The One With The Suffocating Writer

If I told you I hadn't written anything in over a year would you still think I was a writer?

If I told you my monthly Amazon income hadn't been more than a tenner for the past three years, would you still think I was a writer?

If I told you I hadn't had a single book review for over 6 months, would you still think I was a writer?

If I told you my social media engagement was at an all-time low, would you still think I was a writer?

If I told you that these blog posts get an average of just 50 views, would you still think I was a writer?

I can feel an existential crisis coming on . . . will you join me?

Come on, you know you want to.

Me on a work trip, not writing

Ok, maybe not quite existential. I know I exist because I have children to tend to and a house to run and bills to pay. I feel the hot coffee mug against my palms as much as the next person, or the rain on my skin or the chocolate on my tongue. But, as writing is my passion, and I've spent the last year not doing it, do I exist as a writer?

What even is a writer anyway? The Oxford Dictionary defines it as:

• A person who writes books, stories or articles as a job or regular occupation

• A person who writes in a specified way

The present tense here alarms me. If I read both of these definitions, I'm not sure I fit into either of them.

If the Amazon income is anything to go by, then I definitely don't write as a 'job' . As a 'regular occupation'? Well no, not really. Writing has not occupied much of my time lately - owing to many, many life distractions such as moving house, raising teenagers, a full-time job, financial panics (yes - those are time-consuming), adapting to perimenopause, chronic illness, accepting an autism diagnosis, and generally just trying to fit all of the things into all of the minutes.

Writing in a 'specified way'? Well, if you count knocking out a self-pitying blog post in bed on a Saturday morning a 'specified way', then I guess I could claim that one. A tenuous claim, but I'll take it.

Bed desk

I suppose a more interesting question would be, 'Why do I want to be defined as a writer?' i.e., why do I even care? As humans, we are many things, right? We are wild and stunted. We are energetic and knackered. We are passionate and numb. We are enlightened and ignorant. We're allowed to have many facets, and don't need to settle on one identity in the way that our coal miner grandads or seamstress grandmas did, do we?

But writing though. It's my thing.

This is where an affluent, white, middle-aged, middle-class, usually retired, heterosexual male (let's call him Dave) will jump in and tell me (uninvited, of course): 'If you want to write, just write! Dedicate yourself to it every day. Even if it's just 10 minutes, it will count. You can do this.'

Sweet, right?

Wrong.

Wrong, diddly-wrong-wrong.

Whilst I don't want to come over all bitter and twisted to Dave (although maybe I do), I find I hardly have the energy to tell him that in order for me to write a little bit every day, in order to find time amongst the cleaning, cooking, food shopping, full-time working, financial stressors, teenager-raising, family commitments, life admin, health management and relationship factors, I'd literally need to wake at 5am.

Don't get me wrong, I have done this before - it's how I wrote Murder at the Pirate Festival. But what I'm asking myself lately, as the one year mark since releasing Murder at the Pirate Festival passes, is: do I really want to do that again?

The result of MANY early rises

Dave might smile at me and shake his head in the only way a man of his demographic seems able, and say, 'Abi, Abi, Abi. All you have to do is prioritise.'

'Prioritise this,' I might say and then shortly after be carted off to prison where I'd have all the time in the world to write.

(Now there's a thought)

Seriously though, with mid-life commitments being at an all-time high, do I really want to do the 5am thing again? It's not just, can I fit it into my day, it's can I spare the emotional and mental energy? With brain fog and heavy fatigue being permanent residents in my body of late (thank you, perimenopause), I am not sure the consequences of reclaiming my title of 'writer', are worth it.

Dave might advise me to drop a few hours at work or even leave my job (hah). He might tell me I'm getting in my own way or I should have more confidence in myself. I'm not sure how it would land if I told him I have all the confidence I need after 47 years of battling the patriarchy, thank you very much. I'm not sure I'd care.

All I care about right now is doing what I love. And I don't know if this resonates with anyone out there, but basically, Hell hath no fury like a woman who cannot practice her heartwork. Her true, authentic, beautiful, soul-satisfying heartwork.

I'm not really sure of the point of this blog post other than to share with the world (approx 50 of you) that I'm struggling with an art I'm not even practicing. Not because I don't love it or don't think I can do it or think it will be shit: but because I don't know how to make it happen. I don't know how to fit it in this ridiculously pressurised world.

Toddler Abi is stamping her feet.

Perimenopausal Abi is joining her.

In this day and age of war and persecution, I want to acknowledge that this is a nice, first-world problem to have. In Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, I'm doing pretty well. However, as a neurodiverse person with an ultra-sensitivity towards unfairness and injustice, the whole top of the pyramid thing feels a bit far-off. I'm wondering how I can let writing get me there again.

I need to get past the gatekeeper

And this post is part of my whole verbal-processing thing. A lot of my readers tell me they can really 'hear my voice' whenever I write anything and I think that's why. My autism may give me big emotions that are difficult to deal with, but it also gives me a way to get my voice heard. Speaking and writing, for me, are as essential as breathing.

And just like that, I've gone full circle. Maybe the Oxford Dictionary definition should be:

• A person who needs to write or they will suffocate

Thank you for reading this post and helping me feel like a writer again. You're my actual hero.

Go well,

Abi

xxx

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