Stage Fright

For the first couple of weeks after I left corporate life when people said to me, ‘Wow, you are taking a big risk,’ I was hard pressed not to flick my hair and smile smugly. Six weeks in, finally nanny-less, juggling fulltime care of two small children with writing in the evenings (and sandwiching in work on a new startup that my sister and a friend are launching back in the UK), I feel a little less self-assured about the whole thing. Indeed, when an old colleague phoned me the other day as I wheeled my kids around our local supermarket, grimacing at the cost of out-of-season fruit, and spoke at some length about the risk I was taking, I almost had to reach for a paper bag!

The great stuff, like having my three year old say to me, ‘I love spending lots of time with you don’t I Mummy,’ or watching my one year old get better and better at walking – all the small things that make up knowing and being part of all the parts of their days, is balanced by a growing nervousness. My missing salary is more conspicuous with each passing week (and I must say my leaving work just in time for Christmas does not go down as my most strategic move), and frankly caring for two small children through the day is even more exhausting than going into the office, and certainly every bit as labour intensive - not much has changed on that score, I am still working well into every evening. Then, there is the fact that now that I am not just talking about giving up my corporate self to pursue the career I so desperately want to succeed at, I have left myself with only two potential endings: the one which reads, ‘I just haven’t given it a go yet,’ has vanished, and now I simply have success or failure ahead of me.  Frankly, it is terrifying.

When I used to act at school, or even more recently when I present with work, I can only ever conquer my nerves by distancing myself from the reality of the situation; I believe now I need to not think about what I am doing too much, and just keep doing it! I have a sunny Christmas in Sydney ahead of me and my parents flying out to spend it with us. I was lucky enough the other day to have an agent give me some really great advice about things to think about with my manuscript before submitting it to her for consideration in the new year. It needs to be head down, tunnel vision for me now, or else I fear I might just find myself walking back through the doors of my office in early February – and I feel very sure that that would be a bad thing. Not only would my kids be crushed, I would be; to go back to seeing them an hour a day now that I have realized how much I was missing is a horrible thought. But more than that, I think it would be very, very bad for my own self to do that. Even writing this I am reminding myself that now I have gone through the hard bit of ripping the plaster off  by turning my back on it all, I need to just grit my teeth and keep it off - and hold onto the conviction that I must, must, keep after my dream.

Separation anxiety

As I sent The Interlude off to Cornerstones for its 2nd edit last Monday, I resolved that I must, MUST, leave the manuscript alone for the 3-4 weeks it will take for the critique to come back. No flicking through the opening chapters, no double-checking on whether a certain passage ‘works’, no revisiting of key scenes. I knew I needed to create some distance between myself and my book so that when it comes time for the editor’s report to land in my inbox, I will have a hope of digesting it with something akin to a fresh perspective.

I have been through this once before; when The Interlude went off for its first edit back in September, Kathryn (one of the lovely managing editors at Cornerstones) advised me to take a break whilst I waited. That time around I didn’t find doing so too troublesome. I believe this was due to two factors:

  1. I was still working fulltime so during the day I was too busy to pick up the pages, and by the evening, too exhausted after 10 months of very little sleep
  2. I knew it wasn’t finished. But, whilst I was confident that it needed something, I was unsure of what. In that respect, I was more than happy to let Cornerstones take it and spin some magic for me in terms of feedback designed to inspire

This time around though I am struggling. The book feels much more finished this time, and for some reason that is making it harder to just leave it sitting on my hard drive (I keep on having flashes of self-doubt which makes me want to go back and check it – it’s a bit like waiting for my A-Level results all over again!). Then, because Cornerstones helped me get a lot closer to my characters - who they are, where they have been, what motivates them - now that I am not writing them every day, I miss them. Kathryn did suggest that I get going on my next project… but whilst that used to be a book set in 1920s India (which I still intend to write), I now think that my immediate next project might just be the sequel to The Interlude. I am not sure if starting on that is cheating!

I find myself thinking about my characters all the time. As I bathe the children in the evening, get dinners ready, grocery shop, carry on with all of the incidentals of life, a part of me is back in 1914-1918, breathing the lives of these people who, unbelievably, a year ago did not exist.

When I started writing, I wasn’t prepared for how consuming it would become, how the essence of a story would form a very real part of my own being. Just the other week my husband said, with a deep sigh, ‘This is it, isn’t it. Now that you are doing this, we are just going to lose you for chunks of time.’ I replied that I had no idea what he was talking about, that I wasn’t lost, that I was there. But I have to admit he was right; with a novel on the go, there is a part of me that exists somewhere else. When I worked in the corporate world, I was very good at leaving my job at the office. Now, I simply have no desire to leave my ‘job’ anywhere. So, even though I know I must not look back at my manuscript, I find myself constantly eyeing ‘My Documents’ where it is safely stored, only just resisting the temptation to do so.

It’s 1pm on a very warm Sydney Tuesday. I have a notebook and pen right in front of me. Someone I have never met is asleep on the other side of the world, and perhaps halfway through my book, forming their opinion and feedback. I have no idea what they will have made of it, and I have to be honest, I am waiting far from patiently to find out. Perhaps it is, after all, time to begin brainstorming the next chapter.

Balancing the books

It turns out that having both a fulltime nanny and a mother in the house can have its complications. We only have another week and a half of it, so I am trying to focus on the positives, (freedom for me to get on with my writing and research and drop in and out on time with the kids) rather than the negatives, (nauseating cost of fulltime nanny with no income to justify it, children turning apoplectic whenever I try to leave the room, nanny’s patience clearly stretching with my refusal to just disappear for ten hours every day).

