Tag Archives: writing

The Important Conversations – Tuesday Thoughts 4

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(Published Sunday 25 June 2023 due to holidays)

Let me take you back to January 2008. I’m working with the Offaly Centre for Independent Living, my first job after graduating from Trinity with an English Degree. I’m twenty-three, and I think I’m the cat’s pyjamas. I’ve landed a job here on the FAS Scheme with little to no experience. Trouble is, I don’t quite know what my role is. I want to add something, but I’m not sure what I’m adding to.

I google Independent Living and read definitions that at one stage, I could recite verbatim. I’m starting to think that my new job isn’t all that exciting. Then I come across the story of Ed Roberts, and suddenly I’m captivated. It’s the story of a very ordinary boy who, in his early teens, contracted polio and was left almost completely paradise. He’d written himself off, fervently wishing to die until he was told that if it was truly his wish, then so be it. Suddenly, Ed realised that it was freedom of choice he was craving and that he wanted to live.

I’m hooked. I need to know more. I come across another name, Judy Heumann, and my mouth falls open as I learn that she and Ed were at the centre of the establishment of an entire human rights movement. There’s more information about them both – interviews, short films – and I realise, as I waste away another day in front of my laptop, that it’s these stories that are making me more curious about Independent Living. These real, personal stories.

I gain permission from my manager, the late Michael Nestor, to capture these stories. But I’m young and inexperienced, and my overall efforts are a bit crappy. I don’t prepare the questions properly, I don’t bother to prod people or encourage them to talk. I’m going in with my preconceived ideas about what people are going to say. As a result, the finished product is a flop, and there’s no uniformity in the collection. No common theme emerges. And I convince myself that maybe I’m not as interested in Independent Living as I once believed.

Still, the idea of capturing the Independent Living Movement in some tangible way never strayed far from my thoughts. It’s said that one reason for writing a book is because as a writer, you wish to discover something, rather than to impart wisdom that you already know. In 2014, I decide that I wanted to write full-time, a decision that frightens me to this very day. I’ve always loved reading stories, and I want to capture some of my own. I start to move away from disability activism. Alas, something terrible would happen and whether I like it or not, I’m about to be roped back in.

On the 13 October 2016, RTE announces that the father of the Irish Independent Living Movement, Martin Naughton, has passed away at the age of 62. It can’t be true. Surely Martin is invincible? I genuinely believe that the bottom has just fallen out of the disability movement. Who would take over? Little do I realise that nobody needed to “take over”, that for years, several other disability activists had been coming together to bring about much-needed social change. I know that there had been a historical protest in September 2012, rallying against the eradication of Personal Assistance for disabled people in Ireland, but who had been involved? What had been sacrificed? Were they scared? Did they ever just get tired of the whole bloody racket and vowed to give up? For some reason, I need answers to these questions. I need to know that, if I’m going to join a disability movement, that it’s not going to be a waste of my time and energy. I need to know that this movement truly belongs to disabled people.

I’m being arrogant again. I know nothing. A week after Martin’s passing, a group of us are brought together to discuss a commemorative event. I’ve heard of many of these people, including Ann Marie Flanagan and Shelly Gaynor, but I’ve never met them before. I was following them in a quest to create a space to talk openly about rights and self-determination, but I was joining the motorway from a different exit. I wanted to know more. I asked permission to set up a blog to gather these stories. But it still wasn’t enough for me.

Another reason for writing a book is to create something that you’d want to read yourself. I’d always wanted to read about the history of the Independent Living Movement in Ireland, not just about dates, but I want to capture the human passion behind it. How do you nurture that inner self-belief that you truly belong in the world? Working on the commemorative event, I realise that camaraderie is a huge part of it. Activism isn’t just about marches and policies; it’s those little chats in the pub afterwards where you expose your vulnerabilities to other people. That’s how you learn to trust in each other, and come together for a collective cause. As I hear other people talking about Martin Naughton, what struck me was how many people remark “I didn’t know that I could do x, y or z, but Martin believed I could, and so I did it.” That, to me, is powerful, and I wondered how I could collect these stories and inform others about the power of the collective.

One thing I learned when I worked in the area of independent living is that people don’t always relate to academic definitions or legal jargon. They connect to each other, something that became increasingly obvious in the early days of the COVID pandemic. Independent Living Movement Ireland committed to creating online spaces where seasoned and emerging activists alike could share experiences with each other. In April 2020, with no hope or expectation whatsoever, I approach Des Kenny, Chair of Independent Living Movement Ireland (ILMI), with an idea that we could capture these stories. His support and encouragement led me to approach Damien Walshe, CEO of ILMI, with a rough proposal. To my surprise, he agreed that ILMI and the Independent Living Movement should document these histories, and would I like to have the honour of doing it?

