As a writer, and as a human, my interest lies in people’s stories – their relationships, their interactions and their reactions to the people around them and to themselves.

Studying non-fiction at university led me to an epiphany that has inspired my own creative work – the fact that so many people’s lives, adventures, thoughts have gone totally unrecorded. In researching accounts of the Ellis Island immigrants from the early 20th century, I discovered an audio interview with a Ukrainian woman who, when she was a little girl, would build glass cages for ants from discarded camera lenses and watch these captive insects burn and die in the sun. What did her mother make of that? Did the girl recount her past-time to her first love? These are all stories that I want to know about.

When I embarked on the research for this topic I fully intended to write about why we need fiction. Before I move on I’d just like to say that I absolutely believe that we do need fiction. The operation by which an intravenous tube is connected from under the skin of a character to under the skin of a reader is one of endless, unspoken enchantment.

However, the more I thought about this topic, the more I found myself not thinking about fiction at all. In my opinion, creation is the most wonderful thing in the world and the second most valuable thing; just behind preservation. Here’s the thing: preservation is the foundation off of which creativity can be launched. Creativity is the poem; preservation is the poet who knows that in order to mend their broken heart they need to write, they need to go out and purchase a new notebook and a bottle of merlot. I suppose what I am trying to say is before we discuss the poem we should discuss the poet, the novelist, the bank manager, the Tesco check-out assistant – because this is where our much needed stories begin.

Stories enable stuff that happens to mean something instead of floating around for a bit and then dissolving. That’s how it happens, through dissolution. It’s not a switch, that when flicked consumes our stories, our memories in front of our helpless eyes. It’s a gradual fade – and the slowness is what makes it so tragic. Whatever that thing that happened was; it could help us in the future, help us cope with something similar, help us build a level of immunity for when something worse happens – but then again it might not – and there’s washing up do to, and three reports to write and a phone-call that needs to be made to O2 because once again they’ve overcharged you on your monthly bill. And your thing, your memory, your story is dissolved and forgotten.

And just like that your lesson is lost. Oh well, maybe you wouldn’t have needed it anyway. Maybe.

We need stories because they make us. They completely determine our identities. It doesn’t even serve to imagine how little of ourselves we would be if somebody took away our stories. Because of our stories, we are unblind. We are criticized for an inability (and often, a reluctance) to ‘forgive and forget’ but what if, by adhering to that rule, we are compromising our self-preservation and our owner’s right to that experience, that story? If, rather, than forget we can hold on tightly to that lesson, possibly even tighter than happier lessons, then there is a chance that one day we can use it to save ourselves or someone else.

For me, it’s worth it.

Things like these will challenge us, test our morals, our limits, our judgements. In a world of ever developing intelligence and technology we need to embrace our vulnerability as humans. I believe that as humans, stories – and the emotions we attach to them – are our best asset. I’ve talked a lot about needing stories for lessons and preservation and combat and cures and coping but I’d like to finish with a word about what our stories are really best at.

Stories are our hopes: all the daydreaming we do, the people we aspire to be. They are things that we’ve told ourselves we can achieve. They are things we know we can achieve because of the ever-improving recipe built on our past experiences.

Stories are our hearts: they tell us why we love the people we love. They remind us what those people did to make us one hundred percent certain that we need them in our lives to hold close for as long as is physically possible.

Stories are our souls: they are everything we are, so don’t let them go, because never losing those stories may mean that on the day where you feel everything else is falling apart, you will never lose yourself.

A few years ago I read a book in which the protagonist insisted that you should always keep enough money in your bank account to run away. No matter how secure your situation may seem, how happy you are with you at whichever moment in time – make sure you have that money. Nothing says security like that. That struck me at the time and has always stayed with me as a wonderfully sensible thing to do. However, that’s impossibility for most people – to sustain a runaway mission – that’s got to be at least a thousand pounds.

So, I came up with my own rule. Always make sure you have four pounds. Whether there are four pound coins tucked away in the receipts section (that you have been meaning to empty for six months) in your purse, or a couple of coins wedged into that useless little pocket that sits inside the useful pocket of your jeans, make sure it’s there. Four pounds will buy you whatever coffee/hot chocolate/elderflower tea you choose at a coffee shop.

I really love staying in – and I also really love going out. However, I have one of those personalities that makes up its mind very quickly and is unforgiving from then onwards. Let me give you an example: sometimes when I’m working on a piece of writing, I will stay in the house for days. It takes me a very long time to finish and be satisfied with a project because I like things to be a certain standard. The problem is, I live in a fairly small and messy house with five other people and in situations like this I can very suddenly feel trapped.

