The Shifting of Persona

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When deciding to start writing and to delve deeper into who I am, there were many strange occurrences.  I was realising what made me tick and the parts of me I didn’t like.  I stopped drinking wine during the week and then Feb Fast came along and I decided to give alcohol a miss for the whole month!  If I was trying to find the real me, there was no point masking it with alcohol. I also stopped eating sugar, the highs and lows weren’t helping.  I would wake in the middle of the night from a lucid dream and quickly start writing at my laptop, almost sleep writing.  Sometimes it would be from the characters and sometimes just whatever I needed to get out of my head.  It was all useful.  At the end of February I was skyping my parents and my mum said,

‘You look younger every time we skype’

“I feel it!’ I replied

The paring back of my persona was actually changing my appearance, or was it just the lack of sugar and alcohol? I did notice the corner of my eyes widen.  I then noticed my friends and family were either showing me another side to themselves, or I was becoming more aware of them.  I felt huge guilt at being so blind to these vulnerabilities of the people I love.  Had I spent such a long time not understanding myself, that I didn’t understand anyone else either.  Peoples faces started to look different to me, softer.

I have always had a lot of energy, somewhere along the road I think I trapped it inside, afraid of what it could or would do if I let it out.  It was time to find that energy, I knew exactly where it was.  It was a place I didn’t particularly want to go but we all have to face our demons at some point!

I am standing at the top of the stairs that lead down into the dark cellar.  I am petrified, this is where my fear comes from.  The huge heavy door that I have managed to open is behind me.  I need someone to hold my hand, or at least tie a rope around me so that they can pull me back if I get lost.  Jung did say not to enter into this individuation process alone, now I know why!

I phone a friend and explain that I am standing at the top of the stairs leading down to the dark cellar.  The heavy door that I have opened is behind me.  Luckily my friend is even crazier than me, completely understanding my frustration at the situation. He says,

‘Find the bloody light switch’

My book Sharks & Lovers is available to download here:

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Synchronicity

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When I was halfway through book one I decide I need some feedback. What if this book is a complete load of rubbish?  I’m nearly up to forty thousand words.  After talking to a few local authors it’s tempting to just keep writing as the story has been flowing out of me.

‘Have you written the plot?’ asks my friend

‘Nup, it just flows. Every time I sit down at the laptop the characters know exactly what they’re doing.  In fact they know before I do sometimes!’, I laugh ‘I watch my fingers on the keyboard, then look up and re-read it thinking what on earth are you doing now Harry?’

She smiles at me ‘That’s perfect, just keep going then’

In the end my doubts get the better of me and I decide to send two very different chapters to a friend of a friend.  The feedback as I suspected it would be was very constructive and exactly what I needed at the time.  All questions and queries all relate to a) what was in the next chapter and I had already written b) what had previously been written or c) what I already knew I needed to work on.

My confidence in the book resumes and to a higher standard.  I start having imaginary interviews in my head with Jonathan Ross.  I try to visualise the front cover.  I have never had an abundance of confidence and I have never really found anything other than dance that I excel in.  Could this be my thing?

On a night out with some school friends I just happen to sit opposite a recently published writer.  I had sent her an email and she had given me some advice about local writing groups.  I have been so consumed by my book I forgot to reply and thank her.  How embarrassing.  She asked me if my book is a public conversation, what a great question I think.  My face reddens slightly, I feel like I am coming ‘out’.

‘Kind of, its funny how it becomes your baby and you become protective, I couldn’t possibly say I am a writer’ I say, ‘I do have about forty thousand words though!’

‘That’s great’ she says, ‘keep going, I’m working on number two now and I don’t call myself a writer yet’

‘That’s crazy, you’re published, of course you’re a writer!’ I tell her.

We talk most of the night in hushed tones.  I steal her away from the other conversations and hang on her every word.

‘When you get your publishing deal, you’ll get an editor and they will help you too’ she says

I raise my eyes to the ceiling and laugh.

‘It’ll happen’ she says

Somewhere inside me I know she is telling the truth.  This book will get published I can feel it, I just don’t know when.

