Tag: writing

Max Hope and Jo McAndrews met for the first time in March 2022 during a Soul Fire writing retreat in Devon. It was one of those occasions when we wondered how it was possible that we had never met before. Strange but true. We talked, laughed, and ate apple crumble in a mug. Since this, we have spent more time talking and thinking about writing, through online and in-person writing retreats, and in Jan 2025, we committed to undertaking ‘Write for Life’, a six-week programme designed to support people in their writing practices. This dialogue has emerged from our experiences together with Write for Life.

Max and Jo are both activists and changemakers, with shared interests in children’s rights, inclusion, the climate crisis, and deepening our connections with the natural world.

We agreed to have an email exchange on the loose themes of writing, writing as activism, writing as healing, and all things related to writing. Each of us was to write a response to the provocation of the other, and we would end our section with a question or prompt, and this would then go back to the other. A writerly version of ping pong.

There were no rules at all. Liberating, but where would we end up?

What follows is our entire dialogue, unfolding as it happened, and unedited apart form small grammar and typos.

We welcome any responses that readers might wish to make to help us open out and expand our dialogue.

Max:

We both like writing. Well, maybe ‘like’ isn’t the right word. I’ll rephrase. We both write. Maybe for different reasons, and in different ways, but I like to think that writing is a common interest for us both, especially writing as a form of activism.

There is a point to our writing. We are writing for a purpose. To make an argument, to tell a story, to share some information. Maybe we also write for ourselves, to help us think, to help us process, possibly even for healing.

I’d love to explore this with you.

I wrote a blog post last week that got re-shared over 300 times, and it seemed to make some waves. Many people resonated with it and either commented directly or used the ‘heart emoji’. Others used the ‘angry face’ emoji, and I even got trolled for the first time in my life. For me, in a strange way, this was a sign of success. Clearly, my writing had gone beyond my smallish circle of Facebook friends and was getting into places that I do not ordinarily access. This was a vastly different experience to when I have published academic articles, or even when I have published books. These didn’t get such immediate feedback. Well, to be honest, they didn’t get much feedback at all, and I am left guessing as to how many people read them, or what they thought of them. That’s a major problem with academic writing. It either doesn’t get read at all, or even if it does, the author never knows about it.

I write for many reasons, and only some of my writing ever makes it into the public domain. Some is just for me. Hum, now I think about it, maybe most of it is just for me.

Jo, I’d love to know why you write. Can you share anything about that to get us started?

Jo:

Well, thank you for the invitation. I have had a writing drought and this has coaxed me back into it. I love this relational writing approach. It really helps me to know that someone is going to read what I am writing, and have a response. There is so much I could respond to in what you have written, and so much that rises up of my own experience.

You ask why I write? What a simple and complex question. I write because I have a huge web of thoughts, knowledge and ideas that I am desperate to share with the world. I have this low level feeling that if only I could write it all down then I will change the world. I feel burdened with responsibility to get it all out there because it all makes so much sense to me and I think the world hasn’t caught on yet. Yes, I am aware of how arrogant that sounds! When I read a book that I wish I had written I get quite jealous and despairing, but part of me is also hugely relieved that someone has managed to get it out there and now I don’t have to say it.

I don’t think I really enjoy writing most of the time. When I sit down to write I am immediately accosted by clamours of self-doubt and urgency. It is so hard to choose where to start and my pen or keyboard cannot keep up with my brain. I have to force myself to keep writing and just withstand the inner turmoil about it.

For decades I have wanted to write but have believed myself to be hopeless at it. Finding out a few years ago that I have ADHD has revolutionised my writing. I now understand why I find it so hard, and it is nothing to do with my ability to string words together or to express complex ideas. It has allowed me to find strategies that work for my brain that don’t need me to be a different person.

What I do enjoy, is the surprise of reading back what I have written and finding myself often very pleased with it. It seems I can write, and when I have the right context for it, I can find it quite easy. It is a revelation.

I think I might have been one of the first sharers of your recent, beautiful blog post. I found myself wanting to tell everyone that I know you. What a vulnerable thing though, to find that such a personal sharing has gone so far. The closest I have come to that experience was a couple of years ago when I wrote a piece at Christmas called ‘Of course there were women at the birth of Christ’. It got shared wildly all over the place. It was nothing like the stuff I usually write so it didn’t get my name into all the right places, but it was deeply affirming and encouraged me to keep writing.

