working mum

Teaching and the Writing Life

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Here I am in my office at Bath Spa University, and in the background, you can just see my office mate; the performance poet Lucy English. I also share the office with poet Carrie Etter and novelist Celia Brayfield.  They’re all wonderful writers, teachers and friends…it gets quite silly in here on the infrequent days when we’re all in.

Like us, most writers also do other paid work. And like us, many writers teach as that paid work. Not all of them should. My colleagues and I put our hearts and our souls into the work we do with developing writers. We constantly try and improve our modules and our delivery. We keep in touch with students long after graduation (it’s my chief way of making new friends), and we are delighted with our students’ successes.

Even if I didn’t ‘have’ to teach, I would. I get so much from it. I’m always being made to think properly about what good writing is, issues of craft, issues of ethics and morality. I’m always discovering something new about form. I’m always learning in class…far more than my students are learning from me (though, when I tell them that, they never believe it).

But more than this, I live in a world where writing is valued. I don’t have to explain to my colleagues about my writing life. ‘How’s it going?’ we say, by the photocopier. And the answer is always about our latest writing projects. Writing is ‘it’ to us; the Alpha and the Omega – the whole of the thing of life. Some of my colleagues are being shortlisted for the highest prizes in the literary world. Some of my adjunct colleagues are just starting out; just placing stories and poems. That doesn’t matter to us that much. We all know what does matter to us that much.

The craft.

By the way, another Thursday has come and gone and I’ve still got Hospital High… I’m still making it better, you see. When I can’t do that any more, I’ll send it. That’s the craft, too…

 

Beauty and the Writing Beast

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I teach here on Wednesdays.

I teach here on Tuesdays.

And in between, my commute looks a bit like this:

I’m a down-to-earth girl, but I do love beauty…in fact, I think I need it. When I think about the places I’ve lived and how much I’ve written while I was there, there is definitely  a correlation between how gorgeous a place was and how much good writing I did while I was in that place.  For me, that means countryside where I can observe wildlife within a short walk, and lovely drives. But for other writers that stimulation is wholly urban, and their aesthetic of what is beautiful and worthwhile to observe might not be so limited by prettiness as my own.

I also know that when the  house is a complete tip I find it difficult to write. Not because I want to jump up and clean it (I never have such an impulse), but because it jangles my writing nerves. But other writers might need to escape the suburban neatness of their homes for a shed or an office, where the disorder gets their writing nerves jangling.

Writing’s relationship with order is complex.

The first need humans satisfy; after food and drink and shelter is story. The need for narrative is so basic within us that it often comes before sex. Why are we so addicted to narrative? Well, because we don’t forget as quickly as other species, and we are very efficient at picking up stimuli. If we don’t have a way to make sense of our world, we quickly become unable to function. Narrative is our way of imposing…or perhaps revealing…order in a chaotic world. It’s not just a way of remembering things, it’s also a way of forgetting; of deciding what we will not record and notice, out of the vast amount of phenomena that comes to our brains.

I hate housework. But I hate trying to write in chaos even more. So guess what I’m going to do…right after I finish this chapter…

For more information on narrative’s function in human psychology, you might want to start here, with Lewis Mehi-Madrona’s wonderful article.

Mornings…and All the People I Am

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This is me, dressed in my writing clothes. You’re lucky – sometimes I don’t even wear the dressing gown.

My favourite place to write is bed, and my favourite time to write is early in the morning, while the rest of the world sleeps. I wrote  a poem about this once, which I’d share with you now, except my mate Carrie Etter wants me to try and publish it in a proper poetry magazine. I need to send it to her…

I need to do lots of things. I need to finish my handbooks and weekly plans for my students, so that they don’t feel so apprehensive in starting a new year. I need to go into a meeting with my boss, to talk to the Bath Literature Festival people about how we can help provide fringe events with our students. I need to pick up my daughter and take her to tap class this afternoon. We were up late last night at an Open Evening – she’s nine and we’re looking at schools this year to discuss over this summer. So, I slept late and missed my writing time this morning.

‘Never give up your writing time,’ another poet mate, Tim Liardet, hissed at me yesterday when we were presenting modules to the second and third year students. ‘Never. Never. Never.’ I hissed back, ‘That’s such a male thing to say.’

I wouldn’t have said that ten years ago. Ten years ago, it would be me saying, ‘Never give up your writing time. Never. Never. Never.’ But, back then, I was the most important person in my life. Soon, perhaps too soon, I will be again. My daughter thinks she’d like to go to a boarding school when she turns eleven.  But right now, I’m not.

So, when I can wake up early, I write. And when I can’t…one memory of her, curvetting in her ballet leotard, so graceful and beautiful and confident of my love…and my bitterness blazes away in a flame of passionate motherhood.

I think I’ll be a better writer for that.