The next day I open my wardrobe and what falls out are two folded pieces of A4 paper, I have carried these around for years, about ten to be exact.  They are the idea for a book and what book two is now based around.  Indicators, synchronicity call it what you want, they are everywhere if you just look in the right places.

My book Sharks & Lovers is available to download here:

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Southend Ice Cream – Rossi’s

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Whilst writing my novel, there are a few Southend ‘Institutions’ that I keep revisiting and therefore so do my characters.  The top of the pops has to be Rossi’s, my characters are often popping in for an ice cream whenever they like.  I unfortunately have to rely on memories, it being around 9,442 miles away from where I currently reside in Australia.

Seafront Ice Cream

You will never find ice cream as pure white as Rossi’s. There is something about the wind blowing in your face walking along Southend pier eating a Rossi’s. My grandad was a ‘Seafront Trader’ and so he always had an industrial sized bucket of this snow-white heaven in his freezer.  Nan would always serve it with wafers, for dessert, or as we knew it ‘afters’.  I would sit in their dining room eating out of the china bowl, on my best behaviour, enjoying every silver spoonful slowly.

Working Ice cream

Spending the school summer holidays working in my granddad’s confectionery  factory along the seafront was hot work, and occasionally on a Friday or an unusually hot summers day, out would come the Rossi’s ice cream. Whispers of a possible ‘Rossi’s’  would start presumably with the sugar boilers who had the hottest and heaviest work. News would then reach the girls sitting along the wrapping bench, always hot with gossip even on a cold day.  Eventually news would reach us humble packers, ‘I think a Rossi’s is coming’. Served between two wafers in an ice cream sandwich, it didn’t really matter how it was served.  When it was summer in the factory, anything to cool the hot-headed and hot handed was appreciated.

Restaurant Ice cream

The trips I had to the inside of Rossi’s Restaurant were few and far between.  One that I do remember was after Sunday School when my best friends parents had picked us up, then down to the seafront we drove.  My friend decided to have the Nickabockaglory, this huge mess that I couldn’t quite comprehend whilst I had a simple tub of lemon sorbet.  My mouth watering with every spoonful.

My Dad would say, ‘Lets go for a Rossi’s shall we?’ on a Sunday after lunch with my other Nan.  Although to be honest she was more of a Tomassi’s fan (which has apparently been in Southend for over 75 years!, Rossi just piping them to the post having been trading over 80 years), Tomassi’s owned another ice cream parlour in Southend which I went in a few times with Nan.

School Ice Cream

Then there was the ice cream van at High School, Nancy obviously a real live ‘Rossi’ she was a lovely tiny Italian lady always ready with a smile but would not put up with any naughty business.  My taste in ice cream had matured at this point as I would indulge in a ‘Popeye’, (ice cream in a cornet with an ice lolly dunked in the top). On the odd occasion that I hadn’t spent all my lunch money on cigarettes, chocolate or chips an extra special treat would be an Oyster, (two wafer shells filled with chocolate and desiccated coconut on the outside with ice cream and white marshmallow at the centre). Wow, maybe I should think about importing these to Australia!  Obviously they do have Ice Cream but I have not yet found a Rossi’s!

My book Sharks & Lovers is available to download here:

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In Training

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Training – Psychology

Ten years ago, I started a psychology degree at The University of East London; I didn’t exactly fall easily back into education, I was in training. Holding down a full-time job in the city at the same time wasn’t easy.  I seemed to spend most of my waking hours on the cramped London Underground scribbling down experimental ideas and endings of essays.  I did however fall in love with the work of Carl Gustav Jung.  In February this year when I found myself contemplating life and the universe I decided to get back to Jung.  Drawing on his teachings, I started my own individuation process and what came out of it was the beginning of a book. Characters that have obviously been living in my wildest imagination, I love spending time there so it’s not surprising I have made some friends along the way!

For those not familiar with Jung’s ‘individuation’ it is self-exploration.  Looking into your persona, your self, your ego and your shadow, don’t worry the shadow I’ll save for a rainy day!  Finding what lurks in your subconscious is not always pretty.  Paring back past the persona that I project into the world, I started to look behind my eyes at my self.  I needed to deal with some huge feelings of guilt and loneliness, love and hate, self-doubt, confidence and power.

