When Words Come For Us.

Notes on trying, doubting and creative endurance.

A completely unrelated image of an outfit I liked wearing.

This newsletter is late. Yes, I am well aware. I just couldn’t pull it together yesterday. I felt melancholy. “Like a loser.” I said to my husband. Though, I am not sure why. Losing would imply I had given up which I have not. I can not. I would write even if no one was reading and I have done in the past. I don’t know why this feeling of doubt (woe? self-pity?) surfaced. Especially when this time last week I felt good; I had pushed myself to make progress. I entered a literary competition, sent emails to editors, wrote a founder Substack strategy, and (finally) made time to watch the playback of the brilliant workshop I signed up for by

Amanda Montei

. I felt I was putting in the work.

This week just feels hard. I tell myself, that is the ebb and flow of being a writer, well, trying to be a writer or just trying to do anything at all when you are not so young and free. I mean free of responsibilities such as paying a mortgage, keeping children alive, and being swallowed by the mundane necessities that fill my days. Not that it’s all bad. I enjoy the flexibility and relish in the privilege of physically being in the same space as my kids more often than not. But I have been agonising over my own ambition and what it means to chase a dream when I am beyond my most frivolous years of self-discovery and of mooching off my parents. I wonder if it is like the movies? Will I get my Hollywood ending just as Amy Adams’ character does in Nightbitch? The unknown is perhaps the scariest part. How long do I or can I keep trying?

Just as I was deep in this existential crisis of mine,

Laurel Pantin

wrote How Should A 39 Year-Old Woman Behave? (If you’re not a paying subscriber, I have a few to give away, just DM me). And I guess it’s true what they say about the right words finding you when you need them the most. She writes, “… As I creep on in years, and creep on in building this platform and my community, I feel a lot of self-imposed embarrassment that my efforts are so visible and obvious. My product is – essentially – that effort.” Embarrassment. I never thought I was embarrassed, but perhaps I am mortified that if I try and it doesn’t work out, then what? Is my life wasted?

I often think of my new mum friends at Freddie’s school discovering this Substack. What they would think if they knew I took silly mirror selfies and wrote in detail about how clothes make me feel and how it feels to be a mother and a creative and not knowing what the fucking I’m suppose to be doing. Or that I spend most of my spare time writing and reading and distracted instead of just getting on top of my washing and other personal administration that just keeps piling up. Would they think I was sad? Would they chuckle behind my back, “There’s that mum with that silly little blog no one reads.” Or would they think I am brave and fun and inspiring? I hope for the latter, but there is no real way to tell. Or, more accurately, would they simply not think of me at all? This week I do feel every bit silly and pathetic that I am chasing something that seems impossible and that I may never achieve, which may be my life story. I may just be another frustrated mother who did not reach her potential because she was too embarrassed and too busy to really go for it. Sigh.

After I let Laurel’s essay digest,

Hey Mrs. Solomon on Style

’s listicle popped up. In her post, How Should A 39-Year-Old Behave? A 54-Year-Old Answers. Yes, answers! I wanted answers, and answers from a smart, fabulous woman who has lived through her thirties and forties and is now in her fifties. One who has also forged a successful creative career and a rather impressive Substack following. All of her points are valid, but this one on effortless was a great reminder; “At 50 you see that ‘effortless’ is not cool because everyone actually makes an effort. If you see ‘effortless’ what you’re really seeing is someone TRYING to look like they’re not trying. That’s a LOT of effort. You feel for them, too.” She is right; perhaps social media has gnawed away at my brain for too long, and admittedly, I ignore my own logic and choose to forget that when it comes to content and sharing our lives online, smoke and mirrors are everywhere.

Another point on trying and effort Mrs (Rachel) Solomon makes is, “… you realize thing that make you feel silly and afraid will be necessary to keep living. And oddly will keep you ageless. You don’t have to mime the youthful, shaking, ‘trying to ride a bike’, feeling–it’s real. And you’re alive.” Trying is afterall, an essential part of the creative process as well as the human experience. What if I did stop this Substack, would I be better off? I don’t know. I think I am making progress creatively, even if I do not feel it right now. Maybe even just seeking answers and sitting quietly is the work I need to do for now.

Then, as I was mulling over this, I came across a post by Gut Feelings, titled #064: The Real Work, which quotes The Real Work, a poem by Wendell Berry. This, again, spoke to me. Why do I feel so lost? Unsure? Exhausted? Defeated? I don’t even know what I’m feeling. And would even knowing the answer to this even help?

It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come to our real work, 
and that when we no longer know which way to go we have come to our real journey. 
The mind that is not baffled is not employed. 
The impeded stream is the one that sings.

According to Berry, my confusion is all part of it. All part of aligning my work with my purpose. I hope so. However, at this point, I do not believe it to be true. I desperately want to, but I do not, and maybe that is why I am so perplexed or “baffled” as he describes. I’m waiting for the payoff. The validation. Not just in terms of money but feeling like I have reached a new level. But does any writer ever feel they have reached a level so great they can stop? Can we truly be “done” creatively?

Then, I scroll through my saved posts and amongst a gaggle of street style, I rediscover a post Cleo Wade shared back in February. A quote from the New Yorker By Toni Morrison. It read:

1. Whatever the work is, do it well—not for the boss but for yourself.
2. You make the job; it doesn’t make you.
3. Your real life is with us, your family.
4. You are not the work you do; you are the person you are.

I stop searching now. Number four is what I need. Number four is what we all need to remember, no matter the work we are doing–out of necessity or of pleasure–we are not the work. We are the people.

Jade x