he thought I was wallowing in grief. That’s not what I’m doing, or at least I don’t think it is. I don’t feel like I’m picking at a wound, more like I’m tending to it. Watching that documentary will be like reading the books he never had a chance to read, it’s something I do for both of us. I also know that, given that we always hassled him about his (sometimes questionable) taste in music, he would make a joke about how he had to die before I’d watch such a thing. I know that sounds in poor taste, making a joke out of his death, but it also sounds exactly like him. My Dad fostered my love of books, music and comedy and he’s a part of who I am today. He always believed in me, long before I ever believed in myself. I celebrate his birthday because, despite the pain of his loss and the reminders of his absence, my gratitude at having such a wonderful Dad is the one thing I never quite get used to.

Still dancing – finding happiness in unhappy times

When lockdown began, I started dancing every morning. You can read more about why I chose to do that in my last blog. Six weeks in, I’m still dancing and I’m learning more and more about how to hold on to happiness when times are hard. 

We’re all exhausted, stressed, worried and frustrated. Some mornings, it hardly feels like it’s worth getting out of bed just for the same old groundhog day experience. Other mornings I resent the obligation I’ve created for myself and I drag my feet a little – if you post every day for six weeks, someone is bound to notice if you miss a day. Ultimately, I am glad of that obligation because it has kept me going when nothing else could, but I’d be lying if I didn’t sometimes wake up at six and bitterly regret ever starting. 

What I’ve learned so far is that music is a powerful source of healing and happiness. Alongside the great music, there are all the memories that accompany each song and they are all good things to remember – loved ones, concerts, nights out, any time in my life when music and dancing played a part.

I’ve also learned that it is possible to take control of your own mood and that, against all odds, I think I’m rather good at it. As well as the music which lifts my spirits, I’ve been wearing my gym kit each morning when I dance (there is a LOT of leaping about and strutting involved) and I realised that this is another example of how I make myself happy. I hate the gym – I am envious of people who find peace in it but sadly it’s not me. Every single time I attend an exercise class is a triumph of obligation over inclination. What I did quite some time ago to help me enjoy the gym more is to buy myself some fun gym tops that reflect the things I really love. Other than the fact that “proper” gym tops seemed way too expensive a thing to buy just for me to be miserable in, those “just do it” eye of the tiger slogans really piss me off. Instead, I wear nerdy vests that reflect the things I really love and every time I wear them, they make me happy.

Happiness is a nerdy workout vest

I realise this whole project is just a more intense version of what I do in my life anyway. As much as I can, I surround myself with the things I love and I try to do what makes me happy. I let go of feeble attempts to keep up with fashion a long time ago because I always just feel lacking, somehow. I think that’s how fashion is meant to work – you’re told you’re not good enough unless you have the right style and it’s all based on making you feel bad enough that you seek a solution, which they then present to sell to you. Fuck that. I’m happy in my jeans and nerdy t-shirts, they’ve got a lifetime of happy memories attached and I choose that happiness. 

The whole “dance like no one is watching” thing is a cliché but there is truth at the heart of it because no one who really matters is ever watching. Imagine how unhappy and small-minded anyone would have to be to spend their time criticising other people when they could be on the dancefloor, it’s not worth allowing even a tiny dent in your joy. The great thing right now is that no one is really watching because we’re all at home, so dance in your kitchen if you want to, sing at the top of your voice even if it comes out flat and out of tune. As the wise Dr Seuss said, those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind. 

One thing I appreciate about what’s happening now is that people are sharing their little fragments of happiness. Recommendations of meditation apps, podcasts, workouts (although I mostly ignore those if they look like too much effort) books, films that cheered them up. Many of my friends have sent me suggestions of songs that have ended up on my playlist. We’re all finding ways to grab small morsels of happiness and then we’re passing those on to help others. I love that. 

And one final thing I’ve learned is to finally navigate spotify to the point where I can share my playlist so far. This is a small thing that any small child can do, I know, but as someone who will never let go of her rack of CDs, who still misses the clunk of tapes being placed in an old stereo, it’s something new for me. So if you want to start dancing, here’s the music that has lifted me so far – and if you think this is a terrible playlist and I have awful taste, I honestly couldn’t care less. If you feel that strongly about it, maybe go and make your own. In the meantime, I’ll be up every morning to greet the day with a blast of pure happiness. 