So, there is a start to our conversation. Back to you Max. Do you find enjoyment in writing? What do you enjoy most?

Max:

There’s so much to talk about already. I want to know more about your experience of having ADHD and how this has changed things for you. I want to talk about your blog post about Christmas – which I loved, by the way – and push you to consider writing more things like this. But I’ll stick with the question you have asked and save the rest for later.

Do I find enjoyment in writing? That’s a good question.

I think the most accurate answer is that I don’t always find enjoyment in writing itself, but I do enjoy the fact that I have written. Does that make sense?

Recently, and mainly because of a 6-week programme called Write for Life – which we did at the same time – I have developed a daily practice of writing in 20-minute bursts. I set an alarm, and I write on whatever topic I want to write about, and I don’t stop writing until the timer goes off. It’s a helpful way of containing any anxiety that I might have about not knowing what to write, not having enough time, or about my writing not being good enough. Most of what I have been writing ends up in a file on my laptop, but some of it can be polished up a bit and used. That’s how I wrote my blog post last week. The news from the Supreme Court had come out. I’d talked to a few people about it, slept badly, and then woken up and opened the laptop. That post was finished in 20 mins, with just a bit of extra time for tweaking once I had decided that I would put it out into the public domain.

What I mean about enjoying the writing once it is done is twofold. First, I like reading back what I have written. Sometimes it’s interesting. Sometimes I write things that I didn’t even know that I thought, or I use words that I rarely use in spoken conversation. Sometimes I even think that what I’ve written is good and I feel a sense of satisfaction. But the second reason is perhaps more important, and that is that writing helps me to process things. Writing helps me to articulate what is happening at a subconscious level. It literally helps me to know what I think and what I feel, and for that reason, it’s good for my mental health and good for my nervous system.

Jo, I am struck by what you say about the burden of feeling that you have to get everything written down, and that this will help with changing the world. I am reminded of something that Liz Gilbert says in her book, Big Magic, which is that creative ideas knock on doors, and if the person at the door is unable to respond in that moment, then they move on and knock on someone else’s door. In effect, they have a life of their own. I wonder if that’s what’s happening when you read a book that you wish you could have written. You weren’t ready to respond in that moment, but someone else was. I find that comforting. It takes the pressure off.

As activists, lots of creative ideas might come knocking on our doors. There are so many things that we could do, so many things that need our drive and passion.

What role do you think that writing plays in your activism, and how do you balance the desire to write with your other forms of activism?

Jo:

Well it makes my heart sing to read that you are interested in hearing more about the things I have already written in this conversation. I love that you want to know more about my experience in the world and how I see things. That is one of the great rewards of writing for me, and one of its frustrations. The reward is to connect with people who are interested and to feel validated and witnessed. The frustration is that I can feel really hungry for that validation and want to share every word with someone so that it feels a bit pointless writing if no one else is going to read it.

Also, there is a generative thing where each idea or thought that I read or write inspires loads more things to think about and say. Already in this conversation, for example, we have touched on lots of things that deserve further and deeper exploration and it hurts something in me to have to leave them for another time, or even leave them behind all together. It is easily overwhelming for me. Another thing that makes sense through the ADHD lens.

You asked what role writing plays in my activism and how I balance it with other things. I have been thinking a lot about this and really appreciate the question and your interest. I once read something about systems change that I now can’t find. It was a model that suggested different levels of influence and how much power they had. The most influential level was the changing of hearts and minds – shaping thinking and understanding. This is where I am most inspired. All the learning I have done in my life has led me to believe that I have some really good ideas about why the world is heading in the wrong direction, what the right direction would be, and what we can do about it.

I have learned a lot of this, found many of my teachers, through what they have written. Writing allows ideas to be shared widely and to be found more easily. Sarah Peyton has been a brilliant teacher for ages I imagine, but I only found her when she got her book published and someone told me about it. I have been so inspired by the ideas of bell hooks, Alice Walker, Staci Haines, Daniel Siegel, Darcia Narvaez and so many more, and I could read them because they wrote them down!