I was thrilled. – But shouldn’t you call in a professional? I asked.

-You are a professional, I was told. You’re a disabled writer with lived experience. Now put that useless doubt to one side and get on with it. That wasn’t what I was told, of course. Damien and Des are kind, diplomatic gentlemen. What they actually said was: “We wouldn’t let you near it if we thought you weren’t up for the job.”

And so, we invited a number of activists to recount their stories to a live Zoom audience on Wednesday nights during the summer of 2020. Ellis Palmer, talented BBC journalist, suggested that the sessions should be made into podcasts, and made available on the ILMI website. 

I admit, I didn’t really give much thought about what I’d signed up for. I’d done transcription work before, but I was nervous about doing this. I wanted to capture the unique voices of those who were to be included, so the transcriptions were word-for-word, then edited so that I wasn’t tempted to include my own slant on their stories. The actual progress is laborious and time-consuming, but completely worth it. It’s the only way to capture the authenticity of these pieces, and for these activists to have ownership over their own words.

I cannot stress enough that the final product, Conversations about Activism and Change: Thirty Years of Independent Living Movement Ireland and Disability Rights is not a definitive history of the disability movement, but rather my first attempt in capturing part of it. If I had my way, I would still be interviewing disabled activists and transcribing their stories, but alas, I’m only human, and we needed to agree an end goal. These stories are intensely personal. Details of personal and political struggles can be sad to read. What shines through the entire collection is the recognition on the part of all the storytellers that they were not alone. Once they wrestled with the internalised oppression, which is a byproduct of an over-medicalised childhood, they learned how, through working together, to recognise and tackle societal and attitudinal barriers. Some stories include subtle nods to fallen comrades who influenced them as activists. There’s a consensus that although much has been achieved, we still need to keep fighting to be recognised as citizens with rights as opposed to objects of care.

Conversations about Activism and Change is the book I yearned to read when I started working in the area of Independent Living, and I am so relieved to know that younger activists coming up behind me will have some sort of blueprint for campaigning for equal rights in the future. It is my dream that the language of equality and human rights will override the long-seated discourse of pity, charity and helplessness that is so deeply intertwined with disability in Irish culture. And the only way this will ever happen is if we continue to use our own voices to create those important counter-narratives, to have the courage and conviction to speak for ourselves and own our own histories. 

Conversations about Activism and Change: Independent Living Movement Ireland and Thirty Years of Disability Rights

Available on Amazon as paperback and for Kindle:

Hero or Villain?

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So, I just thought I would give you all a little update into how the writing is going. Well, at this exact moment in time I, like so many of you, am fit to melt into a puddle, which isn’t helping. Before this week, however, I was plodding along until once again, I found myself disappearing into a cul-de-sac. Interestingly, I know in my head where this is going – finally! – but it’s not translating to paper as well as I’d like. This is a common predicament for writers, not unique to me. After hacking away for a while, and adding words purely to beef up the word count, I decided to take a break. I gave myself permission to step away, justifying my decision with advice from writer Sam Blake (The lovely Vanessa Fox O’Loughlin) that sometimes you need to allow your subconscious the space to put elements of the story together. I’ve spent the last week or so doing just that.

A number of things have rubbed me since reading in Cork nearly a month ago. I began thinking about the advice my brilliant mentor David Butler gave me during our last session. “You’re really being too hard on Rachel,” he said, which annoyed me a bit, because I think Rachel deserves it. My protagonist can be lazy, selfish and quite frankly, a bit manipulative. She uses events of the past to justify her shitty behaviour towards those around her.  Some days she annoys me so much that I want to shake her. Why doesn’t she just try a bit harder?

The funny thing is, David is absolutely right, of course. Everyone in my writing group loves Rachel and is rooting for her to overcome her demons. They think she’s feisty and assertive in all the right ways, and they seem to look forward to the next instalment, which is flattering. Rachel even got a few laughs at the West Cork Literary Festival, which was such a good feeling. My daughter didn’t go to the reading, but she read the extract in the back of the car afterwards. Her eagle-eye spotted every detail; she is an avid reader who I’m sure can memorise many of Jacqueline Wilson’s or David Walliams’ books. After she finished, my daughter asked me “Mammy, why does everyone hate Rachel?”

“Did you not hear what her boss said to her? She’s been missing appointments, coming in late and hungover. She’s not a reliable employee.”

“Yes, but she seems to care about her clients. I know she’s not perfect, but I can see where she is coming from too. People need to back off her.”

My eyes narrowed. “Hmmm. Have you been talking to David?”

After taking a break for a week, I went back and read over the story again. I could see what David and Alison were saying; I am quite hard on Rachel, and she deserves some happiness. Because Rachel and I are similar in many ways (the Cerebral Palsy, the struggle to fit in at work, and hating being called “inspirational”), I’ve been trying to detach myself from her a bit. I did a one-day course with Michéle Forbes in April on creating characters, and now I understand why all my characters act the way they do. Including my antagonist, Sister Anthony.

For years, I’ve said that I base Sister Anthony not on a person but rather an attitude that I as a disabled person have encountered all my life. That voice that tells us as disabled people that we are less than (I’ve written about internalised oppression before), that in order to be accepted, we need to change and conform. These ingrained beliefs – personified in my story through Sister Anthony – can be difficult to challenge unless we question them, where they come from, and how damaging it can be to believe them.

I know you probably don’t know what I’m on about, so let me explain. (Oh, please reader, be kind; this is so hard to write and admit to). The reality of aging with impairment is something that is seldom talked about. I was lucky to have availed of services throughout my childhood – physio-, speech- and occupational therapy. However, in Ireland, once you turn eighteen, access to these services becomes restricted, if you’re lucky enough to have access in the first place. I’ve always been lucky in accessing services, but only because I’ve pushed for them.

In recent years, I’ve experienced aches and pains beyond anything I ever had in my childhood or teenage years. I still do my physio and exercise, but my body is starting to fight back against some of the things that I used to regard as normal. For example, I used to hoover and mop on my knees, because that way I didn’t need to worry about balance and coordination. I love ironing – my mother taught me the importance of perfectly ironed clothes – but now an ironing session might warrant an hour’s rest afterwards. I’m not giving up. I’ve always been independent and that’s not going to change. But I have to admit that sometimes I worry that this decision will have unsavoury consequences.

And on Friday, I had a very upsetting moment of realisation. Upsetting to the point where I cried – a lot. Yes, I am like Rachel – stubborn, imperfect, obstinate and determined. But I have also become my own Sister Anthony. And Anthony is not a pleasant person. She’s pushy, and often extremely cruel. Her expectations of Rachel are unrealistic and the by-product of living in an ableist society, one where the medical model dictates that self-improvement and conformity are key to being accepted as an equal. 

I’m glad I recognise this in myself, because it means that I can heal. I need to give myself, and Rachel, a bit of a break. Heaven knows we’ve both put up with enough to last us a lifetime, and for the first time since I started working on this story seven years ago, I’m starting to think that we both deserve a happy ending. And for Rachel, this will just be a matter of writing a couple of thousand words. Mine will only come with an acceptance of my limitations, and this will take a lot more work. But I will get there, and hopefully finish this godforsaken novel in the process.

(Not today, though. It’s far too hot!)

The Big Imposter

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Forgive me reader, for I have sinned: it has now been four months since my last blog. I was browsing through it today and decided that I need to make more of an effort to post more often. But I have been writing, I promise. In fact, I decided that I needed to give my novel another chance, after leaving it on the back-burner for the last three years while I got distracted by various projects and courses. I did the Certificate in Disability Studies in 2019 with the view of trying to get another job in the disability sector, and all I have got from that so far is further confirmation that I want to be a full-time writer. Lucrative? Not in the slightest, but I love it. I’ve been doing it for seven years now, with no-one prodding me to write. I’ve gone out of my way to prove that the statement “working on my own initiative” on my CV is true, that’s for sure. And when I look back on my writing career as a whole, I’m proud of what I’ve achieved, how many people I’ve reached and how many opportunities I’ve been given, from Independent Living Movement Ireland (ILMI) in particular (a big thank you once again).

Yet, when the opportunity came to push myself a bit further, I was reluctant. In June, ILMI joined forces with Skein Press and The Stinging Fly, offering a bursary to an emerging disabled writer. I eyed the advertisement with relish, but dismissed it initially. It wasn’t a good time: our house was being renovated and we were living twenty minutes away in Mountmellick, and we were coordinating the renovation as well as trying to keep Alison’s routine normal. The whole ordeal was so overwhelming that I had to step back from activism before I burned out. Suffice to say, it was a busy time, and when I threw the first ten pages of what I would usually term “my excuse for a novel” into the ring, the last thing I expected was to get an email two weeks later to say I’d won.

Reader, I felt euphoric. It was the middle of the July heatwave, and I brought Alison for an ice-cream so chocolatey and stodgy that we needed full showers afterwards; the pack of baby wipes didn’t cut it. I was so proud of myself. I had done it: everything I’d written since 2015 had been leading up to that moment.

