Mountains and Manifestos

On Not Being Published - A Subject Close to My Heart

I’ve been bowled over by the number of people signing up for Writing Days. Thank you, thank you all, I already feel a renewed sense of connexion with the creative world out there. And thank you for the reading suggestions both public and private that have come my way. I am on them!

I've been thinking about travel this week, and in particular about being in the mountains. I was in my early 30s, in what feels like another life altogether, when I went trekking in the Himalayas in Kashmir and Nepal. I was quite convinced that I wouldn't be up to the physical demands of such a journey, never having been good at that sort of thing, but I was persuaded by my partner John, and I now count it as among the most extraordinary and life enhancing things I've ever done.

It was not without it downsides, after all we were backpacking. In Kashmir there were bears, heard but thankfully not encountered, a bed full of fleas and a breakfast of gruel - I won't begin to go into the sanitary arrangements. In Nepal, fierce sunburn from the altitude, dust-filled, mite-infested rooms, pastry rolled out on a dirt floor, hard walking, screaming knees.  But there was fresh snow, spindrift on the mountaintops, pine forests, rhododendron forests, orchids, sunrises, sunsets, almond blossom, exotic birds. And something less tangible - I'm not sure I ever felt more alive, more truly in tune and at peace with the world than I did in those mountains. I felt it again recently in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada in southern Spain. Mountains have a way of drawing you in, of holding you and of putting the world firmly into perspective.

In the Kali Gandaki river bed, dry season, approx 10,000 ft up

Leading a writing life requires perspective. It requires us to take the long view, to think of the work as the journey, and as more important than any 'success,' along the way. This is a very different perspective from the one I see constantly advertised on social media. I’m tired, and angry too, of reading articles about how to get published, how to secure a book deal, how to write a best seller, how to become 'agented' what a dreadful word that is. Does it even exist?

The published writer who earns her living by her words, whose books are seen on Waterstones shelves, is a near mythical creature. Rarely sighted. Yet there are many individuals and organisations willing to make money out of those who dream of doing just that.

To my way of thinking, to be truly creative, we have to put all of this, these societal measures of success to one side. Along with all the jokes about whether you'll be the next JK Rowling when people hear that you write. Sour grapes, you might say? Perhaps, but I have been courted by this world and come near to becoming a part of it. I've seen it up close and I know how easily it erodes confidence, and your ability to be true to yourself as a writer. How you become a commodity and a workhorse. 'They don't understand it, it's too working class, just write the next book,' said my first agent. 'Put more sex in, then it will sell,' said my second agent about another book...

By agent two and a failed deal I was on the brink of falling out of love with writing, of giving up the thing I loved doing best. Of considering myself a failure. One of things that helped restore my sense of perspective apart from a conscious decision to turn my back on the big publishing world, was writing a manifesto- at least, that’s what I called it then. I recommend it - it might be a manifesto for writing, but also for living, for painting, for reading, gardening...whatever it is you want to do. It can be an expression of intention. In my case, reflecting on it now I see that it was probably less manifesto and more love letter to remind myself just why I loved writing. I asked myself the question, why write?

This was, my answer, written 10 years ago. It still is my answer - it helps ground me, brings me back to what’s important, to a place where I can start again…

I write because:

I discovered I could, because after years of looking for ways to express my creativity, without ever feeling whole, I finally found what it was I could best do. What it was I wanted to do.

I write to connect with the world, to reflect the lives of people who live on the margins, who others might think unimportant.

I write to make myself whole, to disappear in the act of writing, to lose myself completely, so that time passes unmarked.

I write to spend time in other worlds that fascinate me

to spend time with people who share my passion.

I write because I get my own room, where I am surrounded by books and flowers. ( I had to wait a while for this and I wrote in plenty of other spaces before)

I write because I love reading and words, and I love polishing my words over and over.

I write because now I have to, I must, it has become an essential part of who I am. I write because it brings me happiness and purpose.

You will note, there is nothing here about writing to be published and though I'm fortunate to have found my home with a small, independent publisher, there would still be nothing. Being a writer, to me, is not a question of published or not published, good or bad, but a question of intention and loving the work.

There is no doubt though, that we all seek an audience for our words. I think this is where the writer has it tougher than other creatives who have a product or outcome they can share. Nobody objects when a painter puts a canvas up on her walls, a potter makes a vase as a gift, a gardener shares her flowers, these are generously received and admired. But the writer has little to show for his or her efforts unless she has that published story, pamphlet, book, or unless he is a spoken word artist. There are ways round this, self-publishing among them, which I’m all for, despite the snobbery that often surrounds it, and which I'm sure I'll come to in later newsletters.

In the meantime, not being published is fine. It's OK. It does not mean you are not a writer!  And if you need to relish and hold on to that idea, then why not write that manifesto cum love letter and stick it up on the wall.

Talking of love, this week has also been tinged with sadness for me as we travelled south for my much loved, Mother-in-Law’s funeral on Tuesday. Laura lived to be 102, so there was the celebration of a long life, as well as sadness.  John wrote the eulogy. Difficult to write and much more difficult to deliver. He did it brilliantly. He deserves a medal! I could not have done it. I did not do it for my own father though I wished I had. In my book there are medals for all the eulogy writers and speakers and for those of us too, who are just thinkers in our grief.

Medals also to all the amazing women I seem to have chatted with this week, (you know who you are) who despite the odds, health, finance, childcare, despite it being February and grey and cold, continue to live out their creative dreams. You blow me away!

Am watching, 'The West Wing,' - Channel 4 - second time around. I find it a comfort in these dark days of politicians without moral compass.

Have been listening to the brilliant - My Sylvia Plath - BBC Sounds - by Emily Berry

With travel on my mind, I'm planning an inspiring trip - more of that to come.

See you next time I hope - with news of a new poetry anthology and a look inside my notebook at text for, A Little Madness in the Spring, (latest novel).

thanks so much for joining me - Avril x

Rhododendron Forest Annapurnas Nepal