Now that we can publish and share ideas ourselves on so many platforms, it seems over and over again to be a ‘no-brainer’ for me to write too. I want to be part of that glorious chorus of wisdom and words.

How do I balance that with other activism – well that is an interesting question. I think the balance is a bit haphazard to be honest. I find writing a bit lonely and I find self-motivation hard to find. So I am regularly getting involved in groups or projects that are working towards the change I want to be part of. The problem is, I am not very good at being in groups! And so I find I have to spend a lot of energy trying to manage my experience, not being very effective, and being disappointed again in myself and the world. I find big protests and marches really overwhelming, I don’t believe in writing to my MP anymore, and I am scared of being arrested for being disobedient.

My activism really is in offering deep care and support to parents and to young people, and in trying to change how children and young people are treated, in order to grow their ability to face the world with some hope of resilience. The balance I am looking for is between supporting individuals and changing the system for everyone. Another balance I need is between my care for others and my care for myself. It is hard to stay resourced enough to keep turning up.

There is so much more to say and I am stopping myself here for now in order to stick to our conversation format. I already have a worry that I have written too much (here is another expression of how ADHD affects me)

Thank you for reading this Max and I would love to ask you, what are the most important ideas you would like to share with the world through your writing? I mean important to you of course.

Max:

I feel resistant to your question, and I am trying to work out why this might be the case.

Hum.

In the past, I could have easily answered you. My writing was mainly about education. Critiquing the current system. Transforming it from within. Shining a light on many of the good practices that exist outside the system. Finding ways to build genuinely inclusive practices. Centring the voices of children and young people. Rewilding our theories and our practices.

My writing was a form of activism, trying to change the education world through sharing ideas, bringing persuasive arguments, sharing new data. I believed that if only people knew the truth (as I saw it), then that might catalyse change, albeit on a small scale.

I don’t think it really worked. It’s painful to admit this, but I believe it’s true.

I’m not saying that my research and my writing made no difference at all. I couldn’t possibly know that. Academic writing tends to be published and from that point on, it is released into a world of its own. Academics know that they have been well received if they hit the bestseller list (a rare occurrence) or if they are frequently cited by other authors, but in the main, it’s a deathly silence.

I now have a different approach to writing.

I write about what is interesting to me. Sometimes I put this put into the public domain – like with my recent blogging – but I try to remain unattached to any outcome. I try not to judge my writing on how many people like it, share it, or comment on it (despite what I said in the opening section of this dialogue with you). I try to retain an internal locus of evaluation, which means that I get to be the final arbiter on whether it’s good or whether it’s worthwhile.

Right now, what’s important to me is about what makes my heart pump faster. I am trying to make decision based on what excites me, and not on what I think is worthy or valuable to others. Recently, I’ve been writing about gender and sexuality, about queer nature, and about my obsession with wolves as totems of the wild. I’ve also been doing some playful writing about being queer in the 80s and 90s, and I’m exploring queer folklore. I want to write some stories, and I want to write about using stories as a tool of activism.

I’m also playing with different styles. Blog posts. Open letters. Even – dare I say it – poems.

I feel that I’ve reclaimed my identity as a writer, and I’m open to explore different styles and new ways of using my voice. It’s cool, and I’m having fun.

Jo, can we talk more about your ADHD brain? If you feel comfortable, I’d love to hear some of your insights about how this affects your writing? And also – where might your ADHD brain help you to get where you want to be?

Jo:

Well, what a great direction this has gone in! I love your resistance to my question. Your exploration of that has opened something up for me. You are shining a light for me to free myself up. It is interesting that my asking the ‘wrong’ question has turned into a deeper reflection of the purpose of writing for both of us.

I strongly resonate with the first part of what you have just said. I could have written it myself, it rings so true. I recognise the deep desire to contribute to social change, knowing that I have something very important to contribute and a deep longing for a different world. And I recognise the pain of feeling like it is not working. I have been going through a few weeks of quite intense despondency about the state of the world and our collective failure to make the changes needed.

I have been experiencing a sort of inner rebellion, like ‘Right then, I am just not doing this anymore, there is no point anyway.’ I have still been holding some plan to write it all down though – seeing myself as a wise hermit in the woods who can share my wisdom from the comfort of my reclusive hideaway.

