My writing life, February 2024
The highs, lows, and chaos of my writing life
Discussions with agent x 1
Job interviews x 2
Job offers x 1
Number of days ill x 29
Thursday 1 February
Chris is still keeping me up all night with his cough, so I get up and write. There’s nothing I like more than being at my desk, typing away with a brew, but today, I struggle to concentrate. It’s the day of my uncle’s funeral, and I know it’s going to be a sad day.
‘You’re early,’ my sister says, winding down her car window, as I park next to her at the church.
‘I am never late for a funeral,’ I say. ‘Everything else, yes. But absolutely not a funeral.’
After an emotional service, our family and friends meet to remember my uncle. He was a good man, who laughed a lot and made the most out of life.
I’m so upset about losing him that my stomach bloats to four times its usual size and I look like I’m pregnant with twins. I’ve written a lot of articles about irritable bowels over the years and how being upset and anxious can cause pain and bloating. But knowing that doesn’t help.
‘It’s a lovely buffet,’ my sister says, sitting down with a plate full of sandwiches, quiche, salad and nibbles.
I look towards the food. I’m usually the first into a buffet but not today.
‘Did you have some cake?’ she asks later. ‘It was delicious.’
I shake my head. ‘I couldn’t even manage the cake!’
I go to bed with a hot water bottle, feeling tired and sad but hopeful that Chris’s cough is cured. He didn’t cough once at the funeral. Not once.
Just as I’m nodding off, his barking begins. All the coughing he stifled during the day comes out louder and more ferocious than before.
I don’t sleep.
Friday 2 February
The day after a funeral is always exhausting. I feel empty, and struggle to write even a sentence. I pick my niece up from school, then head to my mum and dad’s and we order a Chinese takeaway. Thankfully, my stomach has returned to its normal size, which means eating can resume.
Saturday 3 February
I don’t write a word. Instead, I drive to Leeds for a family party. My sister’s mother-in-law is seventy.
‘Do you mind if I give it a miss?’ Chris asks. ‘I’m really not feeling well.’
‘Are you watching the rugby?’ I ask.
He smiles. ‘I might have it on in the background while I sip my Lemsip.’
Sunday 4 February
I write a Substack piece about the never-ending coughing and how I’m desperate for a good night’s sleep. Completing a piece of writing when I am so sleep deprived is difficult. My brain is barely functioning, and my head keeps nodding forward.
Monday 5 February
Back to 5am writers club, where I write a job application. My employment officially ended on January 31st, so I am now without an income. I try to ignore the voice in my head telling me we’re in the middle of a cost-of-living crisis and money is very much needed.
‘It will all be fine,’ I remind myself. ‘New opportunities are coming my way.’
As I’m finishing up for the day, a reader signs up to my Substack. Whenever anyone signs up to receive my writing, it’s special. When they sign up to a paid subscription, I get emotional and usually cry. I now have three paid subscribers. And end the day in tears.
Tuesday 6 February
I stumble out of bed and manage an hour of writing before my body says ‘No!’ and I abort.
Every muscle aches and I alternate between feeling feverishly hot and so cold my teeth chatter. When I was employed, I never had any time off work with sickness. Even when I had Covid, I took my laptop to bed and worked from there. Now that I don’t have a job and don’t get any sick pay, I am too ill to work. Unbelievable!
I blame Chris (obviously). If he hadn’t brought his cough into this house, I would be fit and well and writing.
Wednesday 7 February
My niece is going away for half term and, when she gets back, will be at her dad’s. I won’t see her for two and a half weeks, which feels like forever. I arrange a family meal to spend time with her before she jets off.
‘Are you sure?’ Mum says. ‘You’re not well.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say.
‘What about passing on your germs?’
‘I’ll sit at the end of the table. There’s no way I can go that long without seeing her.’
We pick up Mum and Dad, and drive to the restaurant. On the way, the ache in my body becomes intense. My pelvis feels like it might explode.
‘Can we stop at the Co-op for some cold and flu tablets?’ I ask. ‘It’s the only way I will get through the meal.’
At the checkout, a man is holding everyone up, paying for groceries. I stand and wait and can’t help but overhear some of the conversation.
‘How much are the bananas?’ he says. ‘What if I remove them?’
I wonder if he’s struggling to afford his shopping. But before I can be sure, I’m called to another till.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Dad grumbles when I get back in the car.
I explain about the man with the bananas. ‘I was going to offer to pay for them, but they whisked me away to another till.’
‘You don’t have a job,’ Mum says.
‘I could have afforded a bunch of bananas,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t offer.’
‘You should have,’ Mum says, changing her mind.
‘They looked really good bananas, actually,’ I say.
‘Can we go?’ Dad says. ‘We’re going to be late.’
We enjoy a wonderful evening with my niece, and I try not to get too close to her to pass on my germs.
‘School is a germ factory anyway,’ she says. ‘I’ve probably given them to you.’
In that case, I give her the biggest hug ever.
