mental health

As the Sun Sets, a play and a kōrero

Published on by TW

I’d never written a play before I wrote As the Sun Sets. Well, one, as a very naïve and unskilled nineteen year old. It was a terrible rip-off of Tarantino, or maybe Scorsese, entitled And the City Rats Screamed. Hardly a homage, barely a fan-fic. A misguided attempt to write a movie I’d not seen yet. It was consigned to, and will remain in, the File Where Bad Writing Goes to Die. Officially, As the Sun Sets was my first proper play.

The opportunity provided to me by the Wellington team Magnificent Weirdos was almost too good to be true. An experience to not only have my play performed on stage in my home city, but to also gain valuable feedback via workshops and group read-throughs. I really can’t express how grateful I am for the chance, and for everything I learned in the process. 

At the end of each performance, each writer was invited to kōrero (have a conversation) with a live audience to answer questions and talk about the play. I was absolutely terrified of being on stage, but it was a deeply rewarding experience. The support I received for my disability (severe Deafness) was exceptional, and it helped me realise that with the right accessibility supports, my Deafness didn’t need to be a barrier to me doing things in the way I believed it was. That was a real gamechanger for me.

I wrote this blog post as a continuation of that kōrero, and to share a bit more about my writing process and the story behind the play. You can read the full play here, and I suggest you do, or much of this post won’t make much sense! 

The seeds for As the Sun Sets began in a graveyard, not unlike the one featured in the story. I was slowly coming out of a self-imposed bubble, a place I had retreated to lick my wounds after a time of trauma, and begin rebuilding who I was as a writer. I began taking silly little walks for my silly little mental health, and the graveyard, with its accompanying church, became one of my favourite places to go. It was an ideal mid-point in my walk where I could sit, and just be quiet for a while. I never went inside the church, that wasn’t the purpose for my visits. No, I was only interested in the graveyard itself, filled with the headstones of pioneers long past, rarely visited by anyone else, yet still beautifully and lovingly tended to. I would sit on a bench overlooking it all and feel grounded and at peace. It was one of the very few places outside of my home bubble where I felt safe and unbothered. Where I could relax and think. 

My favoured bench sported a plaque in memory of Cliff and Alma Gardener, church and graveyard minders for over fifty years. It didn’t matter to me who they really were, in my head they were also my unseen minders. One afternoon, as the sun was slipping down behind the hills and the shadows around me grew longer, I stood to leave, and without knowing why, I patted the bench and said, “thank you for sharing your bench with me Cliff and Alma.” It was a silly gesture, done without any real thought or meaning, but it sowed an idea in my head as I walked home. The main character, known only as M, became clear to me, I could almost see her there on the bench, her head bowed and her posture sad. She spoke softly, spilling her secrets to some unseen audience. Confiding in two people who were not really there, but were somehow more real to her than her own friends and family.

The graveyard was a safe space for me to think and take some time away from all the chaos in my life. To connect with nature, to watch the birds and breathe fresh air. It made sense to me that others might also find it such a powerful place.

The next day, I began writing.

When I began, I liked M. I thought she was someone who had experienced an awful lot of  trauma and heartache. She needed guidance, support and love. By the end, I didn’t like her much at all. Even though I understood her motivations, what drove her to make the choices she did, I couldn’t respect her, or understand why she didn’t find better ways to process that trauma. In many ways, I had thought I was writing a version of myself, but I found out she was the complete opposite. I don’t even really know who I based her on in the end. She was an extremely interesting character to explore, especially the relationships she had with those around her.

Initial feedback to my first draft was to give her a more rounded backstory, some explanations for her behaviour, as well as building a stronger idea of who she was. This was easy to do, as I’d already mapped out a much longer story before I settled on the monologue format. Although, in some ways this also made it harder as I had so many ideas I wasn’t sure what to cut and what to keep. The Magnificent Weirdos team did a fantastic job of guiding me to create a more streamlined story, and to fix some glaring plot holes! Also, seeing how other people interacted with my words and characters was  incredibly educational and emotional for me. As a writer, it’s not something I get to experience often. Once the words are written and sent into the world, it’s rare that I get any first-hand feedback on how the reader has interacted with them. 

The play explores themes of family, grief, illness and generational trauma. Trying to pack all of that into a twenty minute monologue was quite a challenge. I know that once I expand the story into a novella (which I’m working on right now!) I’ll be able to tackle them all in more depth. M feels to me like someone who does not really know how to be an adult. A chid still trapped in an aging, unwell body with no tools to navigate the real world. Most of this comes from her upbringing, and her relationship with her Nana, but I also feel like it’s a choice for her to never attempt real growth. Her obsession with fantasy worlds keeps her stuck from moving on in her own. She longs to be transported to another time and place where she does not have to address her responsibilities. I think this is why she chooses to do what she does at the end. The gut-punch to the audience, who perhaps believed she would make amends somehow and act better than those who hurt her, is that realisation that maybe she’s not such a nice person after all. She acts only in self-preservation. Terrified that her family will find out her long-kept secret, she does everything she can to bury it even deeper. 

M’s conversations with Robert and Edith are one-sided. They have no opportunity to tell her what they really think, or guide her actions. While in her head they are no doubt surrogates for the parents she has lost, they will never contradict her or tell her when she is wrong. Perhaps this is the biggest problem for M in that she should be confiding in people who can give her that feedback, her actual family. I suspect that one of the reasons she doesn’t, is because deep down she knows they will be appalled by her actions. While Nana was clearly an awful influence in her life, we also only know what M chooses to tell us. She appears honest and open, but is actually an unreliable narrator. She speaks of loving her family, but it seems like that love is past-tense. The only person she really speaks fondly of is her young grandson, Henry, who mirrors her need for authenticity and freedom. Henry runs barefoot in the garden and chases butterflies in the sun. He is never admonished for this, in fact it is encouraged. He reminds her of the child she wanted to be but was never allowed. Her own childhood is filled with misery and abuse, and she has carried that with her into adulthood. I don’t even believe her marriage to John was based on romance, merely a desire to escape and start anew. 

