December 10th marks one year since the release of my debut novel Seven Wonders, co-written with the ever talented Mae Gaynor. Seven Wonders was one-part university projects, and nine-parts pure passion of Mae and I’s. Aside from graduating with my first-class honours degree (!) Seven Wonders is my greatest achievement to date. It seems crazy to think a year has passed, and yet, it feels like a lifetime ago since we first opened the boxes and held the finished copies of the completed novel in our hands. Since I’ve had plenty of time to reflect on the project and university with distance, I want to update this blog with where I’m at in my writing journey. Firstly, I feel it’s right to mention that after finishing Seven Wonders I needed a long, long break from writing fiction. I never thought that was something I would ever need, as since I could remember, all I wanted was more time to write my stories. Nothing in the world prepares you for the stress of writing, editing, funding and self-publishing your first novel. It is truly something that can only be achieved through love of the craft and self belief - both which I had lacked at various points in the project. Of course, I always had Mae to share my struggles of motivation and burnout with, but there were still times where writing felt like pushing a boulder up a muddy hill. Or an icy mountain.
The thing is, when people talk about climbing a mountain just to see the view from the top, they forget that reaching the top of the mountain is only half the journey. The way back down is just as difficult and trying, with only the thought of a warm bed and cup of tea pushing you onwards. Writing the first draft was like reaching the mountain top, looking down at the full narrative printed onto glossy A4 paper and ring-bound by the campus printing studio. What was yet to come on the journey back down to publication; editing, implementing feedback from sensitivity readers and beta readers, trying to balance all the work with the ongoing stress of other commitments, being in a country-wide lockdown due to the pandemic, tense and sometimes heated (usually because of me) discussions, more editing again, and of course, promotion. And, unlike Iris, Artie and the gang, there was no rickety old train to take us back down the mountain on the days we really didn’t feel like walking it. Of course, it was all worth it. Every bit of stress and work and strief paid off in a big way. To date, we’ve managed to sell over 100 copies of our little novel, have featured on some really awesome bookish instagrams and youtube channels, and have had the endless delight of people telling us how much they loved our book baby. In fact, we loved the process so much that recently we have begun the first draft of our second co-written novel, and this time we are able to look ahead of ourselves and know exactly what we need to do next. All this being said, recovering from Seven Wonders - and university in general - has taken time. Almost immediately after publication I had to begin work on my dissertation, a non-fiction longform essay about the history of queer representation in young adult literature. This, in combination with working 4am starts at a crappy supermarket job and yet another lockdown, drained me almost completely. For over four months I was unable to see my family, my long-distance partner, or the majority of my closest friends. I felt very much that all I had during that time were my textbooks and keyboard. It paid off - I won an award for best dissertation in my cohort - but when we were finally allowed to return to seeing friends and visiting family far away, I avoided any alone time in my room at all costs. Most people I’ve spoken to, especially fellow writers, felt this way. Being on my laptop reminded me of zoom calls and university deadlines.
And so, for two peaceful months, I did next to nothing. I moved back in with my family briefly and spent most of June and July hanging out with my siblings and friends who I had barely seen in the year we were in lockdowns. My partner and I spent as much time together as possible, being able to see each other twice weekly after a four month stint of separation. It was… Nice. For the first time in my living memory there was no school or university to worry about raising its ugly head in September, no writing that needed urgent attention. After months working off of the embers of burnout, I was almost completely refreshed. In August, after a devastating loss in the family, I finally remembered to pick up the pen (or keyboard, more accurately) again.
My grief seemed to manifest in a desire to distract myself, constantly, from racing thoughts. I landed one of my dream jobs working in my childhood bookstore, and began writing part-time for bi.org about historical bisexual figures. I love my jobs in different ways. At the bookstore, I love the feeling of re-organising messy shelves and talking with customers about books I’ve loved. At home, I love to curl up in my mustard coloured squashy armchair (with a matching footstool, of course) with a cup of tea and bury myself entirely in a new interesting figure, knowing that the queer history I uncover in research will go on to be shared with hundreds of individuals worldwide. I love what I do for ‘a living’. It is work that fills me up. That hasn’t stopped me from hitting burnout, four months on from the greatest loss I’ve ever known.
Lately, I’ve been asking myself ‘what next?’
What happens now that I’ve achieved all I ever aimed to? I completed university to the highest standard humanly possible, I published a book, I landed not one but two amazing jobs, I’m living with the love of my life in a gorgeous flat… And yet when I think of the loss, this August past, I feel as if everything I have ever wanted has been so fickle. I think of all of the things the loss means for myself, my family, and our rose. What next? What next now that I am so painfully aware of how quickly everything you’ve ever known or felt about yourself and the world around you can be redefined?
The answer I’ve come to is this: I no longer have dreams. That sounds infinitely more depressing than it actually is. I don’t have dreams because I have goals. Goals that can’t be measured in grades or pages written. Goals that can’t be achieved by hard work or playing by the rules. I have the goal to be the best older brother I can be - something I still manage to fuck up, massively, all the time. I have the goal to be a good friend - to support, love, and cherish my chosen family however I can. I have the goal to make a difference in the world - to be active in my allyship, to promote peace and change, to continue to unlearn my biased prejudices. Goals I can never achieve, only work towards for all my life, and let those I leave behind tell if I succeeded.
Shortly after I graduated, I had this overwhelming fear that I had peaked at twenty one years of age. How utterly ridiculous of me to assume that the peak, the mountain's apex, was the end of the journey. There is still so much more work for me to do back at sea level. For those of you who know me well, you’ll know I’ll never miss an opportunity to quote from the Muppets Christmas Carol: “If you want to know the measure of a man, you simply count his friends”. From now on, I am to measure my contribution to the world not by the number of words I write or the money in my bank account each month, but by the times I remember to check in on friends, make time for my family, and leave a conversation thinking: ‘Wasn’t that lovely? Now, what’s next?’
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