Yesterday morning the screams of protests had only just quieted down from my leaving after breakfast, when I realised that in my haste to run upstairs I had left the books I needed for my research on the kitchen table. There was no way I was going to risk the wrath of the nanny by making another appearance so soon, so I was stuck in my bedroom until the three of them had left for playgroup with only my laptop and my phone to occupy me. I haven’t yet been away from the office for long enough not to need to fill time. I had to find a project.

My gaze turned to my wardrobe. My memory flicked up images of eBay posters around Sydney advertising money to be made on clothes sold. My guilt at my husband, who had just left for another trip away (this time to India) to earn our family’s rent whilst I had just paid out for another editorial critique on The Interlude, triggered the idea. I pulled out all of my corporate clothes, keeping back only the ones I really loved, and began photographing. Deciding that even if I did go back to by job in February, it would somehow be too depressing to wear the outfits of a self I had so decidedly committed to leaving behind, I posted them all on eBay. It took quite a long time.

The good news is I have several watchers. The bad news is that even if I sell them all, I am looking at a few hundred dollars maximum. And I don’t even want to think about the sheer pain and cost of time that will be coming my way in terms of arranging postage if that happens. I am not going to disclose exactly how much my first novel, The Interlude, has cost me to produce so far, but it is more than a few hundred dollars. It turns out that exchanging one life for another is far from a perfect balancing act.

Up until two months ago I had kept the cost of my writing low(ish). I had bought a new laptop, completed a refresher creative writing course, but still owned most of the reference books I needed for The Interlude from my history degree ten years ago (and I found the additional ones on nursing on the Western Front and more general social history during the war second hand). Now though, costs are mounting:

  • For my next book, I do not have easy access to the reference material and so have spent more on research
  • As mentioned, I have also just commissioned the second of two editorial critiques for The Interlude (paid for on a cost per 1000 words – worth their weight in gold so far as I am concerned, but it adds up)
  • And, and this is really the killer, I now have to consider my time. Because all of a sudden, I am writing fulltime – the hours I spend pretty much cost exactly what I was earning before

And this when the literary news is full of stories of diminishing advances and ever-harder to come by publishing deals in a climate of global economic constraint. I feel more than a little frivolous to be spending anything at all.

But, I am close to finishing The Interlude. I can feel it. We will see what comes back from Cornerstones, but I am hopeful that soon I will be ready to submit, and then on the path to taking a stab at driving some commercial value and balancing the books.

But even if not, writing The Interlude has given me more than I could ever pay for. The characters within it have become so real in my own life. Researching and writing their stories has given me a new understanding of the First World War, for the depth of endurance. Ella, Walter, Robert, Violet, Ruth; these are the characters’ names, and I love them. They exist to me. For me, at least, that is priceless.

On November 11th my husband and I took our children to a remembrance service by the sea on Sydney’s northern beaches. I always feel on Remembrance Day, but I found myself moved on a level I had not experienced before. The Interlude, and becoming a writer, is at the heart of that.

I may very well end up returning to work to finance my writing and to help support my family- costs are an unfortunate fact of life – but I know as a surety that I will write now for the rest of my life. It makes me incredibly happy. I always thought that writing was what I wanted to do, but now I know that it is. And honestly, after years and years of not knowing, what wouldn’t I pay for that!

At the very beginning…

It was several weeks ago now that I took a deep breath and went into my boss’s office to tell him that I was going to resign. I won’t go into the months of navel-gazing and agonising with husband and friends that got me to this point (suffice to say, it was painful for all involved), but to sum up my decision was driven by:

  • The fact that I finally, after ten years of talking about it, started writing my book, The Interlude, a novel set during the First World War, in January. I discovered that, as suspected, I do indeed love writing and, as feared, like, but do not “love”, my safely salaried job
  • The reality that a combination of job + book + two small children has meant me working eighteen to twenty hour days for the past ten months which, whilst doable, is hard
  • The exhaustion of living in Sydney with a husband who, whilst amazing, spends large chunks of the year travelling, leaving me to juggle aforementioned job + book + children + childcare arrangements + lengthy commute without my lovely support network in England
  • The upset of spending long days in the office away from my 3 year old daughter and 1 year old son and seeing them for only one hour a day (if lucky)

I was resolved. It was time. I was scared though. I would be losing the income and was turning my back on a career which I have been building since I graduated and which I do, much of the time, enjoy. So, when my boss looked at me quaking in my chair as I tried to euphemise my way through quitting, and said that he suspected I just needed some time, I accepted his very kind offer of a three month unpaid sabbatical to make sure this was the right decision for me.

Ten days ago, I cleared my office, recycled the various print-outs of decks and journals that I have amassed, put my mug and box of PG Tips in my handbag, and got the ferry home from Circular Quay for the last time (at least until February).

I celebrated our first day as a single-income family by wrapping the front of our car around a concrete pillar in a local toy-shop’s car park. I also, apparently, taught our three year old daughter her first swear word in the process. Things are looking up though. Our rather wonderful nanny is with us until the end of November, and whilst this means that I have to spend sizeable segments of the day hidden upstairs lest the children get a sniff of my presence and wrap themselves around my legs, it does mean that I get to eat all three meals of the day with them, take them off for little ‘adventures’ and throw in some solid work in the daytime hours on my book. I sent it off yesterday for its second critique by the amazing Cornerstones Literary Consultancy, and now have three weeks of waiting for what comes back, and researching my next one, ahead of me.

It is incredibly liberating to me to be calling the shots on my own day, and on my own agenda, in this way. For so many years, I have looked at my friends who really knew what they wanted in life and had the guts to go for it (doctor, cookery entrepreneur, baby clothing designer) and envied them the vocation and the courage. I feel so lucky that now it is my turn.

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Being what I want to be when I grow up

Kerry Fisher writes the world

Being what I want to be when I grow up

Being what I want to be when I grow up

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