Reading your words just now gave me a thrill! You said ‘Right now, what’s important to me is about what makes my heart pump faster.’  Wow – that is a great measure of purpose in writing. I love what you are saying about playfulness and following your interest. It sounds really freeing and creative, and I am loving the writing that you have shared recently. What a great role-model!

You asked about my ADHD brain, how it affects my writing and how it could help me in life. Thanks for your interest in that. It continues to be an unfolding, emergent process as I learn more about myself. I realised it about 4 years ago in a massive ‘aha’ moment as I was helping my mum to find out what was going on with her. It started a revolution in my perspective and understanding of myself and the world.

It turns out that it is not just about my brain, but about my whole body. Neurodivergence apparently is a difference not just in the whole embodied nervous system but in the connective tissue that underlies everything. It explains my hypermobile ankles, my digestive issues, my painful sensitivity to perfumes, as well as all the things that are more widely known.

The biggest gift of this is that I now feel I have the right map of the world and can finally make sense of myself. So many questions that didn’t make sense before, now do. I can’t tell you what a relief it is and it has opened the door to huge self-compassion. Of course I struggle, of course I can’t do anything unless there is a deadline, of course I can’t stop thinking, of course my mind is brilliant! Of course my house is messy and I am intense, and I get so excited by the first sentence of books that I then can’t read further. Of course writing is a real challenge.

So, the way this affects my writing is huge. The name ‘ADHD’ is deeply unhelpful, unsurprisingly, as it comes from the patriarchal, white supremacist, narrow minded medical model that wouldn’t know health if it tripped over it. We don’t have a deficit of attention, more like an overwhelming excess of attention with very little ability to choose where to focus it. So I am interested in ten thousand things and have another ten thousand things I am not interested in but that haunt me because they need to be done (washing, cooking, sorting out car tax, answering emails, mending the hole in the roof etc). In order to write, I have to veer my brain and anxiety away from all the second category of things, and choose one place to start in the first category.

So when I do manage to sit down to write, and when I do manage to choose what to write about right now, I then have to bear the discrepancy in speed between my writing and the thoughts that are rushing around wanting to be expressed. Add to that a lifetime of being judged and criticised for being lazy, sloppy, disorganised, too much etc and it is quite a painful endeavour.

But the rewards are huge of course! Writing is delicious and powerful. I love the empowerment of being in charge of what I say, playing with ideas, communicating what I care about. I love the way it enables me to take part in conversations, find others who agree and who know more. All the stuff we have said already about why we write and want to write more.

Knowing about ADHD has helped my writing in many ways. I have stopped thinking that my struggles are a character flaw or that I am simply not a writer if I find it so hard. I have huge compassion and admiration for myself when I manage to turn up to the page and I am very proud of a lot of what I have written. Now I know that I will not be more able to focus tomorrow so there is no point in waiting till then. I know that setting a timer, having a structure, writing with others, all help hugely and make it happen. I now know how to be warm with myself when I lament all the unwritten things.

Knowing about my ADHD has allowed me to recognise that although I have struggles, I am also blessed with the ability to think quickly, deeply and vastly. I am able to navigate complexity and see the world in a huge constellation of networked understandings and ideas that all make sense. That gives me the confidence to say, I am a writer, and I have things to say.

Max, I love what you said about having fun with your writing. Would you be up for sharing some of that fun with me? Or sharing your resistance to that question!

Max:

I love hearing about the ways that having ADHD affects your experience of writing, especially when you explain that you have an ‘overwhelming excess of attention’. This is a beautiful description which helps me to understand why you have been in a writing drought, struggling to know what to write and where to go with your creative energy. I also see such superpowers in your description, and I hope that you can find ways to harness these in ways that are satisfying to you.

Onto your question.

I recently signed up to a guided day of walking with the British Pilgrimage Trust, which was in Bury St Edmunds, a town relatively close to my home. I was drawn by the title – a Wolf and Water Day Pilgrimage – and my curiosity led me to explore the ancient story of St Edmund and his encounter with a wolf. According to the legend, after King Edmund was killed by the Vikings and decapitated, his head was thrown into the forest. A while later, some of Edmund’s followers found the body, but they could not find the head. They heard a voice shout ‘here, here, here’, and they followed the voice deep into the forest. There, they found a wolf guarding Edmund’s head. They retrieved the head and reunited it with his body. The story of the ‘speaking wolf’ became part of the legend of St Edmund.