The novella will explore all of these ideas in more depths, and who knows, maybe I will find a way to like M again. Maybe she is not completely lost, and will redeem herself somehow. Perhaps the full story is not hers alone, but that of her abandoned child, Ezekiel. I have a plan, but as with all my stories, often the characters have other ideas. I just know it is going to be fun to write.  And despite her faults, I will always look back on M, with fondness, for without her I would still be stuck in a bubble, licking my wounds and wondering who I was as a writer. 

Thank you also, Cliff and Alma, whoever you are, or were. Your bench will always remain one of my favourite places to sit and be quiet for a while.

Feel the Fear. Do it Anyway.

Published on by TW

While procrastinating doing research on the internet recently (instead of getting on with the millions of projects I have ongoing right now) I saw two affirmations that hit very close to home. I apologise that I don’t know who to credit for either of them.

“If you wait until you feel ‘better’ to start living, you might be waiting forever. Go live your life. Do it sad. Do it anxious. Do it uncertain. Because healing doesn’t always come before the experience. Sometimes, the experience is what heals you.”

and,

“If your art helped you survive something, it’s already a masterpiece.”

I feel like I’ve been living my life on “pause” for the past three years, with occasional bursts of intense energy keeping me moving forwards. It’s been frustrating and, often, downright depressing. I’ve had to focus on things I really didn’t want to focus on, or on things that failed to inspire me. I’ve had to spend time, energy and far too much money on putting things right that should never have been wrong in the first place. I’ve weathered it all with stubbornness and spite—yes, I’d love to say it was through gentleness, tenacity and strength of spirit, but honestly, it was my absolute rage that got me through most of it. That, and the invaluable support of my family and friends. And now I’m at a crossroads. I have healed. I have grown. I’ve fought my way to a much better place physically and emotionally. But some days I still feel like I’m on “pause.”

I know why, of course. Because while I am better, I don’t always feel better. I’m still often locked in that place where trauma has taught me to expect something terrible is just around the corner. That I should prepare myself for Bad Things because my neurospicy brain has decided to tell me it was my lack of preparedness that caused bad things to happen in the past. (This is rubbish, by the way, and logically I know it, but Brain Weasels are tricksy little buggers.) 

Recently, the Universe (or whatever you believe) has been nudging me in some interesting new directions. Projects and opportunities I wouldn’t have even considered as options to me have arisen. This is good. In fact, it’s excellent! It’s also scary. Those same Brain Weasels are telling me I will fail. That I don’t deserve any of it. That I am Doing Things Wrong. Excuse me one moment while I stuff that particular Weasel back in its box…

When I look back to the time when I felt like I couldn’t possibly survive, that nothing would ever get better, I can see just how far I’ve come. When I remember how I wanted to spend every day in bed and disassociate from real life, I also see the many tiny things I did that made me feel just a little bit connected and hopeful for a while. When the physical pain was at its worst and I was mainlining opiates just to stay functional, it gave me the most spectacular creative ideas. (One of those ended up being featured on the cover of a magazine. How cool is that?!) It was an awful, awful time, and I’d be doing myself a disservice to gloss over that or fail to acknowledge it. But it took me down, not out. It didn’t kill me, and it didn’t make me stronger (I hate that saying, by the way) but it made me think a little differently. To appreciate everything I still had, rather than focus on what I’d lost. 

In a moment of self-reflection while working on IFS therapy (Internal Family Systems. If you’re interested, you can find out more about that here) I wrote a list of all my achievements over the last three years. Some of those were “material” and career-focused. Many of them were more about emotional growth and who I am as a person. Those ones, I think, were more meaningful. 

And maybe I am still on “pause,” waiting to get better. Or maybe I’m just taking things a little slower and being mindful of how everything has purpose. Even if I don’t know what that purpose is yet. The experience is indeed healing me. Pause is only temporary. It’s a deep breath before the plunge.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer told us, “I’m cookie dough. I’m not done baking. I’m not finished becoming whoever the hell it is I’m gonna turn out to be. I make it through this, and the next thing, and the next thing, and maybe one day, I turn around and realise I’m ready.”

I’m not “done” either. I’m cookie dough. And I’ll always be cookie dough: never knowing what my final form will be but being totally okay with that. Sometimes I’m simply a random blob. Other times I’m more moulded into a recognisable shape. I don’t even think I’ll ever get baked; I can’t imagine how it would feel to become hard and stay fixed in one specific spot. Never changing or adding more ingredients. It doesn’t feel right, somehow. 

That second affirmation is particularly meaningful to me. “If your art helped you survive something, it’s already a masterpiece.” Because I realised that sometimes the “art” you create is yourself, and you are the masterpiece others will admire and remember. Not necessarily for what you did, but for who you are, and who you will continue to be. 

So whenever that Brain Weasel tells you, “you can’t,” remember that you have, you are, and you will. It might not seem like much, but it’s enough. As the poet Max Ehrmann wrote, almost one hundred years ago: “… be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.”

I like that. It comforts me. It makes me feel like although Bad Things can and will happen, Good Things can and will too. Rest, if you need to, but don’t quit. Oh, and up yours, Brain Weasels, I’ve still got many more masterpieces to make.

A message to my future (present) self regarding the removal of all my adult teeth.

Published on by twadmin

<Note: on the 9th November 2023 I had surgery to remove all my remaining adult teeth and replace them with dentures. This was due to the pain and trauma I had experienced over a period of 18 months at the hands of a dentist who removed a tooth in such a way that I experienced nerve damage, and carried out treatment on others that left me in so much pain they also had to be removed. The dentist then moved away from New Zealand, leaving me with some hefty dental bills, many other dental issues to resolve, and PTSD. I was subsequently let down by four other dentists before I eventually managed to find an amazing one who did his absolute best to fix all my issues. Unfortunately, it was too late, and the decision was made for a full plate clearance. I could write volumes about everything that has happened in 2022/2023, but I think it best not to dwell on that, and to round off the experience with this short, cathartic letter to myself.>

Dearest T,

You’re going to worry about this. A lot. Even when you don’t realise that you are, the thoughts will be buzzing around your brain almost constantly in the weeks running up to the surgery. You find out the date around six weeks before it is due to happen, which feels both far too long to wait and hardly any time at all. You’re in a lot of pain, especially in teeth that have had some recent (traumatic… failed…) work done. The only way to fix them is to take them out. The dentist asks you if you want to do it before the others, but you can’t face it then. Somehow it feels easier to just keep taking the painkillers like you have been for months, and know that the end is coming. 