That’s when my four pound self-preservation rule comes in. I’ll put down whatever I’m doing, put my coat and boots on, on top of whatever I’m wearing and go to costa coffee. For the first half an hour or so I’ll just concentrate on breathing. I’ll breathe whilst I’m sipping my mint hot chocolate, I’ll breathe whilst I listen to the heating up of the hot water machine and the sound of porcelain cups on wood.

Sometimes, I think for everyone and for seemingly no reason, things can get overwhelming. I can become overwhelmed simply by a series of underwhelming things. You sort of feel like there’s nothing you can do, there’s nothing you want to do. But as long as there’s four pounds in my purse, I know what I must do.

Here are my top five rules for self-preservation:

 

Write a list of next steps:

After you’ve got breathing down, help yourself by creating a plan of action. Bring a piece of paper and a pencil and tell yourself what to do (take a bath/ shower, read a chapter of Harry Potter, make some toast, keep warm). That way when you’ve finished the list, you don’t have to think anymore – just blindly do what you’re told.

Take things at your own pace:

 

No-one knows what you need now except you – and because of that you are the only one that can help yourself. If someone wants you to go out, say no. At this point you need to be your own best friend, don’t listen to anyone else.

Do not beat yourself up or harbour anger towards yourself:

There’s just no point. You might counter with, “well if I don’t punish myself, how will I learn?” You’ll definitely still learn, don’t worry.

Do not think ‘what if?’:

 

Similarly, you’re the only one who’s going to protect you here. I honestly know and totally appreciate how important self-discipline is – but you need someone on your side. Channel your ‘good-cop’.

Don’t worry – you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be:

 

This is a Chris Martin quotation that I learned a few years ago and you might think it’s a load of rubbish coming from a rich and successful musician (it is) but it’s worked for me on a lot of occasions. It goes without saying that this one needs to be taken with a generous handful of salt – but it won’t hurt to bear it in mind.

 

I can imagine people reading this article and thinking I’m pretty lame. And I can understand that. I was in two minds as to whether or not to write about this subject but I decided to in the end because abiding by this advice has brought so much happiness and comfort to an otherwise demanding disciplinarian.

And if only one person takes only one percent more mindfulness or well-being from it, then it’s worth it, I reckon.

 

 

Image courtesy of: https://www.twolittlefleas.co.uk/

 

For one of my modules for university this year, we are being assessed on a lesson plan. Well, I’ve been creating lesson plans since I was six years old. I used to coerce my younger brother into being a pupil in my class – drawing up maths and spelling questions and gifting him my soft toys as a ‘well done’. I’ve lead drama and music groups, I’ve loved the preparation, supervising the rewards schemes – when I was eight I promised myself I would become a teacher because there was nothing that I could imagine that gave me excitement in my gut like that did. So what changed? Because now I’m twelve weeks away from finishing my degree and and the thought of teaching as a career does so little for me.

I’ve undertaken a module entitled ‘Creativity: Writing and Teaching’ just to keep my options open, just to make absolutely sure my burning passion isn’t just being very very shy. I have come up with a successful lesson plan focusing on creative writing as therapy for young adults with depression and I enjoyed running it and seeing the positive results it achieved. I have a part-time job running taster sessions for 15/16 year olds in journalism and creative writing. It’s the most obvious career choice – everything points to it. But then I see the look in the faces of some of my close friends who actively want to pursue this in the future and I simply don’t have that passion. I truly believe a teacher must have passion. How demotivating must it be to be taught by someone who doesn’t want to be there?

I have never wanted to work harder in my life than when I have a teacher who inspires me. I’ve had one great French teacher, two fantastic maths teachers and three amazing English teachers. I imagine if I’d have had four super duper science teachers, I’d probably be hunched over a page full of ridiculous equations right now. Those English teachers shaped me entirely and I will never forget that inspiration that made me who I am. Those three people combined grew me a passion. I certainly wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for them – and I know that I’d never have the work ethic that I do now had they not been my teacher.

I can’t imagine somebody saying that about me.

I don’t mean to offend anyone who’s goal is to come out of university and go straight into teaching (in fact I admire that beyond anything – the motivation to take what you’ve learned and give it straight back), but for me, to do that would mean that I’ve given up on myself. I’ve accepted a career in which I’m encouraging the making of young people having not made anything of myself. Everyone who knows me tells me I should be in teaching and the response I always give is ‘how can I teach when I’m nowhere near finished learning myself?’ They tell me that it will come with time; they say if I want to write a book I can do that in the school holidays. ‘It’s okay for your £27,000 degree to just be a hobby.’

I think I do have a career in teaching. And when I’ve reached the peak of my writing career I’ll be first in the ‘give me a PGCE’ queue. I think giving someone inspiration must be the most wonderful thing in the world, but I think being able to inspire yourself is something entirely as important – and for me at twenty-two years old, it’s a priority.

All I can do until I get there is keep writing; because for the time being, there is absolutely nothing I love more.