Why I'm dancing my way through a pandemic

For the last week, I’ve been getting up every morning and starting my day by dancing. I put on my headphones, turn up the volume and dance about my flat to my favourite songs, and then I post a picture on my Instagram story with a link to a song that gave me particular joy that morning. Following some slightly snarky DMs from random strangers, I thought I’d explain why. I’m not sure I owe such people an explanation, but here it is none the less. 

Every morning when I wake up, there is a moment when I remember again what’s happening in the world and what lies ahead of me. It reminds me of when my Dad died and every morning it felt like I lost him all over again as I struggled to wrap my head around the permanence of that loss. Every day it felt impossible to fathom and although this pandemic is a short-term crisis with longer term implications rather than a permanent loss, it feels similarly difficult to manage. Before Dad died, he told me that when people remembered him, he wanted them to laugh and dance. In the weeks following his death, I used to get up every morning and dance for a while to his favourite music. Fortunately, I’m such a bad dancer that I inadvertently fulfilled both of his wishes with that one action. These daily dances gave me a moment when I felt connected to him, didn’t take myself too seriously, abandoned myself to the joy of music and let myself be happy despite it all. 

One of the reasons I’ve returned to that routine now is because of one of the unexpected side effects of this approach. After Dad died, I would remind myself that it wasn’t impossible to bear – as long as I had the strength to seek out joy every morning despite my grief, nothing else could be considered impossible. That’s why I’m doing it again now, and I post a photo so that my friends know I’m still going despite it all. They are wonderful people who worry about me and everyone has enough on, so it’s a way of checking in on a daily basis without rehashing the things we’re all worried about.

It’s not always easy and I’m not insulated from this situation. I’ve lost income, my Mum’s health is at very serious risk and everything I’ve worked for over the last few years is teetering on the brink of collapse every day. I feel the same as everyone else, I can only watch my life fall apart while I wait indoors, on my own. Most of the time, I feel like I’m screaming from inside a sound-proofed room. Some days, my half hour of dancing is the only time I’m happy all day, and other days it’s a struggle to even find that. 

If you’re looking for a way to cope, I can recommend a good old fashioned boogie, but if you’re finding another way through it all, you do you. We’re not in competition as to whose life is the worst – and who really wants to win that competition? – or who has the best way of dealing with it. I don’t know that my approach is particularly wise. It exposes my often uncool tastes in music to the world, my colleagues now know that the nice lady who is good at writing and comes into the office once a week looking reasonably smart listens to a lot of angry, heavy rock, and it’s quite clear that music made after the nineties barely registers with me. I look resolutely awful in every picture and it’s going to become a documented experiment in what happens when you make an already pale redhead stay indoors for three months. All I know for sure is that my Dad would tell me that now is not the time to turn the music down. Now more than ever, we must turn it up to eleven. Rock on. 

Boo! The value of scary stories and the beauty of horror

I was thrilled and stunned to discover that my poetry collection, Hag, has been placed on the preliminary ballot for the HWA Bram Stoker awards for superior achievement in a poetry collection. After a bit of a chuckle over the fact that the contents of my mind are classed as horror, I started thinking about how I got here. I’ve reflected before on how my upbringing as a working-class writer presents me with various challenges but coming from that position has its advantages. I didn’t grow up knowing about literary genres, I didn’t know which were considered prestigious and literary and which were labelled genre like it makes the work somehow lesser. I didn’t even really distinguish between prose and poetry. I just liked stories, regardless of the world in which they were set or the form they were in, and I read whatever I could get my hands on. In that situation, ignorance really was bliss.

That said, horror has a special place in my heart. I love a good ghost story or a well-made horror film. I’m currently studying for a creative writing PhD on witches in women’s poetry because I’m fascinated by myths, folklore and the ancient monsters that haunt the landscape and our nightmares. I’m not sure why it is, I don’t consider myself a particularly brave person. I think it’s because at the heart of every horror story is a beautiful, if sometimes brutal, picture of humanity. For me, the point of horror isn’t the monsters, it’s the people who face them.

