There are so many spaces for online sharing – Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, TikTok etcetera – blogging can seem very old school. It doesn’t have that instant hit of likes, at least mine doesn’t, so it’s not as pleasing perhaps. I think maybe that’s a good thing. I’ve been blogging for a damn long time now, always erratically. I never schedule posts I just plonk things up when it occurs to me. Anyway, here’s a wee catch-up.

My flash, My Imaginary Boyfriend, was one of the Editor’s Choice picks at Book’s Ireland.

I published two brilliant, and very different, nonfiction pieces at The Forge:

The World I Will Not Taste by Cheryl Pappas

Landsgemeinde, Appenzell by Shane Inman

I read Oliver Burkeman’s “Four Thousand Weeks” which I think is my most highlighted book ever. Burkeman offers balm for those of us who never think we are doing enough and need to constantly strive to do more and be better dammit! As well as making me feel a whole lot better about the impossibility of living up to ridiculous standards, he cautions, “What you pay attention to will define, for you, what reality is.” And “At the end of your life, looking back, whatever compelled your attention from moment to moment is simply what your life will have been.” Simple yet powerful. I can’t recommend this book enough.

I’ve just watched Everything Everywhere All At Once and it is superb. So much better than any Marvel multiverse movie. Not only is it visually amazing and packed with action but it’s also got depth. Although the ending feels inevitable it’s still satisfying. And the weirdness (multiverses including one where people have hotdog fingers, or are rocks,) doesn’t feel odd for the sake of it, instead building layers. Loved it. Oh, and I think in the midst of 100’s of images I saw a shot of Brighton’s West Pier which, yay! And also gives me an excuse to share a snap I took of it recently which I think came out quite well.

(The world is a terrifying place which feels scarier than I’ve ever known it to be. I’m concentrating on the trivial here which sometimes feels soothing.)


I entered the Mslexia short story competition this year. My favourite writer, Janice Galloway, was the judge, so it was a must. It’s an excellent competition in an excellent magazine. I sent what I consider finished, polished, strong work, and got nowhere. Ah well, that’s the way it goes. I put a flippant post up about it on Facebook, and was heartened by the responses I got, both on the post and in private messages. Many writer friends entered this competition and didn’t make it either. Amongst them are a couple of poets who have collections published, short story authors, again with published collections, and a few published novelists. Professional writers with awesome CV’s entered and failed. That they shared this with me was enormously helpful so I thought I’d share it here in the hope it helps someone else too. I know the quality of these women’s writing. They are damn good. So, let’s remember that another judge may have picked a different final six. What resonates with me may not with you. It’s easy enough to weed out bad writing, but when you have, say, thirty stories all containing good quality writing, it will be about what speaks to the individual reader. If I read the stories belonging to the writers I spoke with on facebook I’m fairly sure I would favour one over the others despite knowing they are all fine writers.

A writer who has judged several competitions told me she only ever sees the entries the first readers have decided should make up the long-list. Who knows, Galloway may have adored my words if she’d ever got to read them, but my genius went unrecognised in the initial sifting process. (Yeah, ok, unlikely, but hey, it’s my thought, I can have it if I want.)

I’ve won competitions before, and I’ve obviously lost them too. Winning is a delightful, validating, endorsement. Losing is a huge blow. It makes you question your worth as a writer. One of the things that was discussed on my Facebook page was that some of the writers had gone back over their entries and were truly surprised to not be able to see obvious edits they could make. I do a great line in self hatred, and the first thought on losing is usually that the story isn’t good enough, and that one was delusional in thinking it might have stood a chance. That’s nonsense, the same story that flops in one place can, and does, succeed elsewhere. That’s not to say improvements can’t be made. Do re-read with a critical eye – change what leaps out, then look for somewhere fabulous to submit to. Keep going. Remember why you write in the first place. I don’t write in the hope of winning competitions, I write because I have this impulse to fictionalise things. It’s part of my being. If I can then share those words and communicate with people, then all the better. If I can get recognition for it, well, better still. Financial recompense would be amazing. I’d love to win ALL the competitions and be published everywhere, but even if I never win anything again, I’m going to keep on writing. Don’t lose sight of the heart of your words. Oh, and to the person who told me (kindly) it might be off-putting to potential publishers to mention failures, I don’t believe that is true.