I listened to podcasts and googled as much as I could about the story. There was a great deal of discussion about St Edmund and what had eventually happened to his body, but very little on the story of the wolf. The question which went unanswered, for me anyway, was how this legend had developed and what explanations were given for the behaviour of this wolf. I wanted to know why a wolf would possibly guard a head, if indeed, that is what it was doing. And what about the speaking of human words. How could this be explained?

I set a timer for 20 minutes, and I wrote the story from the perspective of the wolf. I really loved doing this. I dreamt myself into the landscape, and imagined that I was there, in the body and spirit of that wolf.

It was fun because the story had no purpose. I had no intention of showing it to anyone. I could hear the criticisms in my head, such as ‘don’t anthromorphise the wolf’, and ‘you don’t know enough about the time period to write this story’, but I ignored them. It didn’t matter. I wrote it anyway. It was playful, and fun, and it utilised a style and a voice that I haven’t used before.

By the time I went on the guided pilgrimage, I felt really connected to the story of St Edmund and the wolf, and I am sure that I was able to immerse myself in the event in a deeper way than I would have otherwise.

Somehow, by engaging in these seemingly purposeless writing activities, I am finding that my creative freedom is expanding, and that I am finding new ways of writing. Even if no-one sees the majority of what I write, I think that these playful tasks will make me a better writer in the long run.

Jo, I am reminded of the story that you wrote about the women at the birth of Jesus, and I wonder if you can tell me more about the power of storytelling. Why do you think stories are a good way of communicating? And do you have more stories that you would like to tell?

Jo:

I loved reading about your process with the wolf of Bury St Edmunds. It richly illustrates your adventures in having fun with your writing and the playfulness of curiosity. It inspires me to read your experience: ‘I am finding that my creative freedom is expanding, and that I am finding new ways of writing.’ That sounds liberating and expansive.

It was also funny timing for me to read that story as the same day I got a text from an old friend telling me that he was visiting the town of his birth: Bury St Edmunds. He now lives in New Zealand and is over here for a visit home. I am excited to see him next week and now I am going to ask him all about the wolf and the head. My friend’s name is Edmund! His parents must have been quite quirky.

Thank you for your question about stories. It is actually quite a poignant subject for me. I used to be all about storytelling. I will tell you what happened….

One day, many years ago, I woke up from a dream and thought ‘I want to learn about storytelling!’ That same day I went to a ‘mind, body and spirit’ fair and picked up a leaflet about a residential 2 week storytelling course. It felt like fate calling me. On the course, I did a workshop about storytelling and grief. In that workshop I was invited to create a story from my imagination and see where it led me. That story changed my life.

That story flowed from my unconscious mind and was coherent and gripping. It was the story of the princess whose father was stolen by a dragon and how she went on a quest to rescue him. When I reflected on it afterwards I realised that I had accidentally made sense of a key part of my childhood – my complex relationship with my father and the unresolved grief that left me with. I was amazed at the power of my imagination to find images and characters that encapsulated such a deep and complex experience.

When I told one of the teachers about it, he asked ‘Now you have discovered this gift, what are you going to do with it?’ That question seemed to lay a charge upon me that I could not ignore. I wanted to learn more about the healing power of storytelling and within a few months had signed up for the first year of my training in Arts Psychotherapy. I spent several years diving deep into the transformative power of the imagination and creativity, and I wrote my dissertation on the power of storytelling in particular.

The reason I found your question poignant is that I feel I have become so serious and earnest in the past few years that I have lost touch with this storyteller in me. My writing has been all about the desperate state of the world and my radical ideas about changing it. I have lost touch with the magic and mystery of creativity. It is as if a bit of me has dried up like a river bed in a drought. I have given up on the beauty of rain and devoted my attention to fighting the water company that manages the mains supply.

As I write this I feel a knot of sadness in my chest. I could weep for that enthusiastic young woman who danced with archetypes and then lost her joy. I used to do storytelling performances, and I ran a fantastic workshop for parents about creating stories for their children. That was the first book I didn’t write.

