On Being a Writer in 2020
“On the whole I have had sense enough not to do things in public, except when it has been absolutely necessary, or would hurt people’s feelings badly if I didn’t.”
Agatha Christie “An Autobiography”
Under normal circumstances I find it easy enough to differentiate between writing and being a writer. Writing requires a lot of willpower, some imagination and a never-ending supply of perseverance. Being a writer requires little more than the ability to turn up at literary events, consume the free wine and mumble a few semi-coherent opinions about the books everyone’s meant to be reading this year. Gone are the days when writers could simply write and expect to shift enough books to keep the publishers happy. Unless your name’s Elena Ferrante, (or you like to pretend your name is Elena Ferrante), writing now goes hand in hand with being a public writer. Some writers revel in the spotlight. Others, like Agatha Christie, find the whole self-promotional circus a little exhausting.
I’m lucky. I conquered my public writer fears early. The first time I read a short story aloud was at the Irish Writers Centre in 2012. I worked myself up into such a state whilst waiting to be called to the lectern I squeezed the strawberry yoghurt in my pocket until it exploded. I then had to negotiate microphone adjusting and page turning with one yogurt covered hand in my jacket. Consequently, I have never forgotten my first public reading. I’m not such a nervous performer now. These days I find the public side of being a writer bearable and occasionally even enjoyable. It is nice to realise that other people are interested in what you have to say. It’s nice to gallivant about the world talking about books with other people who also enjoy talking about books. It’s nice to meet the people who have read your book, (unless, of course, they’re the pedantic types who wait ‘til the signing queue has dispersed just to point out where you’ve gone wrong). And it’s very nice indeed to meet the people whose books you’ve read and enjoyed so much you’ve placed them -like saints or superheroes- upon tiny, marble pedestals inside your head, (George Saunders, George Saunders, George Saunders).
In 2019 writing allowed me to travel to two dozen different countries. I was living something very close to my best life. I was also completely shattered and a little frustrated to realise that so much time spent ‘being a writer’ had left almost no time for writing. I was in danger of becoming the literary equivalent of a Match of the Day presenter, extolling the virtues of an art form I no longer practiced. When Lockdown began, like many other writers, my calendar began to empty – no Australia, no Japan, no Berlin residency, no annual week in Norway, no festivals in Poland or Malta. Even the obligatory run up the road to Armagh for the John Hewitt Summer School was put on ice for the year. I was disappointed to be grounded in East Belfast; also a little relieved. I stupidly thought 2020 would be the year I swapped being a writer for a straight shot at uninterrupted writing. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Everything simply moved online.
I’ve found the move from live, in-person events to online events both simultaneously underwhelming and completely overwhelming. It’s not the fact that online isn’t the same as ‘onlive,’ though I think, nine months in, we’re all pretty much in agreement that when it comes to literary audiences, a room of one’s own, is infinitely preferable to a Zoom of one’s own or even a Zoom event shared with half a dozen other slightly pixelated fellow writers in far flung places. Online is exhausting and these last few months I have been lying each time I’ve typed the words “delighted to be part of” or “looking forward to.” I am no longer looking forward to anything which involves reading my work at a screen. I am instead, dredging up superhuman amounts of strength to try to appear enthusiastic every time I turn my camera on. I’ve found the half hour after an event ends, when -rather than heading to the bar to continue the chat- I close my laptop and contemplate the silence of an empty house, the loneliest aspect of 2020.
I am a single, forty year old woman. I have a handful of really close friends, (most of whom don’t live in Belfast), and, until 2020 happened, was otherwise happily reliant upon the community which exists around literary events and festivals. I loved the surreptitious encounters in the green room, the chance conversations, the possibility of bumping into a friend I hadn’t seen in a while or meeting interesting people I’d never met before. I’ve been to hundreds -if not thousands- of readings over the last fifteen years and can remember very little of what was said on stage, (especially at the poetry readings). It’s backstage/before/after/in the bar/walking from the hotel to the venue/in the taxi on the way to the airport where the really good conversations occurred. 2020 made me realise that I attend literary events as much for the surreptitious community as the actual content. Sadly, there’s no space for surreptitious community at an online event. I turn up. I speak my mind into a camera. I feel connected for an hour or so. Then, as soon as I turn my camera off, I’m alone again. It’s really deflating. I’m so grateful to have had some means of connection during this strange, isolated year. And I’m beyond grateful for the writer friends who’ve kept in contact via email, text and video call. But for me, online has never felt like a feasible alternative to being together in an actual room. I’m just not wired that way.
And yet, as I flick back through my 2020 diary, I can see I’ve managed to clock up over 270 online events and workshops. Rather than paring back on ‘being a writer,’ I -and I suspect many of you- have been run ragged with public events, interviews and expectations. It’s not the move from live to online which has wearied me so much as the sheer volume of online content I’ve been swept into. Don’t get me wrong, I’m incredibly grateful to have had work coming in during what has been a truly horrendous year for artists. And I understand that, in 2020, busyness has not been the only issue keeping me from writing. I suspect it would’ve been a hard year to keep writing through the anxiety even if I’d had a completely blank schedule. But I am beginning 2021 more creatively spent than I’ve ever been.
As the year ends, I’ve thought a lot about why I’ve found “being a writer” so overwhelming in 2020. I’m sharing a few quick thoughts here in case anyone else is also struggling to understand why they feel like they’ve been run over by a truck. I hope there’s something here which encourages you to keep going or at very least helps squash the little voice in your head which is telling you you’re the only one who’s struggling with anxiety around ‘being a writer’ right now. I hope 2021 is a bit easier than 2020. I hope I finally get to work out how to balance writing with being a writer. And I sincerely hope I get to see all of you in an actual room before the year’s out.