Thursday 8 February
I am coughing and spluttering but can’t stay home. Today is the day I am doing a handover with my job. I drive to Sheffield, aware that the weather forecast is predicting snow.
During the meeting, I control my coughing but almost choke on a Hobnob. The snow starts. The meeting goes on and on. By the time I leave, the world has turned white.
I clear the snow from the car, but in a few seconds, it’s covered again. If I get stranded on the drive home, all I’ve got is a packet of fast-acting Nurofen and a bottle of water. I’ll not survive.
Two hours later, I make it home.
Friday 9 February
I see a job advertised through a recruitment agency, so I send in my CV. Then, feeling hopeful, I send my memoir to four literary agents.
Later, I get a message to say that someone has unsubscribed from my Substack. ‘Who’d do that?’ I think. ‘They must not like my writing.’
And then I realise I’m the one who has unsubscribed – from my work email account now I’ve left.
In the evening, I dose myself up on pain relief for a theatre trip with my friend to watch Bouncers. During the show, while munching a KitKat Chunky and an ice cream, I wonder about writing for the theatre. What a great thing to do…and before I know it, my mind has taken me into a whole different career.
Saturday 10 February
I finish writing my Substack, then dose myself up (again), before heading to the theatre (again). This time, in Sheffield, for Drop the Dead Donkey. It’s brilliant, and I think how amazing it would be to write a play and have it performed.
‘Stop!’ I tell myself. ‘Never mind writing for the stage. Finish your book!’
Sunday 11 February
I publish my Substack about my writing life in January, before looking at some more job applications. One of them has a War and Peace sized form to complete, which will probably take me a full week. I check the deadline. It’s in two days. I’ll have to write an abridged version.
Monday 12 February
I spend most of the day preparing for a job interview. I’m distracted when an email pops into my inbox from a literary agent. He’s read my work, which he enjoyed very much. He thinks I write engagingly and amusingly.
But.
There is always a but!
He’s concerned about where the book would sit in a bookshop. Is it a running book or a grief memoir?
He talks about the fact that memoir doesn’t really sell until people know who you are.
‘Rightly or wrongly,’ he says, ‘publishers think bookshops won’t buy, and the punters won’t read a memoir by someone they haven’t heard of.’
I only have a few subscribers. No one knows who I am.
He goes on, telling me that my work is very much like a novel and novels are easier to get published. ‘Unlike nonfiction, you don’t need to have a reputation, or qualifications, or ten million Facebook followers,’ he says. ‘Editors are always looking for new work. And you write well, so don’t give that up.’
I read his email again. And it gives me hope.
The feedback is useful. I can work with that. I am determined to keep going with my writing, growing my audience one reader at a time and keep on, keeping on.
This time next month, I could have ten subscribers.
Tuesday 13 February
Up early doing more interview prep. It seems a nice organisation but I’m not sure it’s for me. It’s all a bit dull, but as I’ve got a mortgage to pay, I chivvy myself up.
Five minutes before the Zoom meeting, I receive an email letting me know I’ve been shortlisted for a writing prize. I go into the interview beaming like I’ve won the lottery. I don’t think I could be any more enthusiastic and excited about the gloomy job.
Later that day, the phone rings. It’s the recruitment agent I emailed my CV to on Friday. She’s seen my CV, and would I be available for an interview in the morning?
‘Yes,’ I say, and I have a good feeling about this one.
Wednesday 14 February
Up even earlier, almost before I’ve gone to bed, to make sure I am well prepared for the interview. I go through possible questions, spend a lot of time researching the organisation.
The women interviewing me are friendly and passionate about what they do. At the end of the questions and discussion, they leave me to write a press release, and when they return, offer me the job.
I go downstairs. Chris is at the kitchen table, finishing a work call. ‘How did it go?’ he asks.
‘I got the job!’
We celebrate with a cup of tea, and by opening our Valentine’s Day presents. I give Chris some chocolates. He gives me three books by Elif Shafak, one of which I already own. We go to Waterstones to exchange it, before a meal at Wagamama.
It’s a good day!
Thursday 15 February
I check my books on Amazon but can’t find them in the search. I contact Amazon, who assures me they are there. ‘It’s like a search engine,’ they say. ‘The more people search for you, the higher you will rank.’
It all becomes clear. No one is searching for me or my books.
Friday 16 February
After the feedback from the agent, I jot down ideas to find a way forward. Nothing seems right.
Saturday 17 February
I love Saturdays. Spin class, followed by a writing morning, fuelled by several hundred cups of Yorkshire tea, and a family get-together at Mum and Dad’s, celebrating my new job. Mum has rustled up pie and chips. Perfect.
Sunday 18 February
Sunday is all about my Substack: finishing writing it, publishing it and trying to get someone other than my mum and aunties to read it. This one is about our disastrous, but funny, Valentine’s meal last year.
Monday 19 February
At the doctor’s for an asthma review and cervical screening in the same appointment. Could life get any better?
Tuesday 20 February
My last session of a three-month business mentoring course. Everyone in the group has to give a presentation about what they’ve done or implemented. When I sit down to write mine, I wonder what to put.