I wrote the story about the women at Jesus’s birth as a gift to a friend who shared her revelation that in more than 70 years of life she had only just realised that of course there would have been women there that night. I wrote it, fired up by the rage I felt that women are so erased by Christianity, but I wrote it with beauty. It was so interesting to me to see that it was hugely popular with a lot of Christians, especially women, and especially progressive ones. A lot of them said they would never think of the Nativity in the same way again, and lots were planning to add more women to their wooden nativity sets! If I had wanted to be a Christian writer that story could have launched my career!

The story also got shared by lots of midwifery organisations who were delighted to have the validation and clarity that there would never be a woman giving birth alone if there was any other woman nearby.

I really enjoyed the state I was in when writing that piece. I was focused and ardent and poetic and free. I love writing from that place and it yields surprising things.

You asked if there are any more stories I would like to tell. I suppose the first thing that comes to mind is that it would be good to tell the story of how I lost all my stories and how I found them again. Perhaps I will write that one soon. Perhaps it will help me find my way back to that whole genre of writing.

I am inspired by the experience you shared of your creative exploration of the wolf story, and how it doesn’t matter if no one reads it, and how it is supporting your growth as a writer.

So, here is my next question if you care to address it: how does your writing support the healing of your pain and the experience of freedom?  I am wondering if you find writing to be therapeutic and liberatory?

Much love to you my writerly friend.

Max:

How was Edmund?

It made me laugh to know that you had such a direct connection to my story about the wolf in Bury St Edmunds. Real synchronicity.

Was it a coincidence? Of course it was. I didn’t know you had a friend called Edmund and that you were seeing him, after all this time, and just as I was writing to you. But also, maybe it was not a coincidence. That, in my view, is the power of story.

When I used to write books and articles as an academic, I was largely writing from ‘my head’. Everything had to be referenced, to be evidenced by data. Arguments had to be carefully crafted so that they were hard to refute. I wrote from my intellect, from my cognitive brain, and readers met me in this place. There was no place for feelings, for institution, for gut instinct.

Stories are different.

Stories, when well told, come from the heart, and that is where they are met by the reader or listener. They might also be clever, they might appeal to the intellect, but they reach us in a deeper way than most academic writing. I love that. Stories bury themselves into my heart, my body, and sometimes my soul. That’s what makes them captivating and powerful.

Personal stories. Fictional accounts. Rich characters. Twisting and turning plots. Stories can carry us on a journey of discovery, and in going on this journey, we can get new insights into ourselves.

I wrote about Edmund. You were meeting Edmund. Boom. A connection. Something which carried me, to you, to him, and would have sparked off a conversation which led you … well, you tell me. That’s another story.

Back to your questions.

Writing, in itself, is not necessarily liberatory. Have you ever had a looming deadline, especially a deadline for something you are not even that enthusiastic to write? That doesn’t feel like freedom at all. That feels like pressure, and meeting the deadline becomes yet another chore.

But writing – when it’s based on our own desires and creative spark – this type of writing is liberatory. It’s freeing to just get on and write. To play with words and ideas. To come up with the start of a story, and then abandon it, and start something else. To write from the heart, the gut the soul. Yes, that is liberation, and it is healing.

I imagine that visual artists might feel like this when they have the freedom to just get on and paint. Not for an exhibition or show. Not for making sales. Not for anything, apart from the pleasure that comes from creating.

Jo, I am curious about the stories that you want to tell and say ‘perhaps I will write that one soon’.

What would help you to become a storyteller again? Let’s get practical.

Jo:

Well, there is a challenge Max! ‘Let’s get practical’!

It has set off all sorts of cascading thoughts and responses. I want to write for a moment about Writer’s Grief. I have just made up that term and put it in capital letters to make it a thing. Because I think it is a thing and I want to write about it to deepen my understanding of what it means, and to show up here in this emergent conversation with you, and also, in case we do publish this conversation somewhere, to open something up, or validate an experience that others have around writing.

Writer’s Grief is the complex experience of all sorts of painful feelings around writing and not writing. It is different from ‘writer’s block’ which is the only language I have really seen in the past to suggest that it is common to find obstacles in the way of writing. Writer’s block has an implication that there is something in me that is in the way, that it is a personal problem and that I need to find ways to get over it. But I don’t want to get caught up in analysing the thinking and assumptions behind that diagnosis, I want to go deeper into what I mean about the grief I am talking about.

