Stressed - Who Me?

Ours can’t be the only household at the moment swamped by a high volume of stress pheromones.

It’s exam time. There isn’t a clear surface anywhere in the house – everything is covered with note paper, writing material, text books. The poor teenager sits with her nose to the grindstone, morning, noon and night.

I tell her she is doing too much, she argues she is not doing enough. Revision has become competitive.  First thing in the morning she learns from Facebook that her friend Fred has been in the college library since seven o’clock. He was there until closing time last night. He will get A*’s, she will only get A’s…

Things have changed a lot since my day. Back in the 1980’s I undertook one of those new-fangled modular style courses at the local Technical College.  I accrued passes, and apart from a Business Studies A Level which I took alongside RSA typing and shorthand (yes – it really was that long ago) I didn’t have to sit two hour long hand-written exams, regurgitating a whole load of facts and figures.  I wasn’t going on to university – my life didn’t depend whether I passed or failed, whether I got that all important A* or just a sad old E, which I did, for my Business Studies. By the time I left college I already had a job lined up. Those were the days.

Naturally I try and sympathise. Of course it’s tough, I know it’s important, but it really isn’t the be all and end all.  Exams can be re-sat, careers – and universities - can be and do get changed. What you want at 18 is not always what you want at 21, or 30.

I know the teenager will do her best. I tell her to breathe, take a break.  Brains reach saturation point. There is only so much knowledge that can be consumed at any one time.  Obviously I don't understand at all.

Our whole lives are now on hold for the next couple of weeks.  We are walking on egg-shells, tip-toeing around piles of papers. I provide food and drink upon demand, I am on standby for the emergency dash to the train station.  I have read essays, listened to the re-counting of philosophical and psychological practices, recitations of quotations. I will be there in that exam room with her and I too am stressed beyond belief....

Soon it will all be over and the teenager won't be the only one hitting the vodka and heaving a huge sigh of relief.

The Fear of Failure

I admit I’ve been lacking a little inspiration lately. When anyone asks what I have been up to, or how I fill my days, I have fallen into the habit of muttering  ‘I potter’.

Why? The verb to potter is defined as to move about in an unhurried, relaxed way, to occupy oneself in a desultory but pleasant manner, to dabble.  It all sounds rather aimless and without focus, a description of someone with a little too much time on their hands doing something rather self-indulgent.

Perhaps I say it because to say ‘I’m actually trying to write a novel’ sounds too pretentious. I’d love to write a number one best-seller – who wouldn’t, but the main reason I want to write is because I’ve read some pretty crap stories in my time and I’m quite sure I can do better. Why shouldn’t I try and get something published? That’s not self-indulgent; that’s ambitious. I’ve attended classes, been to lectures, studied the market, and even won a couple of competitions.  I haven’t dabbled, I have become a serious student.  So why am I so  reluctant to admit it? Is it really the fear of failure? What if I don't ever become a successful writer.....

I know I’m lucky. The whole point in staying home and not seeking a job was to have that valuable time to give it a go.  With my other half working away 90% of the time I saw no point missing what little time he had at home being stuck in an office. We agreed it was an arrangement which  suited us both. But writing can be a lonely, unsociable task.  I need peace, quiet, and solitude, which is great when the words burst forth and flow like a raging river.  Those are the days when I find myself wishing away my social engagements, resenting the need to stock up on groceries or clean lavatories, tasks which take me away from my computer.  On the other hand there are plenty of days when the words just don’t come and my life suddenly feels worthless and unrewarding.  Perhaps I haven’t got that ‘book’ in me at all. Wouldn’t I be better off working, being sociable and at the same time earning some money?

I’d been feeling a bit deflated since our return from China. After the excitement of unpacking the miniature mock terracotta warrior , admiration of the (fake) silk scarves and discrete disposal of the Chinese pastries hastily purchased at the airport,  I seemed at a bit of a loose end.  Before I knew it I found myself researching part-time jobs on the internet. Within hours I’d sent off a CV.

Suddenly there I was having an informal chat about how many hours a week would I like to work and how much commitment would I like to make to ‘the company’? I started making mental calculations…. If I offered two days a week that would mean only three left to write, well actually, only two and a half because one morning a week I volunteer at the local library, and then of course, Creative Writing class takes up another morning, and often a lunch time…

Three days a week, I was told was the minimum required, possibly more to cover sickness and holidays. That only leave mere hours in a week spare. I’d have to give up my ‘dabbling’. I found myself edging towards the door.  I apologised, I really probably wasn’t the person they were looking for….

Yes I know I haven’t actually sold any work yet but to take a ‘proper’ job would almost be like admitting defeat. I don’t have to write a Booker Prize winner to consider myself an author (in fact I can guarantee I’m not going to write a Booker prize winner)  but if I quit now, I’ll stand no chance of any success, and I don’t mean commercial success, I mean ‘personal’.

My other half recently completed his first triathalon. It was just something he wanted to do – just like me and my writing. He didn’t dismiss his frequent trips to the gym, his Sunday morning cycle rides, as ‘pottering’, he was in ‘training’. I applauded his determination and was very proud of him. He set himself his target, and stuck to it. 

Commitment-phobe? Not me. I too have set myself a target, and I’m going to stick to it. From now on I’m in training. It's back to the computer with a vengeance. Failure is not an option.