How One-to-One Mentoring Gave Me Confidence to Achieve My Ambitions

I think, without the help of two mentors, I'd probably still be writing blog posts then hiding under the table, hoping no-one would read them. Chatting my ideas and goals with two people helped me enormously. They gave me confidence to acknowledge that yes, I wanted to write about my lifestyle, to try new things and to grow an online business.

Without these mentors I would have kept those unspoken ideas and ambitions in my head; meaning they were susceptible to the 'erosion process'. You know, that internal chat which constantly talks you out of achieving what you want.

You're not good enough, what makes you think you could do that, there are better people than you out there. 

Or that internal monologue might shift in shape. It could put the frighteners on me. Scared of failure is one thing. Scared of success is even bigger.

Having a mentor made me answerable to someone else. It forced me to do what I said I was going to do.

Instead of worrying about who would see my work I concentrated on what I was writing about, the quality of my photographs, learning new skills. It distracted the self-doubt and muted it long enough for me to work through various projects.

Two of my long-term goals that I mentioned to my mentor a year ago was to gain a platform of 10,000 followers on instagram and write a mini ebook. In the past month I've achieved both of these ambitions.

My third ambition was to help writers and other creatives achieve a bigger audience through social media. And now this ambition is about to be realised, too.

In a few weeks I'll be opening up a limited number of slots for one-to-one mentoring sessions.

I'll assess your current social media presence, then, in one-hour slots, we can discuss your audience, your own skills and all the background marketing stuff.

Or I can help on a practical level. Setting up a blog, identifying the social media channels to concentrate on, growing your audience on Instagram, taking photographs with your iPhone, developing a theme, creating email lists or using Pinterest.

To book go to my new Bookish Marketing website.

An honest review of my year

On Monday 28th November I woke up feeling anxious. Unsettled, overwhelmed, worried. And low. At first I thought it was because December and Christmas were racing towards me like a freight train. My immediate thought was to step back from social media. From twitter, from facebook and from writing in general. This wasn't hard as I'd run out of things to say. My mind was empty, my brain was slow.

But it gave me the mental space to collect my thoughts, to work out what was bothering me.

So, with a deep breath I went through the projects I'd been working on. Then I thought about what I'd achieved this year:

• At the beginning of this year I hired a mentor to help me with my instagram and photography. I also hired a coach to help me with focus and direction.
• I rebranded and called my blog A Bookish Baker. I pushed the fear away and became more honest about my writing and even wrote some of my non-fiction chicken stories on my blog.
• I learned new skills: how to make videos and also, more recently, I've been drawing and painting.
• I went to Blogtacular and had a lightbulb moment after hearing from one of the speakers.
• My instagram has grown and my followers have increased from under 1000 to nearly 8.5k.
• I've developed an interest in writing my memoir. I've blogged about this, written and photographed my process on instagram and already have over 20,000 words.
• I finished the first draft of my novel. It needs a hell of a lot of work but I've started a major editing project.
• I became editor of Novelicious. The response from the book community was wonderful.
• I made my first vlog. Put my face on Youtube.
• I've taken on paid work through my blog.
• I launched my newsletter.

I'm sure there are other things that I've forgotten to mention. All positive, all wonderful.

But this year I also parted ways with my literary agent.

At first I was pragmatic. But over time I've felt a sense of loss. That I've made huge strides in my career but also taken a massive lurch backwards. All the above meant nothing.

I threw myself into new projects. That's my default response to bad news. It was overload. Eventually my brain couldn't take any more and told me to stop. That was Monday 28th November.

This is the most I've written since that morning nearly two weeks ago. My head is clearer. There's still fog there, there's still a bit of confusion about my way ahead.

But there are also glimmers, small glimmers, of excitement at what I can do next. Imagine what these glimmers might have turned to once I've had a proper rest over Christmas?

So, unless I have something I desperately need to write about, my blog is going into hibernation. Just for a few weeks. I'll be back stronger and more enthusiastic in the New Year.

Thank you to everyone who has supported me this year. From reading my blog, making supportive comments, signing up to my newsletter, writing and recommending me elsewhere...thank you! Everything is truly appreciated.

I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas.

My Stories ||The Darkness and the Moonlight

"It's as black as your hat," says my dad when he comes to stay. He's got a Derbyshire accent though so "your hat" becomes one word: "yerat". Every time I step outside my back door in the darkness, especially at this time of year, I think of his expression. Because it is. Extremely dark. You cannot see your hand in front of you.

At our last home, on the housing estate, we had a street light right next to our house. It would glow outside our bedroom window, leaching an orange haze over our sleeping forms.