But the next morning, after I had sent my “yes please and thank you for this opportunity” email to Nidhi Eipe from the Play It Forward Programme, I felt a sickness in the pit of my stomach. Why did I do that? I won’t be able for it. I’m not a real writer. No way am I good enough for something like this. Nidhi sent me a list of potential mentors from which I had to pick someone to work with. A list of established authors, with their work published, who knew what they were doing. I panicked, and drafted two emails. One was to Nidhi to say thank you but clearly there had been a mistake and I wasn’t the woman for the job. The other was to the two facilitators of a group that I’m part of called Writers Ink, and I wrote that even though I had been awarded this bursary, I wasn’t sure how I was going to maintain a pretence of being a half-decent writer and that I was terrified of making myself look like an idiot.

Thankfully, I didn’t send either email, as I would have succeeded in looking like an idiot. Instead, I stepped away from my laptop and took a breather for a few days. How was I going to shake this feeling of being a complete imposter? How was I going to overcome this feeling of sheer terror?

And then it came to me: I would have to fake it. I would have to pretend that I was a competent writer, capable of writing a novel. You see, the trouble is that I have never really taken this writing thing seriously. I’ve been told by people that there are some hidden gems in these pages, and yet I treat it like a diary, something I think no-one will read (perhaps taking the adage “write as if no-one will ever read it” a bit too far). In reality, despite how far I’ve come, I don’t feel like a “real” writer, deserving of any attention, positive or otherwise. The only thing keeping me going is coming to my laptop every day, telling myself “I can do this,” then typing as fast as I can before I change my mind, or overanalyse what my character is doing.

I’ve been allocated a terrific mentor, author and poet David Butler, who makes me smile: he loves Rachel, my character. Better still, he gets her, which I wasn’t expecting this early in our mentoring journey. He has been so encouraging on this novel-writing journey which can often feel so lonely, and now that I have more (though not full) control over my imposter syndrome, I can take his compliments as well as his suggestions for improvements and feel a sense of pride in my work.

I would like to thank ILMI, the Stinging Fly, the Play It Forward team, Skein Press and David Butler for this incredible opportunity. I won’t let you down! 

…Hopefully, if I keep telling myself that, it might turn out to be true.

The Writing Process

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Hi all, my apologies for not blogging here for a long, long time but believe it or not, I have actually been busy writing! I’m half-way through a ‘Begin Your Novel’ course (the time to do this, I suspect, was three years ago) and hope to dive into finishing Rachel’s story with more clarity. Deborah, if you’re reading this, we said the beginning of May for a first draft, but looking at the work I need to do that won’t be happening – sorry!

One of the other things I’ve been working on is an article about why I chose to write and my writing process. It was a great opportunity to promote myself as a writer and it will be published in the Spring edition of The Irish Wheelchair Association’s SpokeOut.  While everything I put into the article is completely true, I did make some omissions to the realities of the writing process. Here’s what a typical day might look like

9am – Arrive at my desk. My diary is open in a deliberate attempt to get me writing straightaway, complete with a pen to encourage me to jot down things straightaway. Ignore said diary and open emails instead. It’s important to know what skills my cousin endorsed me for on LinkedIn. Ooh, writing… oh yes, right…

9.30am Open Word and start freewriting. It’s great to get the old juices flowing. I love writing, it’s awesome.

10am – I did not know that your one Sarah from Corrie, Tina-whatever-her-face is, actually went out with Ryan Thomas who plays Jason. Oh, and that vicar Billy is going out with your man Daniel – wow he’s gay?! Oh all right, this has nothing to do with my novel, oops

10.20am – Back to work.

11.15am – That dryer has been beeping for the last ten minutes. I must turn it off because it’s wrecking my head.

11.30am: [ding] Who’s messaging me? Oh, it’s Ken from college. Writing back to him surely counts as work, him being a published writer and all. He’s sharing his knowledge. It’s imperative I don’t ignore him.

11.45am: 500 words written. Of pure and utter waffle! This is embarrassing, I’ve been working since half nine!

12.00pm: I’ve spend the last fifteen minutes rocking back and forth in my office chair, trying to calm myself down. But I feel I’m failing as a writer, and failing at life. Who did I think I was,  trying to be the next Margaret Atwood? I wonder did she ever feel like this. I’m going to quickly google and find out

12.15pm: Nope, probably not. I mean, look at all the books she’s written. Bet she didn’t spend all her time googling all her favourite authors. You know what? This internet’s nothing but a bloody distraction. I’m going to disconnect altogether.

12.55pm: 300 more words. Not bad if you omit the fact that I’m supposed to have my novel finished by the end of May. I feel sad. Cue more chocolate.

1.05pm: Nooooo, what is my laptop doing? Updates?! I don’t remember agreeing to this time. ‘Preparing to configure: 3%’. Why are you doing this to me?