You have a lot of email conversations with ACC who tell you they can’t pay for all of the surgery, the sedation and the dentures. You start a Givealittle page. You are completely blown away by the kindness of friends and strangers who raise over $2000 dollars so you can pay for your new teeth.

You cry a lot. But that’s not new. You’ve been crying a lot for a long time now. Just a few more weeks to go.

On the day of the surgery you feel worn out, mostly from lack of sleep and stress. The dentist, his assistant, and the anaesthetist are all truly lovely. They do everything they can to put you at ease. You explain you are more worried about the sedation than the procedure. They tell you that’s normal and to relax as much as possible. The anaesthetist puts the cannula in your arm and a pulse monitor on your finger. She adds the sedation medication and you can feel it flowing in your arm; cold and slightly painful, but it doesn’t last. She says, “you might be feeling some effects now,” and you can’t remember if you reply or not as suddenly the time has jumped and you’re aware of the dentist doing his job, but you don’t care in the slightest. You feel calm and relaxed and in no pain, and almost as soon as you realise you are in no pain it is time to get up as the procedure is over. 

The anaesthetist hands you two paracetamol and you dribble water all down yourself trying to take them, as you have no control over your jaw. You can feel the new dentures pressing on your gums. They feel huge and you’re not sure you can close your mouth properly. It doesn’t hurt much, but it does throb. You can feel your pulse in your non-existent teeth. Dave, your husband, drives you home. You lie on the sofa, too wired to rest, still in some sort of dazed state. You see yourself for the first time in the bathroom mirror, and you’re shocked at how swollen your face is. You don’t look like you. The teeth seem too big. You worry that you’ve made a mistake.

Week 1 you take so many painkillers you don’t remember most of what happens. You also take so many selfies, trying to get used to how you now look. You lie in the bath and smile at the camera and wonder who this person is on the screen. Your family say they can hardly see any difference, but to you, your reflection is alien. 

You see the dentist the day after the surgery so he can see how things are going. He asks you if you’re happy with how things look, and you tell him, to be honest, no. But everything is healing nicely and the dentures fit really well, so you have to trust that things will settle and improve. That you won’t feel this way forever. You feel cautiously optimistic, and relieved that the worst is over, but you’re also high a lot of the time, and thinking about anything is too hard. 

Week 2, the pain is different. It’s not like what you’ve been through in the last 18 months. It’s pain from a wound that is healing. It feels like it has an end. The dentures rub sore spots and ulcers, which drive you to distraction. It is normal, and you knew to expect it, but it’s difficult to endure. The dentist takes some of the plastic away, grinding it with a tool. It helps, but it’s still tiring. You feel sad, mostly. Exhausted. You question your choices and decisions. It’s hard to know what to eat, how to sleep. You can’t bear to look at your healing mouth, but you can feel hard lumps with your tongue. The dentist says it’s bone coming through. You choose to leave it as the gums might grow over it, the other option being to have it removed, and you can’t face that right now.

You have a call with your boss as you’ve decided to leave your job. She makes a comment on how you look and speak differently and you just laugh it off, but the words hit deep and it bothers you. Codeine is your friend still; it helps you sleep, helps you cope, helps you not lose your mind. The crying starts again.

Week 3 the bone is still coming through the gum. The dentist says it will be more comfortable to remove it, you agree, but you’re not quite prepared for the process. He uses bone cutters to remove the spurs. You get through the appointment and then fall apart. You can’t seem to control your moods. As always, the dentist is lovely and completely understands. But you’re tired of crying and feeling so weak. You wish you were stronger, more capable. 

A good friend reminds you of how much you’ve been through and the kindness you need to show yourself. Crying is not a weakness, they tell you, it is an honest expression of how you’re feeling. How you’re processing everything that has happened. You remind yourself of how you got through the worst of this last year, by reframing the situation. The events that led up to this decision are the result of someone else’s actions and mistakes. You have to think of it like a car accident, and the injuries are not your fault. You cannot control what has happened, but you can control how you go forwards now. 

You cut your hair and put on some makeup. You mess about with the clothes in your wardrobe. You take more selfies, and they seem better this time. The swelling has almost gone down. You look more like how you remember yourself, just with better teeth than you’ve ever had in your life. 

Week 4 and things are easing. You take less painkillers, and your gums are almost healed. You have a routine of washing and wearing the dentures, and you use denture paste to relieve the sore spots. You make a big bowl of pasta with grated cheese and you eat it while watching a comedy program. It is only after you’ve finished you realise you have eaten for the first time in the past few weeks without your whole focus being on eating. It still feels wrong sometimes, the dentures make some movements of your mouth unnatural and they often feel cumbersome and strange, but you’re getting more used to how they fit, and how you need to use the muscles of your jaw. 

You smile more and laugh easier. You make a joke in the pharmacy when she can’t understand you, and it feels okay, a little daft but not sad. You sneeze one morning and the top ones almost fly across the kitchen. Two weeks ago this would have made you miserable, now you just have to laugh. Bone spurs work their way out the gums and you don’t feel as shocked as you used to. It feels like someone has turned the difficulty down. You’re not playing on ‘hard mode’ anymore.  

One month exactly from the surgery date. It’s hard. Really hard. You still have off-days where you’re frustrated and unsure, and the dentures cause pain and you’re tired. But you’re coping. You’re adjusting. You’re winning. You don’t regret the decision you made, even if you wish you hadn’t had to make it. 

An online friend posts a quote from The Lord of the Rings, and it hits you right in the heart.

Frodo says, “I wish the Ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.”
Gandalf replies, “So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

You know very deeply how Frodo feels, but also understand Gandalf‘s response. You’ve been given more time than you thought you had. Time that is pain and trauma free. You thought at one point this would have no end, that you would have to endure the aftermath forever. You thought you would hate the dentist who did this to you always… and you will! But you will also learn to let that hatred go and live a good life. He’s not important to your story anymore. 

There is still a lot to overcome and get used to. Gum heals quickly, in a matter of weeks, bone takes many months. Your mind may take much longer still. But that’s okay. Just keep going. You’re doing so, so well, and I’m really proud of you.  

