Using Steller as a writer

In the past year I've been sharing more and more of my writing and photography online. There are a number of personal reasons for this, such as silencing (mostly) my imposter syndrome (I'll write about this in a future post) but also because of my love for Instagram. I really enjoy curating my instagram feed and telling a story through the photographs and the captions. It challenges me creatively; making me experiment and create things I'd never have thought of previously.

One thing that always gets lots of double-taps is my notebooks. People love looking at my handwriting, my notes and drafts of stories and my recipes.

So I've brought together two of my notebook projects from Instagram onto the Steller app.

My Notebooks from 2016, which is a collection of my rough drafts for My Stories, along with notes and plans and My Recipe Journal from 2016 - a collection of the recipes I made, recorded and photographed last year.

Are you on Steller (I'm abookishbaker)? What do you like to share over there?

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.

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.

Do you have imposter syndrome, too?

Did you see the Cilla Black biopic with Sheridan Smith?

This scene, where Sheridan sings as Cilla, where she says, quite disbelievingly, "it's gone to number one," is so powerful and emotional it brings me to tears every time. And oh! The beautiful emotion on her face as she sings. Goodness me. My eyes fill. With good tears, that is. Happy tears.

Yet Sheridan has said about her performances that,  “I always feel like a bit of a fraud, but so far I’ve not been found out.”

My writing journey has been long and it has only recently started to take off. Reason being? I was scared. Oh, I'm not that good, I'd think to myself. Other people are better than me. 

My husband would get so frustrated. "You're so much better than you think you are," he'd say.

But of course he'd say that, I'd counter in my head. He's my husband.

I don't have formal training as a writer. I did Business Studies at university. I still get confused between a noun, verb, adjective and other words that start making me sweat like I'm about to take an exam.

I felt, because writing wasn't something I wanted to do since I was knee-high, because I didn't have a burning ambition to write throughout my teens, that it isn't something I should be doing now.

I am a fraud. One day someone will find me out.

Yet I can't stop myself.

I keep going.

Trying not to feel that at any moment someone with laugh and point and say, "who the hell does she think she is, calling herself a writer?"

Even now, someone will tell me that they love my writing. It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling. I smile. And I try and ignore the voice that says, "Really? You? A writer?"

Do you suffer from imposter syndrome? Do you feel that one day you're going to be 'found out'? Or, as Sheridan says, "'I don’t think I deserve to be here. I’m just a complete scrubber from Donny Doncaster. I’m just blagging it.’" 

Jen Carrington has helped me enormously through her coaching. With her help I have honed what I want to write about and have just embarked on a new writing project. Listen to her podcast on imposter syndrome. It's only eight minutes long but incredibly helpful.

As Jen says, "too often we give the noise of others too much power in our lives and decisions we make." I so agree. I also think it is often our 'imagined' noise of others, too. What will X think if I write this? Or Y think if I write that?

I don't think these voices or feelings will ever fully go away. It is a side effect of being creative; of having that vulnerability about us that makes us better writers.

But every now and then we should remind ourselves: the only person we need to impress is our own self.

Permission

I didn't know people wrote like this. Ok, I did, but I didn't realise it was something people read...

Alright, that's not true either.

I didn't think it was something I could do.

The thing is when I heard Laura Jane Williams speak at the Blogtacular conference last weekend something clicked. It was a soft click during the workshop; after all I was busy taking part in the writing exercises, listening to her words.

But on the train home. Something happened. Like the point controller pulling the lever and the engine switching tracks.

I thought at first it was deflation. Disappointment. Because when I get emotional, when my head is filled with tears that refuse to come, that's a natural reason, right? It could, I mused, even have been the start of a vulnerability hangover as Lisa Congdon in the keynote speech talked about. And I'd talked to lots of strangers all day. Put myself out there. For someone whose day usually involves talking to just chickens, ducks and the dog this was a big ask.

But that wasn't it.

Laura said that not everyone would agree with what she had to say on the subject of writing. And she's right. She thinks blogging is dead.  I don't, but I do think it is evolving.

But everything else she uttered? I was nodding my head in agreement throughout. If she'd seen me out of the corner of her eye she'd have thought I was a nodding dog. The loon from that advert.

Of course, when I get home I find her blog. Superlatively Rude it's called. I'm binge reading it. I order her book, Becoming. She's from Derby, like me, you know. I'll gloss over the fact she's a decade younger than me.

I now know exactly what I want to write next. Laura's workshop showed me that. And even though I shouldn't need it, she gave me permission. So I gave myself permission.

The un-shed tears? Turns out they were because of inspiration and ambition.

Perhaps this is my becoming.

Filling the creative well

I took time out from social media and blogging in the last few weeks. Normally when life, or illness, gets in the way, I panic. Anxiety surges and swirls around my tummy. I see jobs that need doing everywhere I look. The overwhelming amount of tasks paralyses me physically but makes my mind anything but quiet. I work from home. And I work hard. I'm undertaking online courses in order to learn new skills, finishing off a novel, writing this blog, growing my social media presence, writing other articles, testing recipes, working on behind the scenes stuff...as well as tending to a large plot of land with chickens and ducks. Spring is a glorious season but it is also the busiest season for working outside.

In the four years we've lived here - four years today in fact - during the spring of two of those years I've felt anxiety when I see the nettles growing, when the hedges need cutting (not during nesting season though!) and when the grass needs strimming. I look elsewhere and see the chickens need treating to stop the red mite, their coops need a thorough wash and the weeds are starting to appear in the cracks of the patio. All of this has sent my anxiety through the roof.

And I've not even started on the writing work.

Julia Cameron writes about filling the well in her book, The Artist's Way, and in this blog post. She says:

As artists we must learn to be self-nourishing. We must become alert enough to consciously replenish our creative resources as we draw on them...

This is so true. Have you ever sat at your desk and been unable to write? Been completely uninspired? Run out of ideas?

Well, it could be because you've been working so hard you've forgotten to take time out. To go outside, take in deep breaths; to look up and see the clouds, or look down and get your hands dirty.

Whatever it is. Just to do something different. It could also be having a day off to go sight-seeing, going clubbing or bathing a chicken (yes, I did do that this morning).

Being a writer, or any type of creative, is a labour of love. We enjoy doing it. And many of us do it from home. But this also means we never take time away from it. And, when we do, we feel guilty.

I stopped feeling guilty some time ago. As Julia says, we must be self-nourishing. And I am learning to do that. Though I admit to sometimes forgetting.

We must take time out. Taking time out makes us return to our work renewed and refreshed, ready to climb literary mountains.

Now this is how I've spent my last week.

Late Spring 2016 from Helen || a bookish baker on Vimeo.

Music: "Summer Days" by Kai Engel www.kai-engel.com