I go through my notes and realise it’s not that bad. A lot has happened. Leaving my job, getting another one, being longlisted for Yorkshire Emerging Writer (not winning), being shortlisted for this latest prize, and almost getting an agent (but not).
Nothing is definite, but at least I’m taking steps in the right direction. When I give my presentation, the group couldn’t be more supportive.
‘Keep going.’
‘You’re doing so well.’
‘I like your red jumper.’
I leave the call feeling like a bestselling author. And I’m reminded of the advice that we become who we want to be by doing, and I’m doing a lot.
Wednesday 21 February
The floorboards in Chris’s office are squeaking, so the building company is sending a team to fix them.
When the team arrive, it’s just one man. ‘We’re not doing the work today,’ he says. ‘I’ve come to assess.’
‘But we’ve emptied the room ready for you,’ I say.
‘Sorry. I’m just here to listen to them.’
‘Listen to them?’ I say.
‘I can tell what the problem is by the sound they make. And I’ll know how long it will take to fix,’ he says.
Chris walks across the carpet from doorway to desk, all of two strides but enough for the floorboards to squeak.
‘Right,’ the technician says. ‘It’ll not take long at all.’
‘Could you do it now?’ I ask.
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘I have to report back to head office, and they will call you to make another appointment.’
Someone give me a nail and hammer, I think, and I will fix them myself.
Thursday 22 February
The shortlist is on my mind. From the moment it landed in my inbox. I’m struggling to think about anything else. No matter how many times I tell myself to relax, I can’t. I spend most of the day thinking ‘what if?’
Olivia is back from her travels, so I race to meet her after school. Seeing her takes my mind off it all.
Friday 23 February
It’s a day of pet care—taking the rabbit to the vets, buying feed for the horses, mucking out and catching up on horse maintenance. It’s hard work and there’s no time for writing. But out of nowhere, an idea for my running book pops into my mind.
I grab some paper and scribble down my plans, taking the agent’s advice into account. It involves a complete rewrite, but I’m convinced I can make it better. I picture the cover, the style, and see it clearly sitting in the sports section.
All I need to do now is find the time to rewrite it
Saturday 24 February
With illness and the stress of trying to find a job, I have abandoned all my plans to promote my work on social media. I log in to Facebook to catch up and am immediately distracted by a post promoting a 10k.
I lose an hour deciding whether to enter, then signing up, messaging my friend to join me, and chatting to Chris about how unfit I am.
When I eventually do put fingers to the keyboard, I get into the writing flow for three lovely hours. And then worry that training for a 10k will encroach on my writing time.
With writing, working, and looking after the horses, I already have limited time. Throw a 10k into the mix and everything could come crashing down. Perhaps I shouldn’t have entered.
‘Well, you have,’ Chris says. ‘So, get running.’
That night, another reader signs up for a paid subscription, and it makes my day.
Sunday 25 February
My hormones plummet, leaving me an anxious wreck and sparking a massive crisis of confidence about my writing.
Struggling with doubt, I write and publish a piece about visiting New York twenty-four years ago with my mum and sister. It does well and gets a lot of page reads.
It’s not until I speak to my mum that I realise why. ‘I read your New York story,’ she says. ‘I keep going back to see how young I looked at fifty—no lines or wrinkles and a round face.’
Of the 200 page reads, 199 are probably my mum.
Monday 26 February
My hormone app tells me that today I may have cravings. That’s ridiculous, I think. I’m fine. By 2pm, I’m at my writing desk, scoffing a family bag of popcorn and two (TWO!) packets of crisps.
Later that night, as I’m getting into bed, I check my phone. I know you’re not supposed to because of the blue light, but I do. A friend has posted a Tweet saying she enjoyed reading my book, Midlife Without a Map, and how it’s her favourite read so far this year.
I ignore the voice in my head telling me it’s only February and take the compliment.
Tuesday 27 February
I don’t sleep well—it’ll be the blue light.
An email drops into my inbox from the British Library. The last time this happened it was to tell me there’d been a security issue – hackers had got into the system and now had all my details and knew more about me than I knew about myself.
This email is much more positive.
‘This statement provides details of how many times your books have been borrowed from the library,’ it says, and explains I get 13 pence every time it’s taken out.
I click on the statement. I could be a millionaire.
I’m not. No one has borrowed my book. Not one person.
Wednesday 28 February
The day starts well—reading, Pilates, a four-mile run, and lunch out with my mum. Then, I return home and check my emails.
I did not win the writing opportunity.
I cry and cry some more, and try to pull myself together, but with my depleted hormones, it’s very difficult. They could have timed it better.
Thursday 29 February
To get over the disappointment, we spend a day at Yorkshire Sculpture Park, and in the evening watch the film, Molly’s Game. At the end, there’s a quote from Winston Churchill. ‘Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.’
It makes me smile. Perhaps I am winning, after all.
It's March now, and I've read some great books but yours is still right up there and has definitely made me smile the most :)