Life After Lockdown — A Year On

Published on by twadmin

I turned forty-one last year in the middle of lockdown, alert level 4, and it was one of the best birthdays I’d ever had. As a self-confessed introvert who hates parties and fuss, being forced to stay at home with close family, eating cake and watching my favourite movies, was pretty much a perfect day for me. My presents were mostly handmade or garden-grown, and I’m not big on “stuff” anyway. Sure, the pandemic brought a lot of anxiety, and there was no way of knowing how things might go, but strangely, my mental health felt pretty steady. I’d adapted, adjusted and remained optimistic. Twenty-three days later we’d dropped down to level 3. By mid-May we were in level 2. 

This year, Aotearoa was in alert level 1 when I celebrated the day of my birth. And yes, despite being able to go into the city for ice-cream, unmasked and without social distancing, I felt so much more unsettled. Less cheerful and relaxed. And it’s taken me almost a week to process that and figure out the reasons why.

Anyone reading this from anywhere else in the world will no doubt have some opinions about the following, and I want to acknowledge that I understand that I am deeply privileged to live in a country that has managed the risks so well. I am forever grateful to those in charge who made decisions that have allowed us such freedoms. Our strategy went hard and went early, and is now focused on elimination and exclusion. It is designed to prevent Covid 19 entering the wider community, and containing cases in managed isolation. It relies on the population of Aotearoa, the “team of five million” as it’s called, to maintain diligent track and trace records, to ensure good hygiene practices and to stay at home if they’re sick. Everyone plays a role in protecting the community. And it’s a system that, barring a few minor blips, works exceedingly well.

So why am I still anxious? 

An exclusion strategy is still mentally exhausting. Knowing that outside our borders is basically “Here Be Dragons!” is not a comfortable thought. I have residency here, which offers me some security, but I’ve not seen my family and friends in the U.K. since I moved here in July 2017. I honestly don’t know when that might change. If that will change. There are likely to be people living overseas I will never see again. I know how it feels when people in countries with an obscene number of cases and deaths, talk about their lost connections, being unable to be with family or say goodbye to loved ones who have passed.

You can argue that I can hug and connect with the friends I’ve made over here, but it’s not the same, and if I have to explain how it’s not, you won’t understand anyway. I’ve written before about the (predominantly white) immigrant experience of becoming a triangle, and the deep displacement felt when removed from your birth lands, even if that was by choice. And it was my choice, of course, to come here. I always knew the risks. I suppose I just never considered how easily they could happen for real. 

I’ve seen so much hatred directed at those living in Aotearoa, especially online via social media. Strangers literally waiting for us to fail, to celebrate when things finally go wrong. I’ve seen people here exhibit what I can only liken to some sort of survivors guilt, except most survivors don’t get to still talk to those who weren’t so lucky. I know how it feels, that strange need to apologise. For not failing. For not dying. For being able to enjoy a normal life. To that I can only say misery is not a competition; just because someone is suffering worse, does not make your suffering invalid. 

When the first case was detected here on the 28th February, it still didn’t seem quite real. Our government put us into alert level 2 nine days before the first death. When lockdown began on the 21st March, it was met with much scepticism and disbelief. But when alert level 4 became the reality, when the streets and motorways fell almost silent and the city was a mere ghost of itself, the reality of what this unseen danger meant, hit many people hard. 

In the beginning it felt akin to war. We were many of us genuinely scared of what the future might bring. Parents worried about keeping their children safe, if they would even have the kind of childhood they’d had. We cried often and at almost every piece of news. The words “emergency briefing” would strike us down in absolute terror, and indeed often still does! We formed bubbles, no more than our immediate families, and distanced ourselves while outside. We were forced into treating every stranger we met as a potential threat. That distrust stayed with many of us well after lockdown lifted, it felt wrong to be allowed to be so close to others again. 

The world has gone through collective trauma, and yet humans, the resilient buggers that they are, have managed to somehow muddle their way through it. At the time of writing Google tells me that 2.9 million people have died worldwide, and that number is almost definitely lower than the truth. If I try to imagine that many faces, I fail almost straight away. I don’t believe anyone can. There are times when I don’t want to believe it myself. To accept the loss of so many.  

As vaccination numbers continue to rise, there is good hope that case levels will fall. But with new strains developing in numerous countries, and ongoing resentment over restrictions and poor leadership, I cannot help but look at the rest of the world from behind closed fingers, wondering if it will ever be “safe”. 

Every level change, every new development, every update from the Ministry of Health app Āwhina — which is truly marvellous, I must say — I feel an unwelcome, familiar jolt. A rumbling yawn in the pit of my stomach that makes my pulse run just a little bit quicker, and my brain start to question, “What now?”

I know damn well why my birthday felt strange, why I couldn’t completely relax. That deep trauma, still lurking, unresolved, making me feel guilty about eating ice-cream under a gorgeous blue sky. Knowing that family and friends worldwide are still stuck in  limbo or can’t risk going out. That their lives are so much different to mine. And if I could, I would whisk them over here in a heartbeat. Ice-cream adventures for all! 

With full credit to those who deserve it — Ashley Bloomfield and Siouxsie Wiles to name but two — we have been bloody lucky in Aotearoa; sometimes I wonder if some of the team of five million appreciate just how lucky. But good luck can’t hold forever, which is perhaps my biggest fear. 

I remember quite clearly sitting on the beach at Castlepoint on the 27th of February 2020, looking out across the Pacific Ocean, and feeling quite suddenly, quite surely, that this was the Last Normal Day. I found a hagstone that day, by the cliffs, it’s been in my car ever since. I keep it as a good luck charm of sorts, a reminder of a Time Before. 

And despite my anxieties and my tendency to overthink, I do honestly believe that those times will return for us all. That we will one day be able to see again those friends and family who we so dearly miss.  

Black Dogs, Black Thoughts

Published on by twadmin

I’ve been working for a while now on a project, selecting stories for an anthology to raise money and awareness for the Mental Health Foundation of New Zealand. I’ve been supported by a fantastic, international team of writers and editors to pull this together, and the end is finally in sight.

But it feels strange to be promoting a new book in these odd and uncertain times. Stranger still to ask authors to donate their time and talents for free, and to ask readers to purchase a book for charity, when many of them — some who are writers themselves — have lost or seen a massive reduction in their income.