But here? There are no streetlights. There's nothing except the distant pinpricks of light from the dual carriageway. Eventually my trees will grow and we won't even be able to see that.

I have to go outside in the darkness every night to shut in the chickens. At first, before we got the dog, I would not go out in the field after dark. I once cast the torch around (to my left, straight ahead, to my right, behind me, argh what's that noise?!) and saw two eyes staring at me from the bottom of the field. The eyes were well above ground level. It freaked me right out.

It's funny, thinking back, that I used to be so bothered by the darkness. Because now I don't give it a second thought. Yes, I still quickly scan my torch all around me, checking the shadows to my left and right, but I'm actively looking for glowing eyes.

Then there's the moonlight.

I knew the songs, of course I did. Dancing in the moonlight. Moonlight shadow.

But actually seeing moonlight? Seeing the shadow of our house cast by the full moon? I didn't really understand that it had existed other than in a Famous Five novel. Living in a town with light pollution we lose that wonder of seeing a giant elm tree reflected on the ground as a moonlight shadow.

But once every few weeks I can go outside, as long as the sky is clear, and not need my torch to see in the dark. The moon is bright and luminous. Shining down, my shadow walking ahead of me.

My Chicken Story Stories is a collection of my thoughts as I pull together the first draft of my memoir.

Editing my novel - week TWO

It's week TWO of my edit. I started the week feeling utterly overwhelmed but ended it feeling rather positive.

Editing my novel - week one

This is my first proper vlog. A vlog with talky bits. A vlog with my face. Where I document how I'm undertaking a structural edit of my novel. I don't know what I feel most daunted about. The edit (it's a major edit) or putting my face up there onto YouTube.

It's incredibly exposing opening myself up like this. It is also incredibly scary. Am I risking criticism, trolls, comments I can't handle? Possibly.

Undertaking an edit like this though is something I've never attempted before. And when I'm scared, with little confidence, I'm prone to procrastination. I'll put all my energies into other projects and put this one off. Because it seems so big. Massive. Like I could never achieve it.

The only way I could see myself going through with it, is by filming it. That is my deadline.

It is one thing writing 70,000 words. It's quite another to craft those words, those sentences, paragraphs and chapters into something cohesive. Something that'll entertain, keep the reader gripped, and tells the story that you've had in your head for so long to the best of your ability.

Right now I'm at a pretty low point with my writing. And exposing myself like this could go one of two ways. But, I'm trying to convince the 25% of myself that wants to give up that writing is worth pursuing. So this is almost do or die. Pushing myself to do something that frightens me.

Please be kind...

For Pinterest:

The start of a major edit

One of the most frustrating parts of being ill with the flu is not being able to write or create. (Or eat, or go outside...but mainly the not writing.) All you can do is lie in bed and think; too weak to read, eyes too tired or sore to watch anything, not wanting to sleep again. You think of everything you want to write. Of ideas for blog posts, for possible vlogs and how to arrange the editorial calendar in your new job. If you're anything like me you sketch it all out in your head, get incredibly excited then frustrated again, and end up not being able to sleep anyway.

So in the last, (ooh, has it really been) five days, of enforced rest, I've been thinking about what my priorities are. Because as well as worrying about my writing I've also been thinking of all the others things I'm not doing whilst lying in bed. Getting the garden ready for winter, cleaning out the chickens, finishing off the bedroom sort-out I was part way through when I was struck down, finding my daughter's piano books I accidentally put in a safe place, making sure my son finishes his homework..

Yes, my brain has not had any rest the poor thing.

And it occurred to me that it was time. Time for me to start editing my novel. I alluded to bad news in this post and, although it isn't catastrophic and could actually work out for the best, it did stop me in my tracks for a while. Because it was related to writing my novel.

But I've had enough of sulking now. The time is right to get on with it because I know I can do this.

In an interview I did with Katy Colins over on Novelicious she mentioned setting herself deadlines gave her the impetus to get things done. I'm absolutely rubbish with self imposed deadlines. So I need another stick or carrot to drive me forward.

That's when I decided to record my writing process. I've fallen in love with making films during the course of this year. So why not record myself writing my book? Who knows, I might even show my face on it and, you know, speak. Though a) I need to get over the flu first and b) need a good foundation to calm my rather weather-beaten face.

Anyway, this is my first mini-film of the very start of a very big structural edit of my novel.

My Stories || The Field Maple

After the first winter of living in this house I knew a windbreak of trees was absolutely necessary. For months a breath-sucking, bone-tingling north/north-easterly wind had sped over the farmer's field and hit our house, along with the chicken area, at full force. It was soul-sappingly bitter.