Training – Body

Starting  a new fitness regime called Tough Training; exercise for me had always been about losing fat not building muscle.  I was drawn to the name because I knew I needed to be tough again. The advert of the muscly trainers was very impressive.  At the end of my first session I couldn’t believe how mentally exhausted I was after an amazingly physical workout.  After stumbling back to my car my face was still a shade of crimson.  I sat there looking down at my feet and could not remember which pedal was the accelerator and which was the break.  How can I forget something that I do everyday? Surely, this skill is ingrained in my sub-conscious, never mind my consciousness.  Then of course, I needed to decide which foot to use.  What a metaphor of my life, I had forgotten when to accelerate and when to slow down and even how to do it.  I then realised I had been driving an automatic car for nearly 2 years now.  Could the lack of physically changing gear be decreasing my mental ability to shift gear?

As the weeks went by and I delved deeper into my psyche I lifted weights heavier than I ever thought possible. Training was developing new skills to deal with my emotional state, not just my physical well-being.  I was learning when to reset, accelerate, focus, and recognising when to catch my breath. These invaluable tools were making me mentally not just physically stronger.

My book Sharks & Lovers is available to download here:

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A Trip to Swinburne University

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I was lucky enough, a couple of weeks ago to attend Swinburne University Writing Festival.  Being new to this writing game, I couldn’t wait to go and see if I was getting it right. I am about 30,000 words into my novel.  To say I was nervous was an understatement, sweaty palms, tummy churning. I drove into the city and completely underestimated the time it would take to get to Hawthorn from Bayside. Amazingly I found a parking space immediately and wasn’t late. I got the lift up to the third floor and was greeted by a warm smiley face, ‘Are you student, lecturer or other?’ she asked me ‘other’ I replied, I’m always ‘other’ through will or circumstance, conformity doesn’t come naturally to me.

As the festival started, my heart was in my mouth, what if nothing they say made any sense and then that awful feeling of, ‘please don’t ask me any questions, what so ever, not even my name, 9×7=?; I never knew the answer to that bloody question. Racing mind, under confident kid at school, staring out the window hoping I was somewhere else. I close my eyes and when I open them, calmness washes over me. I look around; there are all walks of life in here, all ages, cultures, a real melting pot.  I relax my shoulders and shut off my annoying child. What Makes a Good Story?  The panel are introduced and are all very different from each other.  Could it be possible that there is no box I need to try to squeeze into to be a writer, I can just be me? The panel are asked the first question; what book would you take to a dessert Island?  The answers come in, ‘Trainspotting’, ‘The Goldfinch’ among others including ‘How to get off a Dessert Island’, ‘Raft Building’ etc.  Trainspotting, one of my favourite books, I need to reread it I think immediately; my book has a slight drug theme, perfect.  The Goldfinch, I loved it! I have something in common with these published writers.

As I sit making notes about What Makes a Good Story; identifying with the character, suspense, conflict, detail, I am ticking these off as I mentally find them in my book. I let out a little sigh.  Oh my god, Yes, Yes, Yes.  I have to stop myself spontaneously erupting into a huge orgasm in the vain of Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.  All these words are penetrating me slowly and deeply. At the end of the talk, I rush back along the Nepean Highway to do the school run on cloud nine. I had only signed up to day one, but I can’t wait to get home and sign up to tomorrow there is ‘The Perils and Pitfall of Writing a Memoir’.  My book started off as memoir and is based on a lot of experiences from my life so that’s a good enough reason to go along surely? I just need to go back there and feel immersed in this writing culture.  I scroll along to day three on my phone and then I see it, ‘The Pitch’, my heart jumps into my throat,

‘Oh my God, I can’t believe it, Oh shit, and shit, shit’ I say aloud

‘What is it? Is someone ill?, what’s happened?’  Asks my nine-year old son

‘Oh Goodness, I can’t believe it, Oh No, I can’t’ I say

‘What? tell us?’