The very strangest part is feeling like all this is redundant in some way, or lacking in importance. An uncomfortable niggle that I should be focusing on what’s happening in the world right now, not spending time in front of my laptop, ignoring the outside. I will admit, these past few weeks have been very hard for me as my own black dog arrived at my door again, and I was completely unable to write or edit anything new at all.

“Black Dogs, Black Tales” began back in September 2019, when the future looked like it might be hopeful and exciting. I wanted to do good things and be productive, to support a charity that meant a great deal to me, and many of my friends. I wanted to take copies of the collection to the WorldCon, ConZealand. To talk on panels about why the project was so important. To ask authors to read their stories aloud to a captive audience. None of that will happen in quite the same way now. And I’m so bitterly disappointed about that.

It would be very easy for me to be despondent, but the truth is, while we struggle to come to terms with the new normal; while we adjust our routines and ways of working; while we do our very best to manage our fears and anxieties and stay connected with our friends and family, even though we have been forced apart, we see the benefits of services that provide support in areas of mental health more than ever.

We need the tools and the strategies, the comfort and the care. We need to know that there is somewhere we can turn to for advice, or that someone can offer a compassionate ear. Instances of common mental health disorders are very likely to increase in the future in response to how the world, and our lives, have changed. Depression, anxiety, grief and trauma — those things did not go away when COVID-19 arrived. Quite the opposite.

The word “unprecedented” has been used over and over in the media to describe the situations we are experiencing, and while many times it seems to be used to highlight the negative, I also feel like there has to be some positive too.

Now, more than ever, we need to be kind and supportive to those who need it. We need to check in with our friends and neighbours and do all that we can for those who are struggling. We also need to rest, and heal and understand that while this is a time of great uncertainly, hope and kindness will help us get through it together, just as much as physical distancing and good hygiene practices will.

All the authors, poets, editors and artists who have worked on this project have put a massive amount of time, energy and passion into doing so. They have worked together to create a collection that is often dark yet also hopeful, with many contributors creating in defiance of their own black dogs. Every cent raised will go towards the Mental Health Foundation of New Zealand, and to supporting those who need their services the most.

I want to extend my thanks to everyone, for being a part of this, and for supporting me and the rest of the hard-working team. Right now, so many of us are hurting, in so many different ways. If “Black Dogs, Black Tales” can do anything, I hope it can shine a light of hope in the uncertain darkness, that it can spread joy via the stories it contains. That it reminds us that even when our black dogs are haunting our steps, and pacing all around us, we can tame them. We can overcome. Together, but apart. Connected, although physically distant. We’ve got this.

Things I Didn’t Do…

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This weekend ended up being the One Where I Didn’t Do Things.

I didn’t go to a social meet-up I had been planning to go to due to feeling unwell. I didn’t send off a story before a submission deadline because I realised it needed a lot more work to properly shine. I didn’t work on any other stories like I’d planned because I just wasn’t feeling motivated.

What I did do was unplug, spend time with my family and read a lot.

I strongly believe that absolutely everything will work a little better if you unplug it for a while… including you. So on Sunday I decided that I would have a No-Screens day, specifically social media and other chat groups, just to give myself a break. It’s amazing how often I reach for my phone to check Twitter or respond to an email or message as soon as it arrives “so I don’t forget,” yet what I also fail to remember is that this takes me out of being present in the moment. I am listening to other people’s voices over my own and prioritising other’s demands over mine. It makes me grumpy, anxious and unproductive. Yet every single time I think I’ve liberated myself from it, it sucks me back in again.

On Sunday, I effectively cut the umbilical. I used my phone only as a handy camera instead of an “internet communications device” (thanks, Steve Jobs).

I didn’t miss it at all.

I went for a walk with my family to the Botanic Gardens in Wellington, which is always one of my most favourite places to go, and had a good explore of the pathways and planted areas. The tulip garden was especially wonderful, and I was particularly taken with the lone red tulip lost in a sea of white. It felt strangely symbolic.

I love seeing the patterns and colours that nature provides; shapes and form that humans might try to emulate but never really manage quite as effortlessly. Changes in light, soil quality, the amount of rain that has fallen – all are unique and essential factors to growth. Sometimes we walk so fast we miss the little intricacies and complexities, we stop feeling awed by what surrounds us and simply take it for granted. I wanted to make time to look – really look – at what was around me and re-ground myself. Immerse myself in the real world rather than a pixellated one.

I took a lot of green pictures: textures and shapes, close-up details of leaves and trees being throttled by vines. As much as I would love the moss “skull” to be real, I rather suspect that it was made by a mischievous human. The knot in the tree which looks like a watchful eye, however, was definitely created by nature’s hand.

This weekend I started reading a new book by award-winning and bestselling author Tom Cox called “Ring the Hill”. I love Tom’s writing style, it always feels less like reading a story and more like going for a long walk with an old friend who I haven’t seen for a while, but with who I can instantly reconnect. The Guardian describes his writing as “loose-limbed” and while I know what they mean, I would argue that rather than loose, it would be better to say it was “leisurely”. He pulls the reader with him on a gentle meander, exploring life and people and geography, and there is something truly wonderful about his poetic descriptions.

I walked back to my car along lanes where large flocks of unseen sheep could be heard shouting together at the tops of their voices, a noise that from an individual sheep can seem to smack of the most terrible depression but in chorus sounded totally joyous, as if rows and rows of hearty pensioners were behind the hedges saying ‘Yeah!’ over and over again.  (Cox, Tom Ring the Hill p. 20,21)

How lovely is that?

It’s made me consider own writing style and how I might evolve and improve. I was thinking recently about my writing goals for 2020 and beyond “keep writing daily” I didn’t feel like I really had any. Or not anything I might add to a structured list and keep a timesheet for. Some might argue that I’m not taking my “career” seriously, but I know myself well enough to say that holding myself accountable to specific targets will only make me rebel. Just like if someone tells me I can’t do something, it makes me even more determined to try. Not to prove them wrong, but to prove to myself that I can.

When I write, I meander too. I’m a wanderer, I write whatever comes into my head and sometimes I just have to stand back and see what falls out when it decides it wants to. I tend to see the best stories as strangely organic creations and writers as mere vessels which allow the words to take form.