1.45pm: Alison will be home in fifteen minutes but thank God the bloody laptop has finished updating itself, though what difference it makes I don’t know….. Oh no… no no no…my work, where is it? I’m opening Word but not seeing it… Recover unsaved files… no, that’s not it… agh! [enter string of expletives here]

2pm: Make note in my diary to write blog about my crappy day’s work, but maybe wait until I find it funny.

Of course, not every day is like this (if it were I wouldn’t bother writing at all) and if I had my wish, I’d be more organised and productive.

Then again, I’d also love to move to Australia, but that mightn’t happen anytime soon either.

 

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Man, I feel like a writer…

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I am writing this blog today in the hope that after I do so, the inspiration that I need to fix the middle of my novel will magically appear and afterwards my office will feel like it’s full of unicorns and rainbows.

It’s been two years since I left my job and decided that I wanted to be a writer. I wasn’t under any illusion that doing this would ever make me rich. It wasn’t the money I was seeking, or fame or recognition or anything like that. It was the sense of feeling useful, productive, being able to see on a blank page exactly what I’d produced that day. Having tangible goals. Doing the unthinkable and throwing myself out there, feeding myself to the wolves.

One thing that I did wrongly anticipate was having a real sense of pride in what I do. I’m ashamed to say that although I try to convince myself otherwise on a daily basis, part of me feel like a giant fraud. Especially when people ask how the novel is getting on (‘How long have you been writing it now? Two years?! You must be nearly finished.’) Nope, nowhere even close. I now realise that I probably should’ve started with something slightly more manageable, like a collection of short stories, but I can’t backpedal now. I’ll finish this book if it kills me! (and by the looks of it, it probably will).

Another frustrating aspect of my life right now is that I can’t decide whether I should focus on activism or writing more. Obviously, in writing the novel, I’m tackling both at the same time which, if I wrote it properly, could start a whole new conversation about how we perceive disability as an issue in Ireland (okay, perhaps I am being a little overambitious, but better to aim too high than too low, right?). But then I can feel myself being pulled towards being a full-time activist, always trying to make a difference, and I think to myself: God almighty, what is it I want?!

I’ve also found myself looking at the job section in the paper/on websites a bit more lately and every time I do so, I can physically feel myself trying to repress my urge to write. You said that if you weren’t getting a steady income by the middle of this year, you’d quit. This makes me turn cold. Inner voice, stop talking out of your behind! I can’t quit. People will laugh at me, think badly of me, I’ll have to start all over again and anyway, if I’m ready to quit, what is this magical force that keeps bringing me back to the keyboard?

Maybe it’s organising an event to honour Irish Disability Activists that has me frazzled, but I have to admit that being involved in this project has prompted me to think about the legacy that activists such as Martin and Donal have left to us. I look at them and others, and at what they achieved and failed to achieve for us, and remember their unwavering passion and I think, how did they never lose their passion? How did they and so many others keep going even when they were told they were wrong? They used their voices with confidence; I hide behind a computer screen.

With my words, where I feel safe.

I know that I’m probably going to return to the workforce, sooner rather than later, but I’d rather do it with something to show for myself. Something tangible, preferably a novel or some kind of written portfolio. Something to leave behind. A legacy.

And I suppose, isn’t that what activists and writers have in common: the irrepressible need to leave their mark on the world? Seems they’re not so different, after all.

The Innocence of Anna

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Yesterday, my dad called in and delivered an unexpected surprise: an old newspaper article from 2001, written by two of my Transition Year classmates about the performance of my play, Waiting for Anna, in the Sacred Heart School. The paper itself is now tatty, dog-eared and smells damp, but the memory of that period of my life is as clear and fresh as if I were seventeen years old again.

 

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Aforementioned Article published in the Offaly Express, 5 May 2001

 

A year before, I was sixteen, getting ready  to sit my Junior Cert with only a vague idea of what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I hated study at the time (yes, believe it or not) and the prospect of going into fifth year made me feel sick.  So, in spite of the fact that I would be nineteen leaving school, a year older than 90% of my peers, I decided to do Transition Year and chill out. Little did I know that there’d be little chilling involved!

To get into Transition Year, there was an interview process. I was nervous and when it came to my turn, I was asked what skills I had to offer either by way of the Mini Company or other projects. Before the thought of writing a play had crossed my mind, the idea fell out of my mouth into the thoughts of Ms F, who was interviewing me to determine if I was a suitable TY candidate. Within twenty-four hours Ms H, the drama teacher, had sought me out and congratulated me on committing to write the TY play. It was madness. The only play I’d ever read was Romeo and Juliet, and I suppose Waiting for Anna does share similar themes: two teenagers falling in love against their parents’ wishes, running away to be together. Thankfully nobody dies; that’d be a tad extreme.

