Hope. I do nothing to summon it, I don’t nurture it but there it is. I don’t know what to do with it. I’ve navigated it well in the past; there is a position on the horizon, a goal. But what do you
do when the goal sinks?
For the first time in my life those wells ran dry. I genuinely spent whole weeks of 2023 wondering if perhaps I was a lost cause and that my energies would be better spent on other people. After all, I can help other people. There are reasons to be cheerful, my daughters and my partner are doing well. They are healthy. But this brings me round to the conclusion that since they do well generally, I’d be better helping them do well as opposed to serving myself in any way. I don’t want to treat myself as I have not earned the right, I work hard but it’s not MY work. I do what I'm told. I do what needs to be done.
When I try to write or draw or paint, it feels a bit like pissing in the wind (I’d imagine). The more out of practice I become, the sillier it seems and the sillier it seems, the more out practice I become. I’d been a storyteller since early childhood. It was the only thing I felt confident and comfortable doing. I was saddled with learning difficulties so I couldn't show off about it. But I could do it. Aged eight I was told, “you think you can read but you can’t” and five or so of us were banished from the classroom to a room behind the stairs to copy out cards for half an hour. It felt like an eternity.
This last year, in line with the trend of now, many acquaintances have made their own diagnoses, dyslexia being the most common and ADHD and autism cropping up. They offer nothing more than a label. I’ve always thought I was dyslexic if dyslexia exists or whether it is a general term applied to a range of literary/numeracy difficulties. I am interested in anything that might help with the symptoms, but this is never forthcoming. Neither for that matter, is understanding. The truth is that people are always grateful to whoever struggles more than them, the runt can only be viewed from a position of superiority and for all the platitudes that come, there is no desire to see the roles reversed or to help them up to equality. Perhaps I should have complained more but, to quote Muriel Spark, ‘I refuse to play the victim, I’m completely unsuited to the role.”
A determination and faith that it wouldn’t hold me back burnt out this year, after decades of hope and determination getting me precisely nowhere. The periods of despondency lengthening with every wave until the hope ceased to dominate.
Sixteen years ago I took over a spoken word event. My stomach started playing up months before. I was terrified but I did it. I thought it would help me. I wrote several books before one was published. Each attempt builds to the destination. I kept on, I did it easily. I proudly supported women bullied by the publishing industry for not believing in gender identity ideology. I was so easily ignored I can’t say what this did to my own chances but the few acquaintances I had in the literary world ignored me completely. I don't regret it. My own rejections hurt for a bit, but on I went. On and on.
Small publishers are not reviewed by the press, I didn’t know that in 2022 and I wasted so much time and money sending my debut out in the hope of a review. Heed me writers; do not do this. It doesn’t matter if the publication is far left or right, broadsheet to tabloid, your book will not be returned to you, it will be binned. They have deals with publishers and if they don’t have a deal with you, don't bother.
I was delighted when the reviews came in via the publisher. I thought they would help. I appealed to friends to review but received just one. In 2022 I ran a marathon to raise funds for the cause I had explored in fiction, drug deaths were killing three people in Glasgow every week. I visited a school and spoke to pupils about writing. I was terrified. I had to take time off work – bring my own material, pay for the travel but I thought it would help. I was and remain, eternally grateful to the librarian for giving me the chance.
Then came 2023 and nothing changed.
O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
I think I now know how people see me. I thought I knew before. Not as I would wish but I can no more change other’s perceptions of me than I can change my own. These things we must accept. But the truth was even worse than I thought.
When I presented an actual book, that it was an actual book was met with surprise.
-Oh, it’s a real book! Oh well done you. You've written a book, you clever thing.
As though I had done so out of vanity rather than love. As though I'd done it to prove a point when the sad truth is I believe passionately in the power of storytelling and always have. Stories play on in my head. My brain cannot function without them. Symbols make no sense, sequencing is a struggle. Stories stay.
Yes. A pat on the head is what I got. I smiled through it where I could and bit my tongue when I couldn’t. At other times I was treated like a laughing stock, so couldn’t be angry with those who meant well. The experience told me a lot about how I was viewed. That learning difficulties of decades ago had never gone away.
At work, I found my confidence plummeted to depths I not known since my teenage years (and as a teenager – you are entitled to think things will get better). As with the book I had to accept being patronized, I had to accept being talked down to, I even had to accept being a laughing stock. I mustered my courage for two spoken word events and was left off the bill for both, sweating and trembling in anticipation of a performance I would not be called upon to make.
The first time it happened I was despondent. The second time I was raging . I’m not sure I could put myself forward again but I probably would if the chance came. I dare not hope but I must.
So I’m glad the year is over, already suspicious of the year to come. But I’ll keep on, hope or no hope because 2023 has taught me there is no alternative.
Those who are weak don't fight.
Those who are stronger might fight for an hour.
Those who are stronger still might fight for many years.
The strongest fight their whole life.
They are the indispensable ones.
Bertold Brecht
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