But I do have goals. I am looking forwards to a short holiday at the end of the month and finding some more inspiration in being outdoors. I am very much enjoying being an integral part of a team who are pulling together an anthology to support a Kiwi mental health charity. I am happy to be bringing people together through ‘Well-Written’, both online through Slack and social media, and via associated workshops. I have joined NaNoWriMo and I am writing an elvish fantasy YA novel for my children. I have an idea for another anthology and a series of novellas which I hope will be published next year, or even the year after (assuming I actually get on with writing them!). I sold two stories this year and have another two in published anthologies, so I’d like to do a bit more of that. And I have made myself a village of people, both emerging and established writers, who have embraced my wildness and become firm friends. So, I think I’m doing okay.

It was nice to unplug over the weekend, and even nicer to discover that I appreciate the value of online communication when I do go back to it. (Although 124 unread Slack messages was… a lot!) I can see that No-Screens Sunday is likely to be a regular occurrence for me, not least to provide a necessary work/life balance in my writing too.

“Climb the mountain not to plant your flag, but to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air and behold the view.

Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you.”
― David McCullough Jr.

Open call for submissions — Black Dogs, Black Tales

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I am extremely pleased to announce that after a good deal of plotting and scheming, I will be working with a fantastic team of people to put together a brand new horror and dark speculative fiction charity anthology entitled, “Black Dogs, Black Tales.”

This collection of short fiction will be raising money for the Mental Health Foundation of New Zealand, a charity very close to my heart. One in five New Zealand adults have been diagnosed with a common mental disorder at some time in their lives. This includes depression, bipolar disorders and anxiety disorders.

I have been working with my own group Well-Written: Writing for Wellness, both online and through workshops, since 2017 and I strongly believe that writing and creativity has helped me manage my own mental health. It seems appropriate that I use the written word to do whatever I can to support all those who are in need of help.

I’ve approached Steve Dillon from Things in the Well to be the publisher, and he’s gladly signed up for it. It will be formatted to align with their distinctive look and feel, and will fit in well with the other books in their series of themed anthologies.

If you want to know more, including how you can get involved, check our call out page here. And if you can’t submit but still want to help, you can donate to our Ko-fi page here.

Our official Facebook page can be found at https://www.facebook.com/blackdogsblacktales/ where you can find out about the reasons why I’ve set up this anthology, read introductions from the international team and get up-to-date news and announcements regarding the ToC and cover art.

Don’t Self-Reject!

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Have you ever felt super excited about doing a Thing, only to suddenly find yourself crippled by unexpected anxiety, uncertainty and a strong urge to run away and hide? I don’t just mean a physical Thing, but also a creative or artistic one.

Self-rejection is the nasty little brother of the Imposter Syndrome Gremlin, and he will take every damn chance he can to put a kibosh on your plans. As a writer, that usually takes the form of self-rejecting when sending out stories for submissions or when querying publishers. I don’t believe anyone wants to self-reject and succumb to the Gremlins, it’s more that sometimes the Gremlins become a little too hard to beat.

The other month I saw an amazing place to submit a short story — an anthology already supported by some outstanding authors and with a top-notch publishing team. My dark little writer’s heart skipped a beat, and on an impulse, I sat down and started to write. 

What came out was a good story, I knew it was, and I even managed to freak myself out with the monster I made up. Sure, it wasn’t Paul Tremblay or Josh Malerman standard (two very, very good writers who I admire) but it was fun and creepy and twisted. I liked it. 

Three days later I had convinced myself my story was absolute garbage, I would be an idiot for sending it, and every editor who read it would slap their thighs and point and laugh, and ask themselves, “Why on Earth did she think we would accept that piece of shit?!” The Imposter Syndrome Gremlin was clearly working his horrible magic… again. A friend of mine asked me if I’d sent the story, and I told her, “No, there’s zero chance of it being accepted.” She replied, “There’s only ever zero chance if you don’t send it.”

I wanted to argue, I really did, but I knew straight away that she was right. What exactly was stopping me? Fear of failure? Fear of making a fool of myself? Maybe even some peculiar fear of actually being accepted and not knowing how to handle that?! I bashed out a cover letter, formatted it how they needed and hit SEND on the email.

And I felt so sick! I always feel anxious after I submit anything, but this was a whole new level, and I got to thinking, wow, what was it about this particular sub that had got me into such a state?

Any writer knows that rejections are an unfortunate but common part of writing, especially if we are sending our words out into the wild. Most of us either end up developing walrus-thick skins in response, or we give up. As my dear Nana would have said, “It’s not how many times you fall that matters, it’s how many times you get back up and try again.” Giving up is never an option for me, I really am just that damn stubborn. Self-rejection, however, is a tricky one. To get over it I often have to properly dissect the reasons why I’m wavering, and turn that narrative completely around. 

Here’s some of my Problem/Solution examples.

Problem: I don’t feel like this piece of work is very good.
Solution: Why not? Is there an obvious problem or something you can fix or change in some way? Could you polish it a little more or get feedback from someone you trust? Do what you can to make it shine then let it go. Remember: striving for perfection is like chasing the horizon. 

Problem: There are lots of people submitting, My work won’t even get looked at anyway.
Solution: It definitely won’t get looked at it if you don’t send it. You have nothing to lose. Write a good covering letter and do what you can to make it stand out, take a deep breath and hit send. 

Problem: Everyone else is a much higher calibre of writer than I am.
Solution: See solution to Problem 1. Also, how do you know that? Don’t assume anything about your talent — you will always discover greater and lesser persons than yourself in every aspect of your life. Comparisons are not always useful unless you’re using them as a springboard to improve. 

Problem: This is a lot of effort and I’m not sure if it’s worth my time.
Solution: Only you can answer that. If you genuinely think it’s going to take up too much time and energy for little return, that’s a reasonable concern. But be honest, if you’re using time and effort as an excuse to not do something, don’t do that. Almost everything good takes time and effort, writing is no exception. 

Problem: I’m submitting all the time and getting lots of rejections. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong and I feel like giving up!
Solution: Find a writer you really like or enjoy and study how they write. Ask yourself why you like what they do; what do they do differently to you; and how can you emulate that in your own style? Avid readers are great writers — I’m not here to argue, it’s a fact. Also, the more you write, the better you’ll get. Unfortunately, very few of us are born with that Brilliant Debut Novel gene. we have to work at it. Only you know how much work you are prepared to put in. 