Sometimes, I find the darkness a comfort. When you’re facing real-life horrors, reading stories of people facing more supernatural concerns comes off as light relief. Right now, my Mum is gravely ill and believe me, there’s not a haunted doll or creature from the deep as scary as that. Sometimes it helps me find a way through my own problems. Either way, I feel a bit less lonely and more connected to possibilities when I’m reading or watching horror.

Creatively, I also find a lot of inspiration from horror. A few years ago, my Dad died. At the time I was studying for an MA in Creative Writing and it meant so much to my Dad to see his daughter pursue her dream to be a writer that I never thought of taking a break. I went away for a week to Arran; I was a long way from home, all alone on the island out of season. I could walk for hours without seeing a soul. While I was there, I listened to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and read Glyn Maxwell’s book, Time’s Fool, a novel written in verse about a man trapped on a train. (For someone travelling from the South Coast of England to Scotland by train, that in itself might be considered a horror.) I started to write about a haunted ghost train, inspired as much by the rhythm of the trains I travelled on as Maxwell’s verse and Shelley’s genius. At a certain point, I got stuck. I had the ghost train, but I didn’t really know where it was going. When I got home, I started reading the incredible Locke and Key series of graphic novels by Joe Hill and I found my answer. My long poem about a ghost train to another dimension was eventually published in the British Fantasy Society journal but to me it’s not a fantasy - it’s about navigating through grief, articulating that most profound of horrors. I wouldn’t have got there if I hadn’t chosen to stick to my habit of reading different genres and forms. In the same way, I wouldn’t have completed my collection, Hag, without the same broad interests and experiences.

That’s why it means so much to me to be on the preliminary ballot for the HWA Bram Stoker awards and why it’s such a surprise. To be listed in the company of other writers who tell such absorbing stories and demonstrate the resilience of the human spirit is an honour. I am proud to demonstrate the poetry of horror, the beauty of it all. I think I’m going to continue my habit of ignoring established views on literary genres and their standing and keep exploring the whole bookshop in search of a good story.

You can read a sample of the poems from Hag here or drop me a line if you’d like to read more or have any questions or comments. Recommendations for terrifying stories in any form or genre are always welcome.

Check out the trailer for Locke and Key on Netflix, which I am insanely excited to see, what a magnificent world to appear on the TV screen.

I have understanding as well as you

I’ve been turning something over in my mind since the weekend and this week has only made it clearer to me. Last weekend, I read Christopher Eccleston’s amazing book I Love The Bones of You, a beautiful, brutally honest and uplifting account of his relationship with his Dad and his life as a working class actor. So much of what he said about being a working class resonated with me, ideas that I had often felt and never seen articulated. All of it needs to be said, and heard, much more than it currently is.

This week, after the Supreme Court ruled against the government, its President Lady Hale was described in the gutter press as an ex-barmaid. Setting aside the fact that she has a stellar academic and professional record, I’m not entirely sure why being an ex-barmaid is thought to be a smear, or suggest she is any less qualified to do what she does. I am an ex-barmaid. Without all those pints I pulled over successive holidays, I never would have been able to afford to go to university. 

I’m not ashamed that I worked behind a bar. I’m slightly wary of qualifying my time working in a pub as something I did to pay for university because it’s as valid a part of my CV as anything else – I learned teamwork, resilience, a strong work ethic and how to deal with people from all walks of life, sometimes under pressure and when they are making unreasonable demands. These are all skills I’ve used throughout my career. Being an ex-barmaid isn’t a smear, it’s not a sign of weakness, it’s a strength bordering on a superpower. Only someone who looks down on those in the service industry, and who has never had to do a real day’s graft in their life would think otherwise. 

Boris Johnson’s rambling speech about Prometheus is what put me in mind of the title for this blog, a line that Jude the Obscure graffitis on the walls of the hallowed Christminster campus after being denied an education. It’s a frustration I’ve felt often and one I felt when I heard the PM deliberately misinterpret the Greek myth of Prometheus for his own ends. Or perhaps it’s not deliberate, perhaps the privileged and privately educated are spoon fed their education in a way that means they never really need to process it. Either way, I feel it’s something of a smoke screen – throw in a Latin phrase here, a Greek myth there and bamboozle the masses into thinking that he’s their better and the lower classes should be impressed and know their place. 