I set to work in the summer of 2000, spending all my time at the computer typing, composing, tittering to myself. I decided to have fun because I didn’t think anyone was ever going to actually read it, let alone play it out on stage. I got to know all the characters individually, each one based (and named after) someone I knew and loved. I laughed out loud, I sobbed into my chest. The first draft was completed on the 13 September 2000, at twenty pages long.

Writing Waiting for Anna was the most pure writing experience I’ve ever had. I had no perception of myself as a writer; it was just something I wrote. I never thought to edit or censor myself either, and all in all Ms H took very little out. Handing it over to be read by my classmates is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. In the beginning, they  didn’t know I’d written it and felt free to pull parts of  the dialogue apart and make it their own, although these occurrences were rare. As the writer I was more than happy to walk away and leave my friends to their  own interpretations, but then Ms H insisted that I co-produce the play as well.

Anna consumed me. In many ways I became her. She was the unwitting victim of psychological and financial abuse at the hands of her boyfriend Tom, but this wasn’t a straightforward ‘good vs evil’ story. Tom’s life had been hard, whereas Anna came from a privileged background. Tom wasn’t evil; in fact he had a lot to be angry about: having to leave school early, losing his mother and bound to support his hapless, unemployed father. All he wanted was control over his life. And believe it or not, even though I wrote the bloody play, I can only understand Tom now, nearly sixteen years later.

And here I am, sixteen years later. trying to forge a career for myself in writing and finding myself envious of that confident seventeen year old who didn’t know any better. I miss her. She wasn’t self-conscious about every little thing that she wrote. She didn’t care who she offended as long as her message got out there. She would’ve had the confidence  to throw herself out there at the mercy of an unreliable audience.

She wouldn’t have hordes of short stories hidden away on her laptop, never to be read by anyone.

She would have finished her novel months ago without giving two flying figs how it would be received, if it made sense or if people would relate to the main character.

Some people become less self-conscious as they get older, but I seem to have become more so. A lot of it has to do with being a disabled parent, but that’s not the whole story. I’ve been told, both by people who know me and people who don’t, that their favourite blogs and stories of mine are ones where I share my own experiences. I do believe that the best writing has passion and personality and reveals a bit about the author, and yet doing so makes me nervous. Every time I press that ‘publish’ button up there, for a second I feel physically sick. Why do I do this to myself? What if I’m being annoying, repetitive, or coming across as self-righteous? Is it time to revisit the idea of getting a normal office job, and ignore the little voice that says I’m happier as a writer?

Obviously, owing to a lack of time-travel facilities, I’ll never be seventeen again, but hopefully that doesn’t mean that I can’t learn how to write again without the burden of self-consciousness.

As my friend used to say ‘what other people think of you is none of your business.’ Maybe, one day, I might fully agree with her.

 

I am a WRITER!

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‘So, what do you do?’

This is a question I get asked all the time, and although it’s nearly been two  years, I’m still embarrassed by it

Yesterday I agreed to do an interview with an undergraduate studying for her final year in Psychology in DCU. She was a lovely girl, ambitious, and easy to talk to. She reminded me of myself in my younger days.

She wanted to examine the factors that influence or hinder people with disabilities in accessing employment. I knew it would be a little cringey; I’m ten years older than her, practically a relic, and I’ve voluntarily thrown myself back down the career ladder (not that I was far up to begin with, but anyway).

She asked me if I’m actively looking for work, and I said yes. (Three rejection letters this month alone, in fact). I know what kind of angle she was looking for: my employer’s premises wasn’t accessible, I needed extra technological accommodations, I would become fatigued if I had to work full-time (there’s an element of truth to all of these). But these were not my sole reasons for not looking for work.

Puzzled by the end of the interview, my companion asked me again, ‘So, is there anything else I need to know? Like what do you do in your spare time?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m pretty active in the Independent Living Movement,’ I said, then I lowered my voice, as if I was divulging a dirty secret. ‘I’m also trying to write a novel.’

My companion perked up. ‘You what?’ she stammered.

‘I’m working on a novel. I don’t know how it will turn out, but it’s taking up a good deal of time at the moment.’

My companion shook her head. ‘Fair play. That sounds like a lot of work.’

‘Well, it’s certainly not as easy as I thought it’d be when I started it!’ She  laughed, and I relaxed.

I think nowadays as mothers, a lot of us feel pressure to prove that we can do and be it all. I’ve been  at home with Alison for two years, and working on my writing in this time. This way I can have the best of both worlds. I can work as much or as little as I am able. I’m pretty happy, but still wary of how people perceive my choice to do this.