Whatever you write and however often you do it, first and foremost if you write, you are a writer. Start calling yourself that. See how the word feels. Introduce yourself to people as a writer. Own that shit. 

Above all, don’t let the Self-Rejection Gremlin join forces with his Imposter Syndrome brother. If you want to imagine anyone pointing and laughing at you, telling you that you are no good or don’t belong, imagine them… and think about how good it feels to blow those little bastards to smithereens. 

Finally, here’s a little reminder of a piece I wrote way back in January.

Write the damn story.
What are you waiting for?
No, you don’t need permission from anyone.
If you’re doubting yourself because you don’t think you have the talent, that’s okay. Maybe you don’t… yet.
But you have passion, and often that’s better.
You can learn the craft, but first you have to put the effort in.
You won’t ever improve if you don’t try.
The first draft is going to suck.
Yes, really, really suck.
It’s going to be the worst story you will ever write.
But the first draft is just you telling yourself the story.
Everyone you idolise had to start somewhere.
Some of the best writers now are only so because they’ve put a lot of work in.
There will always be better and worse writers than yourself.
Always.
Criticism can be painful, but also useful.
Learn to listen to, accept, and learn from every piece of feedback you get.
Realise that your friends and family will probably not be honest with you.
Seek others’ opinions, especially those of your peers.
Write the story you want to read.
Set goals, stick to them, hold yourself accountable.
Don’t wait for inspiration, just start.
Show up. Show up. Show up. Eventually the muse will show up too.
Do what your heart tells you.
Writing is an art. You’re an artist. Paint pictures with your words.
Write the damn story.

 

 

Header image: “Tall Poppy” digital art, T. Wood 2019

My Contributory Verse

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My brain is being an asshole. I don’t mind admitting that at all. Sometimes it does this, and I know it will pass, but while I’m floundering in that deep, dark hole, everything pretty much sucks.

On the positive side, I’ve used it as a catalyst for some extremely dark new stories, which I absolutely love. They’re much more bleak than my usual style, and I was initially worried if perhaps I was dragging myself down; immersing myself unnecessarily in misery and despair.

A friend said to me, and I sincerely hope he won’t mind me quoting him here: “My superstition has long been that confronting the black dog in fiction keeps it from sniffing too close at your heels.” and I know exactly what he means. The reaction of creating in response to hardship, helps to not only distract us from the pain, but to focus on our talents and abilities. It gives us something to cling to, a life raft of hope. More than that, it helps us make sense of ourselves, even if our art is not directly related to those dark thoughts.

One of my absolute favourite movies is “Dead Poets Society”, and I will never not sob at the ending. There are many quotes I could use here, but I feel perhaps this one is the most appropriate. It refers explicitly to poetry, but it applies itself just as equally to any body of creative work:

John Keating: We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

I suspect a lot of my general unease lately has been influenced by the feeling, perhaps some peculiar peer pressure, that I somehow have to explain why and what I do. That my art has to have a meaning. 

I don’t.

My first collection of short stories was a passion project, I did it for so many reasons, but first and foremost was for love. It is a snapshot of where I was in my life. I never expected it to be revolutionary or groundbreaking. It’s not. That doesn’t mean it’s bad or has no worth, it means it has a fixed place in my creative journey. It’s my contributory verse.

On Twitter this morning, another friend shared a short video of David Bowie responding to the question of why you should never play to the gallery.

https://youtu.be/cNbnef_eXBM

“Always remember that the reason that you initially started working, was that there was something inside yourself that you felt if you could manifest in someway, you would understand more about yourself and how you coexist with the rest of society. I think it’s terribly dangerous for an artist to fulfil other people’s expectations, I think they generally produce their worst work when they do that. The only thing I would say is, if you feel safe in the area that you’re working in, you’re not working in the right area. Always go a little further into the water than you feel you’re capable of being in. Go a little bit out of your depth. And when you don’t feel that your feet are quite touching the bottom you’re just about in the right place to do something exciting.”

Whenever I need to quieten my mind, or just get a sense of myself again, I go to the sea. The sea doesn’t care who you are or what you do — it can be beautiful and calm, or mighty and terrifying. It just does as it wants, it needs no validation. I admire that.

Last year, I wrote and published a piece focusing on belonging, and finding where you are in the world. I’ve since edited and amended it, returning to it when I need to. A large part of it needed no changes. I believe it still rings true.

Here, in Wellington, the two loudest sounds are quite frequently the wind and the sea. While the sea is only truly loud when you are standing close to it, the wind comes bustling around your house, knocking on windows and rattling doors, demanding to be acknowledged. Wind is obnoxious; even on a calm day it has many forms, but it always feels like the most intrusive of the elements. With other forms of weather there are ways to avoid it or hide from it, but wind seems absolutely determined to find you.

“Hi! Hello! I’m here again!” It seems to say, as it grabs you by the ears with both hands and leans into your face. It can be like a demanding toddler, or a sedate old man. It can run and whoop and swirl, or it can meander and caress. Either way it seems impossible to hide from it completely. In that way it is the partner of the sea. Both are unstoppable and will do exactly as they wish. Both have great power and strength, the ability to ravage and destroy, but can be equally calm and restful. They do exactly as they like and nothing gets in their way. You must learn to accept them and work with them, or accept that you will always be fighting against them. A fight you will never win.

“Why fight us when we are so much greater than you? That’s simply how we are.”

I feel like too many people fight the wind and the sea in their lives, perhaps without realising it. I know I did. They still believe that they can tame the elements without appreciating or understanding their immensity. They see the wind as a nuisance to be overcome, the sea a force to be tamed. That’s not true. To wilfully ignore or challenge the guiding forces of your life ultimately never ends well.

I am not afraid these elements, even though I am fully aware of the destruction they can cause. I prefer, instead, to celebrate how impressive they both are. You can keep your calm days, give me instead the power of the ocean, the roar of a storm in my ears. A calm day may be beautiful; the sea, gentle, the wind, a mere kiss on the cheeks, but at any point the weather may change, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. Embrace the power and the wildness, or spend your days always railing against a force that does not care about your emotions and can flatten you without a thought.