Spring broke through for a while. We were joyous. I love winter, but after months of that wind, a cold wind that had started in late autumn, I was ready to feel some spring sunshine on my face. Underneath bright blue skies we introduced some new chickens to our flock. They were about fifteen weeks old. Ready for the outside world. Ready for their forever home.

But then winter decided it hadn't finished with us. That aggressive wind came back. And sadly one of those new chickens was just not hardy enough.

Needs must. I started to research trees. I knew absolutely nothing about them. I could probably point out a horse chestnut but that was my limit. What I did know, however, was that I wanted a tree with leaves that transformed from green to red to yellow throughout the autumn months, before falling gently to the ground.

After some reading about the subject I also knew I wanted a mixture of evergreen and deciduous with the majority of the trees we planted to be native to the UK.

The Field Maple has leaves that turn red. It is also the UK's only native maple.

I bought many trees in my first tree project purchase. And the Field Maple was one of them. It now stands proudly at the bottom of the field, in direct eye line from the house. The leaves are just changing from green to red.

***

My Chicken Story Stories is snippets of my thoughts as I pull together the first draft of my memoir.

A Blog Over Troubled Water

It's funny how writing can heal. How it can comfort. When I was walking my dog yesterday I was thinking about this blog. It is such a simple thing. A place to record my thoughts, the seasons, my chicken stories, recipes, books I've read. A journal, but online. Opening my heart to people I've never met, yet understand me. Jotting words down. Sentences and paragraphs. Trying to make sense of the world.

The lyrics to Bridge Over Troubled Water appeared in my mind.

When life becomes a bit disordered, through both good news and bad, when I throw myself enthusiastically into new projects, only to crash some time later as the adrenalin, inevitably, stops pumping. It is this blog I turn to.

Blogs have lost their appeal over the years. I started my original one some ten years ago. It was a place to chat to other writers; we'd visit each other's blogs to see how their writing had gone that day. Then facebook came along and we moved there. Then twitter, and we moved there.

The only thing is, businesses followed. People put links on (including myself). Chatting became less. Those water cooler moments where we talk through our abysmal word counts or stressing because we're at that 'everything is rubbish' point don't really exist anymore. We use twitter as a place to get our news, as a way to read essays or articles of people we follow.

And that's fine. Only there isn't an alternative for those water cooler chats. For unpicking our thoughts.

Yet my blog is still here for me. It hasn't gone anywhere. It's a place where I can immerse myself in words, where I can experiment with descriptions, get lost with recording my experiences of nature. Where I read through what I've just written and see a rhythm of sorts. A rhythm that needs a bit of tinkering so I play around and add, take away. Test and taste.

To anyone out there who aspires to be a writer, an author, I cannot recommend starting a blog enough.It is where you can experiment. Get better. Hone your craft.

A place to turn to when you're weary, feeling small.

My Stories || Working Girl

Let the river run

Let all the dreamers

Wake the nation.

Come, the new Jerusalem.

Carly Simon from the film 'Working Girl'.

I would pull on my socks over my black tights and put on my trainers, before slipping quietly out of the door.

I was living in East London. Leyton. My route to work took me up Dunedin Road to the main street, where I'd turn right towards the underground station. It wasn't here I'd start singing Carly Simon's words in my head. No, I was too busy waking up.

The clang of the shop front shutters jarred my head, making me wince, and the fumes from the cars, the stale takeaway smells, filled my nose.

Approaching the station I'd take out my travelcard, feeling a bit smug, like a proper Londoner. Despite being surrounded by proper Londoners. It was easy to get a seat at Leyton, unless there had been a delay further down the line. We entered the train above ground, the doors would beep and we'd set off, building speed. Soon the darkness would enclose us, my inner ears tightening with the difference in pressure. I'd feel a fission of excitement each time. Obviously I was new to the city. That world weary tube traveller thing hadn't happened to me. Yet.

I'd alight at Liverpool Street Station. A station I'd only known throughout my life as a strategic place to buy on the Monopoly board. I'd walk and walk. I was heading to my temporary job. I made good progress in my trainers and Melanie Griffiths would pop into my head, Carly Simon's vocals on a loop.

Now, almost two decades later, whilst I still love the song, still enjoy watching the film; at the end, when the camera pans away from Melanie in her new office, the office she has fought so long and hard to achieve, well, I shudder.

To me, it looks like a prison.

And I thought that was what I wanted.

My Chicken Story Stories is snippets of my thoughts as I pull together the first draft of my memoir.