‘So this writers thing at the Uni on Thursday, you can pitch your idea, so I’ll have to tell them about my book, I hate speaking in front of people’ I say with a huge grin on my face excitedly.

‘Hmmmmm’ says my son not understanding.

‘I have to do it, I have to tell them about my book, I have to do it’ I say

‘Great, then do it’ he says, things are so simple put by a nine-year old!

‘I will’ I say giving him a hug.

I spend the evening thinking about how to summarize my idea, my book.  But also thinking about the person that was writing the memoir back in February. They are a distant memory now and have overcome some huge personal millstones. The next day I go to the Uni a little earlier and sit sipping a coffee, the talk starts with an amazingly strong woman.  As I listen, she says exactly how I felt when I started to write, ‘getting to know ourselves as well as our world’. I’m not the same person who sat down in February to work through a stage in my life that I was embarrassed, ashamed and confused about.  Only four months on, I feel like an author of a completely different book, a book about courage, facing our truths, and saying fuck it. This is me.  I’ve found a different voice; it has stamina and packs a punch.

The panel talk about ‘who owns the story?’ I have thought about this a lot with my own book as there are some truths that although are my own, I would not want to hurt anyone else by publishing.  One of the panellists says, ‘I pity the family that has a writer as you steal their narrative’.  Everyone sees an event in a different light.  All these ideas resonate with me so much and yet I am not writing a memoir, maybe I should be, or maybe that is the next book, not this one? I come away buzzing, going again today was completely the right thing to do, but I feel slightly confused and scared.

‘Oh no that under confident child is coming back, the one that likes to beat myself up for the slightest misdemeanour, let alone the bigger story’, I think.

I rush again to pick the kids up and only just get there on time. In the evening, I go through my pitch, take out any negative verbs, and replace them with certainty.  I feel happy and go through the pitch about fifty times until it is etched into my brain.

Typically, I decide to go a different route to Hawthorn today and yep I am stuck in traffic with 5 minutes to go, I dump the car in an hour slot and hope I don’t get booked.  It’s raining. I walk into an unfamiliar building and get the escalator up to the third floor, ok I’m in a parallel universe, or this is the wrong Swinburne building.  I go back down onto the street and look around, I see the building I need and jog along. In the lift I find a piece of calm and when I get to the third floor, I am just in time, I go to the back and make a coffee, a ritual that yesterday seemed to keep my hands busy and my mind focused. The talking starts and the audience is asked if there is anyone that would like to pitch that they haven’t spoken to.  The speaker acknowledges me as I tentatively raise my hand.  Immediately my hearts beat has found its way to my ears and I feel the blood rising to my chest and face. The panel are introduced and I feel comfortable that they aren’t scary, just normal people. Others give their pitch and my heart is still racing and then its my turn, I know mine is shorter than the others but hopefully it’s enough. I walk up to the front and I am given the microphone, I have no idea what to do with it and am told to hold it closer to my mouth.  The pounding bass of my heart is so loud in my ears and the voice that echoes from the microphone certainly doesn’t seem like mine.  I look down at my notes and although I try to make eye contact with the panel, I am secretly hoping my notes will suck me into their world.  I finish and take a seat next to one of the panellists, he is smiling and saying good things.  I can’t quite make it out, but my hand is frantically trying to take the words from his mouth and write them down. I take my seat and try to breathe, my hands are shaking and I keep nearly losing my pen, I look at my notebook and try to write the comments, eloquent, well executed, liked the ending.  I need a tangible hook, be more specific.

On the way home I reflect that I couldn’t possibly give them the whole story but yes I should have told them about Harry, my favourite character who is, being seduced by women everywhere and who I think I’m slightly in love with too! Again I rush back to get the kids but don’t make it in time.  As I arrive home it is raining and the kids and I arrive simultaneously at the front door. ‘Don’t you even care about us?’ says my little girl, ‘why didn’t you pick us up, we are all wet now from the rain’ In the morning I explain to my children that I will always be here, but that I want to be a writer too and that they will need to share me with the world.  They look at me with wide eyes and wonder.  I hope they understand. This is just the beginning.

My book Sharks & Lovers is available to download here:

Amazon       Kobo       iTunes