I write because I must. When I don’t, I feel incomplete. Sometimes I slip into the desperate trap of seeking validation, and then I tip the rancid sawdust from my ears, and go about my day.

My brain, right now, is being an asshole, but it will pass. And in the meantime, I’m quite curious to see what stories might emerge.

I’ll let the Dead Poets boys – using the words of poet and philosopher, Henry David Thoreau – conclude this post:

“I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.”

Finding My Way Back

Published on by twadmin

My regular readers and followers will know that I frequently write for mental health. I’m also aware that this often turns people off too.

“Oh great, she’s going on about depression again.”

“Why does she always focus on the serious stuff?”

“She must be pretty unstable if she has to keep focusing on all that.”

Yeah.

I “go on about it” because it’s incredibly important to me, and because I believe that one of the best ways to change things that aren’t working, is to address our challenges and to talk about them.

I’ve not been my best self recently. I’ve been demotivated and anxious, and I had failed to kept up with my daily writing routine. I felt like it wasn’t bringing me the level of joy I had become accustomed to. I wasn’t sure why at first, but I also recognised that I had been giving out a lot of energy, without feeling like I was getting any in return. I wasn’t feeling seen for what I was doing. As a result, I’d lost sight of my real purpose and goals.

Amanda Palmer talks in her book “The Art of Asking” about the basic human need to be seen by others.

“There’s a difference between wanting to be looked at and wanting to be seen. When you are looked at, your eyes can be closed. You suck energy, you steal the spotlight. When you are seen, your eyes must be open, and you are seeing and recognising your witness. You accept energy and you generate energy. You create light. One is exhibitionism, the other is connection. Not everybody wants to be looked at. Everybody wants to be seen.”

I had fallen into the trap of believing others were “stealing” my energy. Merely taking what I was offering them and giving nothing in return. This wasn’t true, my self-doubt demons were whispering in my mind and making me think the worst.

I am a Wild Woman. I am connected with myself and I recognise and understand the many paths my life journey has led me along. I am done with asking for permission to take up space. I don’t believe you measure your own self worth by the opinions of others. I believe in living your life with authenticity and integrity, and that you become a better person by lifting others up not by putting them down. I don’t listen to people who tell me what I cannot do, and how people treat me or respond to me says nothing about me and absolutely everything about them. I also know most people — myself included — are works in progress. I try to always be kind, or at least strive to understand others’ motivations.

I am a Wild Woman, I know this without a doubt, but I’m no Wonder Woman. I’m still human, and I still fail sometimes.

I realised that not only was my writing not enriching me in the way it used to, I had stopped exercising and moving physically as much as I did. My daily routine always involved me reading or catching up with a good TV show while hula hooping in the morning. I’d been under the weather, I had a cold, it was as good an excuse as any to “take it easy”. Except, when I got better, I didn’t return to my routine. I got a lot of headaches, especially in the morning, one almost every day. I was starting to worry that something might be wrong with me. I felt constantly tired and I wasn’t getting outside enough. I wasn’t walking around and getting fresh air. I was squirrelling myself away at home, hiding behind a computer screen, being “busy”. Except my being busy also seemed to end up becoming some strange form of self-flagellation while worrying about what people thought of me. Tweeting excessively but getting no likes. Refreshing the browser just in case I’d missed something. All the many toxic things I turned my back on when I gave up Facebook.

Social media can be amazing. It can inspire, connect, heal and educate. It can also be a heaving cesspit of narcissism, trolls and and irrational behaviour. I don’t want to get into a larger discussion about social media, but for me, and knowing my own personality and behavioural traits, it is not always a very pleasant place for me to play. For me, right now, “The only winning move is not to play.” (WarGames, 1983) I am still working on strategies where I can use the positive parts of social media without getting sucked in completely.

And so, I had realised I needed to clear my head, and get rid of the ball of anxiety which seemed to be turning my stomach to stone every day. I took a walk on the beach.

Whenever I need to quieten my mind, or just get a sense of myself again, I go to the sea. The sea doesn’t care who you are or what you do — it can be beautiful and calm, or mighty and terrifying. It just does as it wants, and it needs no validation. I can identify with that. It’s the same feeling I get when I get up somewhere really high. It puts everything in perspective and gives me space to focus. If you want to get a sense of that feeling, watch Carl Sagan’s “The Pale Blue Dot” on YouTube https://youtu.be/GO5FwsblpT8

The sun was bright but the wind was bitter, I had to keep walking to stay warm. It was late in the day and the sun dipped towards the ocean, bathing everything in a strange yet peaceful light. I walked to the rocks at the far side of the beach and watched the waves flick up and over their jagged edges. I found pieces of smooth beach glass, which always makes me smile, and I held it in my palm as I walked. I stopped, and breathed deep. I let go of all my negative thoughts. I felt fully seen by the elements and the land.

This morning I returned to my usual exercise routine. I felt so much better for doing it. I chose turmeric tea over coffee and I didn’t get a morning headache for once. I turned off Twitter and logged out of everything else, and sat down and wrote for a while. All those old feelings of joy returned. Satisfaction through artistic development and my personal creative journey. I felt more like myself again. Not so stretched. Balanced and more calm.

Recognising your unhealthy behaviours can be a necessary and important process, just as any self-care is essential to you. I’d fallen into a very common trap of expecting to gain validation through the opinions of others. Letting comments and likes dictate how I felt. It made me miserable, and unfulfilled. Because, ultimately, I know that while support and praise are wonderful, you cannot be emotionally satisfied if you pin all your happiness on that which others give you. You have to give it to yourself too. Recognise your achievements and celebrate how far you’ve come. Because if that attention is not forthcoming, or is lacking in some way, it can be far too easy for you to convince yourself you’ve failed. And that’s simply not true.

I write about writing for wellness, because without it, when I stop writing, I stop being well. I don’t have to write *about* mental health, to be writing *for* it. I write to bring focus to myself and my experiences, to put things into proper perspective so that I can acknowledge and assess the impact those experiences have had on me. I write because sometimes it is easier to put my thoughts on paper than to verbalise them, especially if those words are difficult to say. I recognise that writing every day helps me challenge my anxieties, release tension and frustration in my mind and body, and brings order to my daily routine.

I am “well written”. I write to feel well, and it works.