Thanks to libraries and access to university before tuition fees were brought in, this working class lass knows Boris Johnson isn’t that smart. He’s certainly not my better and I don’t see any reason to respect him. I don’t see a reason to respect any politicians advocating cuts to education, libraries, the arts, health and social care or any other facet of life which sees the working class paying the price for their thwarted, misguided and poisonous ambition. 

I don’t know what the solution is. I think cuts to the arts are worrying because it is just one of the mechanisms for pushing down the ambition of the working class. Fewer prominent voices means that the real issues are never heard, and the class divide and the deprivation that goes along with that gets worse.

One of the things that I love about Eccleston’s book is that he doesn’t just highlight the obstacles that working class artists face, he demonstrates the many strengths they can bring. I get frustrated sometimes when people expect that I have tales of deprivation and suffering in my background because I’m working class. I didn’t become a writer in spite of my background, I did so because my Dad gave me a life-long love of words. He always had a book on the go and if anything, I’d say he was the real storyteller of the family, he just never had the chance to realise that in a career as a writer. My love of Jude the Obscure and knowledge of that quote is thanks to my Mum, who came with me to the cinema years ago to see the film in which Christopher Eccleston gives one of his finest performances and then we both read the book. That’s my background, and I am very proud of my family and where I came from.

If we’re going to start to effect change, let’s start with not implying that working as a barmaid is something to be ashamed of and not thinking that people like Boris Johnson mean anything other than a clumsy attempt at intimidation when they quote Greek myths. Christopher Eccleston talks about how his class makes him a member of ‘the awkward squad’ which makes him incapable of keeping quiet when he sees unfairness. I think I am a member of that same squad, and I’m not scared of public-school bullies - I threw out enough of them when I worked in a pub to know they’re no one to be scared of. I am going to keep writing despite the obstacles and the unfairness because Johnson and his ilk should know, I have understanding as well as you. 

Managing Poetry Submissions

Last week, I had my 50th acceptance from a literary magazine for one of my poems. 50 seems like a lot, even over the four years it’s taken me to achieve it, and I thought I’d reflect on how I’ve managed to do it in case it’s useful for anyone starting out. 

Prepare your poems

Make sure your poems are the best they can possibly be. This helps to make a good impression and it also means you will be better placed to take any rejection. If you know in your heart it’s a good poem, it hurts a lot less. It’s like training marines – it’s a tough old world out there, so make sure your poems are as robust as they can be. 

Submit your work

Your poems won’t magically enter the world without your help. It can be scary to send them out, and statistically you’re going to meet with more than a few rejections (I have more than three times as many rejections as I do acceptances) but if you want your poems out in the world, then you have to send them on their way.

Read widely

Read a range of magazines and think about where your work belongs. Use twitter and resources such as the Mslexia Indie Press Guide to discover new magazines and read a broad range of work, even if it’s not your style. 

Organise your submissions

There is great article on Jo Bell’s blog about how to manage your submissions, and it’s also available in the brilliant book How to be a Poet. I don’t follow this method exactly, but I do apply the basic principle behind it. I maintain a spreadsheet to keep track of everything –I know Excel isn’t for everyone, but you can find a system that works for you. It helps you appear professional by avoiding simultaneous submissions or resubmitting to a place that has already rejected certain work and it takes some of the stress out of the whole process.

Keep submitting

As I said, you’re likely to meet with some rejections. Don’t take it personally, there are so many reasons why a poem doesn’t get accepted – from thematic concerns to the simple fact that it’s not one editor’s cup of tea… This is why it’s important to work so hard on your poems before you start – if and when you do receive a rejection, you’ll have embedded belief in them as tough little soldiers. So, dust them off and send them somewhere else.

Write your heart

There’s no way to game the system. I’ve had poems accepted after more than ten rejections, and I’ve had poems accepted straight away that I thought were going to be difficult to place. I don’t think about magazines or the wider poetry trends when I write; I don’t see the fun in working that way. I write what I want to write, make each poem the best I can make it, and trust each one will find a place in the world. Your poems are the same.

Celebrate successes

While you should breeze past any rejections, take the time to celebrate each acceptance that you receive. It could be anything – a glass of wine, a bar of chocolate, or save up to give yourself a bigger treat when you reach a certain number. You’ve written work worthy of publication and you’ve been brave enough to send it out in the world and that’s worth celebrating.