1. In the absence of live platforms to promote books, everything has now moved online. There aren’t necessarily more books out there, it’s just that they’re all being promoted in the same space right now. The best word I can describe for Literary Twitter/Instagram/Facebook this year is ‘clamorous.’ It feels like everyone is shouting at the same time about how great their book is. The more people shout, the louder others have to shout to be heard and all this shouting feels like a Tsunami of noise. I’m finding it really difficult not to compare myself (unfavourably) to other more visible writers. I’m finding it really difficult not to be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of books which are out there and the influx of new emerging writers. I’m finding it really difficult not to continually wonder if there’s any room for my voice in the midst of the clamour. I have to keep reminding myself that there’s plenty of room for everyone, (especially given the amount of people who’ve started reading again this year), and that the online noise is just a product of 2020, and also, most importantly, that there’s no point in comparing myself to other writers. I can only write the book I can write and I’m the only person who can write this book or, as AC puts it more eloquently, “If I could write like Elizabeth Bowen, Muriel Spark or Graham Greene I should jump to high heaven with delight, but I know that I can’t, and it would never occur to me to copy them. I have learnt that I am me, that I can do the things that, as one might put it, me can do, but I cannot do the things that me would like to do.”
2. I only have myself to blame for much of the exhaustion. As a freelance arts practitioner I’m never quite certain if, or when, the next pay cheque will appear and, in my anxiety, I keep saying ‘yes’ to everything when I should be saying, ‘can I think about it, and get back to you?’ I believe 2020 has really exacerbated this kind of panic culture amongst artists. It has played upon our, very real, fear of running out of work and income. For some of us in the literary sector, where the transition from live to online has proven slightly easier than in other sectors like dance and theatre, we’ve over-committed ourselves and taken on writing projects we wouldn’t usually consider. I’ve started asking if I can have some time to consider work before agreeing to it. I’ve been doing this for six weeks now and it’s helped a lot. I can honestly say I haven’t lost any work I actually wanted and have saved myself from panic-agreeing to projects and commissions which wouldn’t have been a good fit for me. I understand that it is a luxury right now to be able to consider work opportunities but if you are in a position of being offered more than you can manage, taking some time to think through what you say yes to might help with your anxiety levels. You can also recommend someone who might really appreciate the work you’re not able to do it yourself.
3. I don’t have to have an opinion about everything. It’s been a strange year to be a writer. The media and other outlets have been looking to generate an enormous amount of online content cheaply and many writers have found themselves the first point of approach. I’ve been asked to write opinion pieces and give interviews on everything from mask wearing to health and fitness tips for people living alone. Nine times out of ten these requests do not come with a fee and are of little or no use in promoting sales of my books. Some are downright ludicrous. I am now saying a universal, blanket ‘no’ to anything which doesn’t pay or doesn’t have a direct relevance to my writing or projects. This has also really helped reduce the clamour and my anxiety. Please remember that just because someone’s asking for your opinion, it doesn’t mean you have to give it.
4. I am not a frontline service. I’ve had to learn this lesson the hard way. A lot of people in salaried jobs were furloughed this year and had a great deal of time on their hands. At a conservative estimate, approximately 30% of them have written books and asked me to proofread them as a “wee favour” or they’ve tried to strike up friendly and lengthy correspondence about their writing practice or written looking for help to get published. If I’ve learnt one thing this year, it’s this: most people in salaried jobs do not understand how, and how little, writers get paid. 2020 has turned me into a grumpy bitch when it comes to doing “wee unpaid favours” for people. I just don’t anymore. And I refuse to feel guilty about it. I contribute a lot of unpaid writing work to organisations, projects and individuals I care about. I’m slowly learning that I don’t have the time or resources to help every random person who approaches me on social media. Sorry about this, (some latent guilt, clearly remains).
5. There’s an enormous amount of uncertainty about the future. Many of you, like me, have had your publishing schedule shifted around this year. Plans for 2020 went out the window completely. Plans for 2021 feel like they’re up in the air. Books got postponed. Books were launched in the midst of a Pandemic. Publishers had to furlough staff and operate on a shoestring for months. Festivals were interrupted. Bookstores closed. It all feels deeply unsettling, especially if you’re like me and manage your anxiety by planning and scheduling everything. I’ve found book lists so hard this year. It’s hard to look at the “Books we’re looking forward to in 2021” list and not see your book, which should have been there. I imagine it’s equally hard to look at the “best books of 2020” lists if your book was postponed in 2020 or didn’t get the PR attention it would normally have enjoyed. For all the online posturing that goes on, I imagine everyone is feeling similarly right now. This is not the ideal situation for launching a book. It’s ok to be disappointed and upset about this.
Being a writer is hard at the best of times. It requires a certain amount of swagger and a lot of thick skin and right now most of us are struggling to summons up the confidence to get out of bed. I’ve talked to lots of you this year. In real life, most writers aren’t half as upbeat and assured as they appear online, (I certainly am not). I’m not being critical. I’m just reminding you all, that behind the snappy Tweet or Instagram post, there could very well be a desperately insecure and exhausted writer. Let’s be gracious with each other. Let’s take every opportunity to genuinely enthuse about the writing we’re enjoying. (Right now, isn’t the time to hesitate about sending that “I don’t know you from Adam but your book really blew me away” Tweet). Let’s do everything we can to ensure 2021 is the year that ‘being a writer’ takes a backseat and makes room for lots of wonderful, soul-healing, diverse and eclectic, society-changing, actual writing.