In his superb book “The Antidote” Oliver Burkeman has this to say about failure:

Fortunately, developing a healthier approach to failure may be easier than you’d think. The work of the Stanford University psychologist Carol Dweck suggests that our experiences of failure are influenced overwhelmingly by the beliefs we hold about the nature of talent and ability – and that we can, perhaps quite straightforwardly, nudge ourselves towards a better outlook. Each of us can be placed somewhere on a continuum, Dweck argues, depending on our “implicit view” – or unspoken attitude – about what talent is and where it comes from. Those with a “fixed theory” assume that ability is innate; those with an “incremental theory” believe that it evolves through challenge and hard work. If you’re the kind of person who strives mightily to avoid the experience of failure, it’s likely that you reside near the “fixed” end of Dweck’s continuum. Fixed-theory people approach challenges as occasions on which they are called upon to demonstrate their innate abilities, and so they find failure especially horrifying: to them, it’s a sign that they tried to show how good they are, but didn’t measure up. The classic example is the young sports star encouraged to think of himself as a “natural” – but who then fails to put in sufficient practice to realise his potential. If talent is innate, his unspoken reasoning goes, then why bother?
Incremental-theory people are different. Because they think of abilities as emerging through tackling challenges, the experience of failure has a completely different meaning for them: it’s evidence that they are stretching themselves to their current limits. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t fail. The relevant analogy here is with weight training: muscles grow by being pushed to the limits of their current capacity, where fibres tear and reheal. Among weightlifters, “training to failure” isn’t an admission of defeat – it’s a strategy.
Happily, Dweck’s studies indicate that we are not saddled for life with one mindset rather than another. Some people manage to alter their outlook simply by being introduced to the fixed versus incremental distinction. Alternatively, it’s worth trying to recall it next time failure strikes: next time you flunk an exam, or mishandle a social situation, consider that it’s happening only because you’re pushing at the limits of your present abilities.

You can read a little more here.  I’m hoping to learn how to see failure as an essential part of life, and stop being so afraid of it – I’m definitely more of a fixed theory person and am hoping to persuade my mind to allow me to become more of an incremental kinda gal.

The Antidote by Oliver Burkeman

I don’t read self-help books although I have done in the past, when I was young and far less cynical. I loathe positive thinking. I think it’s at best delusional, and at worst severely damaging. The early part of this year was pretty fucking tough for me. An endurance. At work one day I picked up the Burkeman book, intrigued by the subtitle “Happiness for people who can’t stand positive thinking”, and had a flick through. It looked actually useful, and I surprised myself by buying it. To be honest, initially I was most struck by the notion of stoicism and the acceptance of negativity. It fitted with where I was in life, and I took some comfort from what I read. I tried to use it to help me get through each day. As the situation around me improved and I was able to start thinking about getting back to writing, the parts about failure chimed loudly with me. I hope to be able to utilise some of the things I’ve learnt very soon.

Those of you who know me will be aware I usually wear a skull in some form – jewellery or clothing or a scarf etcetera. My love of skulls began when working at The Museum of Mankind. There was an amazing Mexican Day of the Dead exhibition which I adored. The acceptance of death seems the most sensible thing we can do in order to appreciate life, yet it’s hard to find the balance between awareness and fear. So often we blank it out as much as possible so as not to frighten ourselves senseless. I wear skulls to remind myself I am mortal, and also, because they are so darn cute. Burkeman has an excellent chapter on death. 

I feel like I need to refer back to The Antidote – as I read I highlighted pertinent sections and found I’d nearly highlighted the entire book. It’s a guidebook to life, and I highly recommend it.