And to be honest, I don’t know why I care. For now, I’m doing something that is working out well for me and my family.

I don’t know if this will work out, if my novel will ever get published or if writing will ever be the career I’d imagined it to be.

But for now, I am a writer, and a mother, and delighted to be able to do both.

My 2016 Appraisal

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Because I’m now my own boss, I have to monitor my own progress. This can be a disaster. Sometimes I think I’m doing much better than I actually am, while other times I think I have failed miserably at life. So, in trying to determine whether 2016 was a success or a flop, I did what any smart self-employed* person would do: I made a list of my original goals and did a realistic assessment of how I performed and where I need to improve. Here goes:

 

(1)    Get into shape

Ah yes, this old chestnut. I joined Aura Leisure Centre in Tullamore in November 2015 and for a while went twice a week, once a week, once a month… I’m doing my physio twice a week/when I remember but I recently purchased a treadmill which I use at least four times a week. Or I was, until I came down with this horrible virus thing that is doing its best to wipe out the Irish population. I admit the last time I used it was two weeks ago. DON’T LOOK AT ME!

Verdict: Fail, I know, fail. But I’m trying. God loves a trier, right?

 

(2)    Write a novel

I saw how award winning novelist Louise O’Neill wrote two novels in as many years and thought hey, we were in the same class once upon a time, so logically that should mean… Nothing. It means nothing. I will not be publishing two novels in two years, or possibly ever, for that matter. This novel is my baby, so much so that I hate telling people about it for fear that they’ll say it’s unpublishable. I also have to write the middle of it which I’ve been procrastinating by writing shitty little blogs like these.

Verdict: Well, I’ve worked on  the same project for eighteen months, and I haven’t deleted it – that counts for something, right?
 

(3)    Give up chocolate

Yeah, this hasn’t happened. I will be the embodiment of Death by Chocolate. I have zero self-control. In order to be successful at this in 2017, I must somehow get rid of the four remaining boxes of chocolates lying around the house first. Once these are gone, I’ll have a fighting chance. It’s only logical.

Verdict: Fail.
 

(4)    Update this blog regularly:

Firstly, I ask you to discount the first six months of the year. I was blogging elsewhere, on a far less accessible website (all hail WordPress). July and September were not great, admittedly, but considering I’ve been working on a novel as well, I don’t think it’s been too shabby… right?

Verdict: Pass (Yay! Go me)
 

(5)    Find a new job:

(Job as in paying job) No I haven’t done this yet. Bad Sarah. But I have done a job interview skills course and a CV preparation course so, you know… Hopefully in another twelve months… (Of course part of the problem is that I should be trying harder. I know, I know, my husband is so lucky to have me)

Verdict: Meh…

 

(6)    Do a Creative Writing Course:

Yes, I did this, and got a Distinction Diploma in Creative Writing. That’s something I suppose….

Verdict: Pass.
 

(7)    Start driving:

No this hasn’t happened yet, but I’ve passed my theory test, so it’s probably advisable to stay off the road in 2017.
 

(8)    Learn how to cook a meal for the freezer that doesn’t involve mince:

Yup, I’ve done this. Beef stew! (With beef pieces, not mince). And……… shepherd’s pie (oops, that involves mince). I know, my culinary skills are just fantastic.
 

(9)    Cut down on social media:

Aw, but then how would I share my literary genius with you all? I did close my Facebook account for like half an hour. In my defence I permanently deleted my page a few weeks ago, (or so they claimed) but when I signed back in I was back online, no questions asked. I think it’s time to admit that social media owns us.

 

(10)Be the best goddamn armchair activist I can be: 

I’ve passed this with flying colours I think. When I was researching the progress of the disability movement in 2016, I had to look no further than my own Facebook page. It looks like my old job (which included raising awareness of disability issues on social media) is going to take longer to leave me than previously thought. The difference between sharing stuff on my own page and work’s page is that I don’t hold back in giving my tuppence on what I read. I suspect people are bored of me but I don’t care. I’m committed to the perusal of equality for people with disabilities. No more, no less. We’ve also made progress in ensuring that the recommendations as outlined in our Access Review (that is, the Laois/Offaly Leader Forum’s Access Review) has been implemented. I’ve also committed to helping the National Independent Living Movement in any way I can.

 

Overall verdict: Not a bad auld year. Must try harder** in 2017. Happy new year!

 

 

*desperate, approval-seeking writer

**way, way harder

The Elusive Word – Poem

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Words? words? Where are you? I can see
Your shadows lurking behind that great big wall in front of me,
Whispering and giggling like schoolgirls in the yard,
Can’t we just be friends? Must life be so hard?

