Writing with...myself...

Today, on a whim, I emptied the box folder that has been sitting in my wardrobe for months and went through the contents. An excavation of a past self in piece of paper. The handout for my last course at a university, the notes from when I was designing it, a folded over bundle that turned out to be summaries of writing coaching I had when I was struggling to move on after the thesis, several article drafts bulldog-clipped together with notes, and loose pages of yellow legal pad covered with biro scrawls and references.

I was proud, reading snippets, to see how good my writing was, how clear the ideas.

I thought about picking some of it up and finishing it, just diving back into the subject for a while for the sheer intellectual satisfaction of it.

I caught sight of references and key phrases that sparked a memory of enthusiasm and thought, yes I should keep this, it reminds me who I am.

And then, just as suddenly, it was gone, the intoxicating rush of promise and potential, leaving in its wake the sour taste of morning after, and I threw the notes into the recycling, knowing I would never go back there.

Picking up the paperwork I originally went into my office to collect, I returned to my present self and all she has achieved. But the heaviness remained. The feeling of disappointment and regret for my younger self.

Revisiting our roots are a mixed blessing. Going through the notes took me to so many affective memories - excitement, enthusiasm, pride, overwhelm, heaviness, depression… I forgot myself for a moment, and all my writing sense was caught up in a past that isn’t helpful for me to reference. A season when I felt like a failure a lot of the time - not keeping up with the sector, with others’ expectations, with my own. Someone who never finished, and started to see herself as someone who couldn’t finish. A dangerous sense to bring with me to the present when writing has stopped feeling scary and impossible.

I want to write now on behalf of that younger self, to prove to her that I was in here all along, and it was the sector and the conditions and the impossibility of creating in the midst of such tiredness that held her back, not some dreadful lack of talent or grit. I want her to know, too, that I am able to write now because of what she did on those endless train journeys, pouring out words into notebook after notebook conjuring the crucible of a new life, fomenting the desire and the desperation that would ultimately catapult me into the work I am doing now. I want to tell her that I can only write like this because of her, and that all she did then, that too was writing.

(If you have enjoyed this post, why not head over to The Slow Writer’s Club for some writing prompts to help support your own writing: