In almost every way, I’m afraid 2024 has been a bit of a letdown. Like a lot of writers, I sat down a few days ago to do an evaluation of my year and disappointingly, in terms of productivity, this has been the year that I’ve done the least writing since I started writing ten years ago. I feel like I let myself down – a whole twelve months without much to show for it. My year began with a trip to the doctor’s office in mid-January, crippled with the most paralysing bout of depression I have ever experienced. She asked me some uncomfortable questions, which made me realise how bad things had gotten, and filled me with indescribable shame. 

I withdrew from everything. I stopped texting friends. Stopped trying to achieve any hint of literary genius. My editing course, which I started a year ago, remains only halfway completed in a cloud somewhere on the net, which is so unlike me – I’ve always flown through my writing related courses. And poor Rachel has been wantonly abandoned in favour of mindless Netflix binges (namely, Taskmaster binges), which is definitely out of character for me – I don’t watch telly really; I didn’t even watch much of it when we were in lockdown, opting instead to try writing flash pieces and to work on the compilation of Conversations about Activism and Change. I’ve lost my confidence, not that I was abundant in it to begin with. 

While I became overly comfortable in my cocoon of fog and self-hatred, a whole year of promise and opportunity passed by. Listen, you must admit that it’s not difficult to become disheartened by the state of the world around us.  I would strongly advise against binge-watching Reeling in the Years for the years 2010-2019, especially if you still have any hope for the future of humanity. Plus, the last few Covid-riddled years have not been easy on anyone, and I’m sure I’m not alone in becoming comfortable in my own company. It was too much time to think, to reflect on all the wrong turns I took, little bothreens that led to dead ends, the many mistakes I’ve made along the way.  

Staying in your head for too long isn’t good for anyone, especially since it’s now universally acknowledged that our toughest critics are the people who look back at us in the mirror. Also, through listening to various podcasts, Mel Robbins being one of my favourites, I’ve come to recognise that my own thoughts about myself are not necessarily true, and that we are hardwired to be risk-averse, because our brains are designed to protect us, a thought regularly echoed by one of my writing mentors, Maria McHale. This way of living, apparently, is not conducive to the creation of art. Indulging in art is risky, because it necessitates opening your soul and using the most personal of experiences to create something that other humans can relate to. 

I cannot waste another year frozen in time, watching any prospect of a writing career sliding down the toilet, and so I am renewing my commitment to keep writing, no matter how demotivated I feel, or how shit I think my words are. Apparently, not everything a writer produces will be dripping with brilliance – who knew? When I started out ten years ago, I thought that churning out novels would be effortless, once I got the hang of it, of course. Enid Blyton could bash out two “jolly good” novels a year, so surely I, too, was capable of it too? Turns out, it’s not that straightforward. Enid Blyton didn’t have to wrestle with the distractions of the Internet – possibly the worst enemy of the would-be prolific writer.  

Also, just because teenagers are more physically independent doesn’t mean that you are redundant, whether you are the taxi-driver or the clothes-washer. And my daughter has no interest in divulging anything that’s going on in her life, until it’s nigh on ten o’clock at night and my eyes are getting heavy – then absolutely everything comes out (and I must admit, I secretly love it!) Being a parent will always come first, but right now I’m relearning what my role is. On one hand, I have more time to write (and more time means less excuses –  theoretically I should be able to blog every day); on the other hand, I spend my time ensuring that all sports gear is washed and dried ready for impromptu matches, and keeping an eye on those cursed WhatsApp group chats. I have so much respect for people with more than one kid, who need to be in two places at once. 

I wanted to post this, firstly as a promise to myself to get more words on the page, regardless of how lousy I think they are, and secondly, as an attempt at solidarity to anyone who’s coming to the end of an equally unproductive year, especially if you, too, have had your plans scuppered by mental ill-health. I see you, and I want you to know that we are worth more than our productivity, that achievement is relative, and even making tiny steps beats doing nothing at all.  

Finally, a warm thank you to those who refused to leave my side this year – you know who you are – especially my rocks,  my husband and daughter. I am so lucky and I love you all x