Words, oh words? Come out, come out to play,
I’ve only a short time frame, I’ve not got all friggin’ day,
So let us all cooperate and jot down a line or two,
Why can’t you be as kind to me as I have been to you?

WORDS? Come on now, I won’t chide you again,
You better come quick smart when this paper meets my pen,
You were so excited when my bum cheeks hit the loo,
And now there’s only silence – WHERE the **** are you?

Fine, then. Be like that. No, really – I don’t care!
Stay away forever! Only come back if you dare!
It’s not as if I hope to depend on you for a living,
And that when you come skulking back, I’ll always be forgiving.

Words, I know you’re in there, but please, do not leave;
Perhaps a good night’s sleep will grant me some reprieve?
I know we fight and argue, we don’t always agree,
But we work so well together, don’t you think, you and me?

Words, just come back – I want us to be friends,
We can talk it over, I want to make amends.
Please don’t make me write a shitty poem just for the sake of writing,
Otherwise people will likely guess that we’ve been fighting.

Oh crap. Oh well, tomorrow’s another day,
Let’s hope by then my dear old muse can think of things to say.

How writing saved my life

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It’s on days like today, when the house is quiet except for the squeaking of my swivel chair and the hum of the washing machine that I wonder whether it was such a marvellous idea after all to hand in my notice and quit a job where, if I’m honest, would’ve kept me forever as long as I did my job and didn’t cause too much trouble.

And, to be fair, it wasn’t a bad auld job either. I did a bimonthly newsletter. I loved working directly with our clients. I did booklets, a film documentary, a fashion show, even a twenty year celebration event. By the end  of it I was left wondering what else I could do. I was out of ideas, and I didn’t want to waste their time and my own plundering along with nothing to show for it. Not good for the company, or my ego.

Indeed, they say that a lot of the reason that people write is for a good ego massage, and being honest that’s true. There’s nothing that makes me smile more (apart from my husband and daughter, of course) than seeing nice comments under my blog or the likes flying in on Facebook and Twitter. (Yes, everyone,  there’s a subtle hint in there somewhere – can you find it? I need your approval as much as I need oxygen)

But writing can also be therapeutic. It can help a writer make sense of himself/herself and his place in the world. It’s often a medium through which thoughts can be transferred through the safety of a piece of paper or computer screen, without having to face people, without the (immediate in my case) fear of being misunderstood.

I wrote here before in a blog called ‘Facing my Demons’ (9 December 2014) about the agonising time we had after having Alison, about how we were closely scrutinised, how we felt alone  and how we could tell no-one how we felt or what we were going through. Unfortunately, this contributed to me developing Post-Natal Depression. Feelings of anxiety, inadequacy, hopelessness? Definite signs of PND. Did I go to the doctor? No. Tell anyone the full truth of how I was feeling? No. That would’ve been the sensible thing to do, wouldn’t it? The fact was that I didn’t know how exactly to describe these feelings when I didn’t understand them myself. After flying off the handle one night, and leaving home, vowing never to come home again, I realised that I needed help. But I’d had counselling before, several times, and the experiences were largely negative. I didn’t feel I could go and tell a stranger my innermost fears. They would judge me, maybe think that I was an unfit parent.

Instead, I took two months off work, and within a week I was already starting to get bored. So I took out my laptop and starting typing out the first thing that popped into my head, much the same as I did when I started writing at the age of seven. No filters, no censoring myself. The words just flew out, like long-term imprisoned dragons celebrating their freedom. Seeing how I felt in black-and-white in front of me made me feel complete. This was me, and how I felt. It wasn’t disgusting, it wasn’t abnormal – in fact it was normal and understandable. Taking ownership of those words made me feel like myself again. When I started the exercise, I thought that I had reached thirty without achieving anything much, but when I read back how I’d been to college, held down a job, got married, had a daughter, lost my mum, been terrorised out of Portlaoise, a lot of things began to make sense, and I started to truly understand who I was and how much I meant to my daughter and husband, and my family and friends.

I’ve been out of ‘official’ work for a year now, and like every mother up and down the country I’m racked with guilt. You feel guilty if you are working, and feel guilty if you aren’t – you can’t bloody win, can you? (Well, I am working, I’m writing a novel. If you’ve seen the Family Guy sketches where Stewie asks Brian how his novel is going, you might appreciate how it feels to be me on a daily basis.) But I am happy. I’m determined to make a writing career for myself. And I have to stop comparing myself to others and instead remind myself that I’ll get there in my own time, and also tell myself that I’ll get another job, at some stage.

For now, however, my main job is to stay well and to be the best mum I can be to that beautiful rascal of mine. And it’s a job that I love and that I take more seriously than any other job I’ve ever had.