 

 

Tiles, Rings, Sheds and Other Distractions

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You may notice, from this week’s photo, that I am back at my other work; teaching at university. All this signs are there; hair is styled (this is as good as it gets), I’m dressed properly, and makeup has been applied. No dark circles under the eyes yet, but wait until Christmas – I’ll look like I’ve been sparring with Wladimir Klitschko.

And because my life gets complicated and stupidly busy as the academic year rolls out, I am trying to tie up loose ends.

I got the chimney swept but the tape that the sweep used pulled up some broken tiles. I’m tracking down some 1930s replacements. My shed is too small and leaks  –  we’ve got tarp-covered stuff all over the garden and the bad weather is coming. The ring that I bought to replace my engagement ring (stolen in France) got caught in a child’s pullover this summer and I lost the stone. The insurance company have just sent a cheque, saying it’s a write-off. I feel weird without a ring on that finger…

And so my writing time shrinks. It seems more important to do all the other things. I’m sitting here, looking at the broken fireplace tiles as I type and…it bothers me. Typing without a ring…bothers me. Hearing the rain start on my torn shed roofing…bothers me.

And when I’m sufficiently bothered about things, I find it hard to concentrate on my writing.

My husband understands. He’s promised to lay a new shed base. I am using my insurance payout for a modest ring and a new shed, and although he thinks its odd that I’d rather have a shed than diamonds, he wants to help get it sorted as soon as possible.

We talked about it just this morning. And then he looked at the old shed. He said, ‘If we move it, can I have it, for my winemaking?’

‘No.’ I had surprised both of us. ‘No,’ I heard myself say again, decisively. ‘I’m going to put it at the bottom of the garden, for my writing.’

I’ll paint it white with green trim. I’ll insulate it and put in a tiny woodstove, a chair, a desk and some shelves.

And I won’t be distracted anymore, by anything.

Is It Flowing?

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So, I’ve begun on a new book. Every book is a different experience to write. The last one just poured out of me – I barely took time to breathe. But this one is different. I’ve had trouble with this one and we’re not sure of each other.

How easy they are to write does not seem to correlate in any way to how good the writing is. Some things that go down on paper easily are really not all that great and some things that are very difficult end up being very good. Harriet Tarlo, the poet and academic, once told a student who had written poor prose that ‘just flowed’ that ‘lots of things flow, dear.’ She’s right!

I’m not teaching today, but I’m also not writing all day. I’ve done a few hundred words, but now I’m going to get out in the fresh air. I want to do six loads of laundry today and line dry them. I’m going to collect my electric bicycle from the shop. And I’m helping to decorate a friend’s husband’s sixtieth birthday cake, so I must remember to put my special leaf cutting tools in my panniers when I pack up to go out. And of course, I must be back by half past three, so that I can meet my daughter’s taxi.

When I first started to write, I would sit and make certain I did a thousand words a day, if it took me ten hours. Now, I work more in harmony with myself and my story. It’s a bit like having a baby – you can’t really force it. It will come out when it’s ready. My writing sessions right now are just to tell it that I’m here, waiting. When it trusts me, it will…erm…flow.

 

 

 

My book, Drawing Together, filmed with sign language!

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Just discovered that Drawing Together, a Walker’s Stories book for young readers, has been filmed for hearing impaired young readers by ITV.

Drawing Together is about marginalisation and otherness, for 5-7 year olds. It’s about three outsiders who form a strong bond…and it’s also got groovy talking animal drawings and wonderful illustrations by Jess Meserve.

I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see it in this way.

Have a look, if you can, here…

A new book

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I’ve just checked my email and my agent hasn’t responded yet. (I’m hoping to meet her next week to discuss the book she’s about to start submitting to editors.) I emailed her another manuscript yesterday, which she won’t have time to read for a few weeks. She’s not so keen on it, but she’s only read the first 30 pages. I know she’ll love it when she’s done.

Husband is back at work, child is back at school and my university teaching hasn’t started yet. I have a few errands to run and our house is a total mess, but I am supposed to be starting a book today.

I’ve already written this book once, and I’ve been messing about thinking about how to rewrite it for nearly a year. I’ve studied medieval women’s writing, I’ve played around with quills and handmade paper, I’ve worried about it all summer as I’ve walked up big hills and bobbed up and down in the sea.  And I know now, how I’m going to go about it. I know the story – and I love the story – and now I know how I’ll tell it. I am completely ready to write it.

And I was going to start at 9 am today. Now it’s 11:30ish. I’ve had a big breakfast, a cup of tea and two Alpen light bars. I’ve watched Homes Under the Hammer (it’s educative) and checked up on all my friends and family with Facebook. And I’m really, truly going to start. Any second now.

Wish me luck.

Although I’m a working writer, I haven’t yet published that big, breakthrough book. I’m hoping this will be the one. I need a new kitchen. I need a new shed. I need to pay off my credit card. And I’m trying to save the world by doing the only thing I’m any good at – writing stories. So I’m going to take a big breath now and open the Word file. See you soon…