Permission to write
whatever on earth I want + 5 things I learned in my first year on Substack + my word for the year
Another World is Possible is turning one this month! And it’s taken this long to start feeling at home here.
I created my Substack account in July 2022 – on a whim, as is often the case with such things. But it wasn’t until January last that I started populating it with relevant archive content from my blog Four Acorns / Quatre graines de chêne, before finally publishing my first original post in early February.
Since then, I have learnt a thing or two – ok, five, and counting.
5 things I learned in my first year on Substack
Practice makes, if not perfect, at least better. Practice is how you get good at something, anything. I don’t know how it took me until Essay Camp with Summer Brennan, last November, to finally understand that. To have a writing practice is to work on my craft in order to get better at it, just for the sake of it. Like when my eldest L holds a band practice in our living room. Or when I go to swim laps at the pool.
To begin is always the hardest. This is the law of FFTs, or F***ing First Times, as per Brené Brown. It gets easier from here on out. Not only did Essay Camp build up my writing muscle, it unleashed my creativity – in just five days! Writing begets writing, it seems. It is not a chore, because I get something from it: pleasure, and/or dare I say it, joy. Swimming, writing, photography: these are my pleasure practices. (I have picked up the camera again.) No-one is making me do it. This is how I honour and act on my desire, and thus find agency. I’m here for that.
I have learned about essays as a literary form. Essay Camp happened just as I was writing my contribution to a collaborative book called Sensual Soul Shine, to be published by the Unbound Press sometime in 2024. (And yes, this means I will soon be a published author!)
Until then, I had no idea what a literary essay is. A couple of years ago, I submitted what I thought was a good enough piece to two literary journals in Ireland. Of course it got rejected – I simply didn’t know what I was doing.Essays remain a mystery but I will keep exploring the form and weaving them to understand the world and my place in it.
Craft matters. I thought I could write well. Until I took a writing course with Kerri ní Dochartaigh and did Essay Camp with Summer Brennan, I thought I could write. And in fairness, I can. But I can’t quite yet “do language” in the way I long for. Both Kerri and Summer gave me an inkling of the depth and breadth of their craft, and of how much I don't know about writing.
, coming up in March. And I became a paid subscriber to ’s Writing In the Dark. I learn so much from simply reading her beautifully crafted posts, and her interview by Paul Zakrzewski for the podcast The Book I HAD to Write was truly eye-opening – so many gems of wisdom to frantically jot down and reflect on and implement in my work.
English is not my first language and I have never studied creative writing (I have a BA in applied languages and my MA was in journalism, in French, a looong time ago!) Like all skills, writing improves with practice and with mentoring. So, to help my book project along, I signed up for Memoir in a Month withOh the things I’ll learn to grow into the writer I want to be!
Community is crucial. If writing a book is akin to birthing it, then I’m repeating the same mistake I made with my actual birth experiences – thinking I can do it alone. Or with minimal support. When in fact I'm desperate for someone to hold my hand through the process. Writing is very much a solitary pursuit. Yet this first year on Substack (and off social media) has taught me that I crave the support and camaraderie of a circle of writers. I struggle to truly connect with online communities, mostly out of a fear of being too much – too intellectual, too deep, too serious, or not enough – out of my depth, not a native speaker, not literary enough. I wrote here about making this Substack my brave space. Perhaps, instead of striving to find a writing community, I could create my own?
Last year, my first ever swim event taught me about self-belief: from “not for me” to “Yes! I get to do this”. The writing, the swimming – I get to do it.
I have always lacked self-belief, as do most women. Why is that? Could it be because women who believe in themselves wouldn't take the BS we're asked to put up with, day in day out, with a smile on our face? Could it be because women who believe in themselves would realise we're capable of so much more than what we've been told/taught we can aspire to? Could it be because women who believe in themselves would know that there is no such thing as wanting too much?
These words by Jeannine Ouellette I will keep close as I swim into another year of writing – my best yet, no doubt.
Most of all, notice everything. Writing happens 95% off the page. Being a writer is by and large a way of being in the world: full of curiosity, wonder, and, dare I say it, love. Finding a way to put that on the page is the final step.
Love.
Love is the first and final step.
Permission to write whatever on earth I want
This is not a newsletter. I mean, who has that much news? Once you have binned that idea, you can get a lot more creative.
After spending most of 2023 oh-ing and ah-ing about what this Substack of mine is really about, Ruth Allen’s post (see below) landed like the permission to write whatever on earth I want. This is my space, and I will do with it as I please.
There is a lot that’s weird about you and you are going to tell people about it.
I am in the process of “ordering my weirdness” – listing all the things I care about and organising them into rubriques (sections, like in a magazine). What this means in practical terms is that there will be some changes around here, as this is a constantly evolving space. Sod the idea of writing for growth and offering value!
Substack is my mini press, and I am its small indie publisher.
I want this to be a space that looks like me – full of my fascinations and quirks, my musings and endeavours, and a space that keeps me anchored so I don’t drift away from my deeper currents in yet another bid to cater for an indefinable audience or worse, the whims of an algorithm.
I am willing
Being willing to fail makes trying less scary. Being willing to be wrong makes trying less scary. Being willing to be embarrassed makes trying less scary. Being willing to change your mind makes trying less scary. Being willing makes trying less scary.
Lisa Olivera, Human Stuff
‘I am willing’ is my phrase for 2024.
Early last year when I took swimming lessons again, in preparation for the Glendalough open swim in September, I thought my technique only needed a few tweaks here and there. Not quite so. The lessons, taken in tandem with a sea swimming friend, first forced me to unlearn everything I knew, before I could take tentative strokes towards becoming the swimmer I want to be. Something similar happened when I did Essay Camp in November – I didn’t expect it to desconstruct my writing first. As it turns out, it is often when I think that I’ve got this, that I get my ass kicked. Illusions of mastery are just that: illusions. And a sneaky disguise for my reluctance to embarrass myself.
In 2024, steer clear of misplaced confidence. Be willing instead.
On many levels and for many reasons, 2023 was the year that deconstructed me – sometimes uncomfortable, often draining, and always wild. 2024 is already shaping up to be one of tremendous change, for myself, my family and the world at large. Thank you to all of you for sticking with me or joining me here. I often say it, but only because it comes from the bottom of my heart: it means the absolute world to have you along for the ride!
Wild wishes,
Annette
Oh, I was happily reading and absorbing - smiling for your learnings and realisations - and then I found a nod to my post. Thank you so much! I love your reflections in craft - I think so many people assume that when you decide to write that's the job done. But it isn't. There is so much to learn and practice. But also, in my experience at least, that progress and depth can come very quickly. I look at the gap between my first and second book and though my voice is broadly the same, my craft is much improved! I'm excited to see what will happen in the gap between my third (if I get that chance) All of this is to say, I'm excited for you and in so much admiration that you already write so well even when English is not your first language. I hope it's an excellent year of writing ahead! X
Gahhhh, I could quote every word here ! Oooof, what a post! It was an honour to share time with you last year 🤍