When I read ‘What would help you to become a storyteller again? Let’s get practical’, as I said, it set off a flow of feeling and thinking.

First was a delight in the invitation. A feeling of support and validation; ‘Yes, I am a storyteller! Someone else recognises it and supports me living my truth!’. I started thinking about what it would mean, what practical steps I could take, what I could say to you about it.

Then more complex responses emerged. A leaping up of ‘demand avoidance’ (another aspect of neurodivergence), ‘now you have said that, I have to rebel’. A feeling of inadequacy, ‘I have failed so often, I am just not able to get it together, along with all my other dreams’. Curiosity, ‘wow what a lot of interesting responses, I wonder if I can work out what they all are and write something coherent about them’. Then an emerging sense of the importance of this idea of Writer’s Grief and the desire to try to put it into words.

Writer’s grief includes the pain of living in a culture that makes everyday life so difficult for so many of us that the ability and capacity to write is a privilege. It is the cultural lack of acknowledgement that writing is important and valuable. It is the amount of support that is needed to have the protected time to sit and write, and the lack of that support that so many of us experience. It is the disruption caused to our creativity and self-expression by being forced to write too early and to the bewildering prescription of a competitive and coercive education system. This is just some of the cultural context of the grief I experience about writing.

Then there is the inner experience, which actually is also totally about cultural context, there is no separation. There are so many things I want to write and any choice I make means that I let go of other possibilities. The grief of lost ideas, unexpressed thoughts, missed moments. The pain of overwhelm that I experience every time I turn towards one idea which then multiplies exponentially into a million things that I can’t possibly organise. The grief of the power of my ‘inner critic’ who grinds away with a relentless narrative of disempowering discouragement. The grief of living in such a dangerous and fractured time that it is hard to find the nervous system state that supports playfulness and creativity. The deep and abiding grief of loneliness in the struggle with all this.

Then there is the grief of living in a culture that has embraced toxic positivity so ardently that I am already anticipating a response of ‘Come on Jo, pull yourself together and stop wallowing. If you spent as much energy on your storytelling as you do on moaning about everything, you would have written a book by now.’ It takes work to put that inner shaping to one side to allow room for compassion and warm welcome. Of course I feel all these things.

I am risking writing all of this in the hope of receiving and offering some validation about some very real experience that I think is not often enough acknowledged. At the same time I am affirming our shared belief, that it helps to put things into words. Naming the grief allows me to move through it and I find there is room for the storytelling question and the challenge of getting practical.

Well, the first practical step is to make a commitment to writing something every day rather than waiting for inspiration to start. That has worked in the past and here is another reason to start up again.

Then, the permission and decision to deliberately write in a storytelling style and direction. This includes finding the clarity that it is something I actually want to do.

Also, the support and company that helps to give structure and audience. I am not sure yet where that is but I know there is plenty to be found.

It helps me to makes something into a project, a deliberate and conscious process, rather than a vague intention. This is not about goal setting which I hate, but about making it ‘a thing’ that I am deliberately doing. There is a lot of competition for project status amongst all my vague intentions!

And, lastly for now, a practical step is to choose a story I want to start with. Actually, no, as I wrote that I realised that it makes the stakes too high. It would be more fun to write short quirky stories just for fun for a while to give myself the delightful surprise of what emerges when I step into that process.

Once upon a time…..

Over to you again my friend. When I think about what to ask you as a prompt for your next bit, I am moved to get a bit meta and ask: what question do you wish I would ask you about your writing? Is that ok or is it cheating?!

Max:

Writer’s Grief. I think you’re on to something there. I’m sure it exists.

I’m reminded of the Grief Curve, the stages that grief can go through: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I can definitely see these stages mirrored in my own writing journey. Blogs posts that were never written. Writing collaborations that stalled and created all kinds of feelings. Books that have been dreamt up and then let go again.

Writer’s block is also a thing, when there is an obstacle of some sort which gets in the way of the writing process. But Writer’s Grief – the feelings that come with unfinished or unbegun projects. Definitely.

Maybe you should write a book about it.

That’s a joke. Don’t even try.

Let it go.

Onto your questions. What do I wish you would ask me?

Wow. That’s hard.

My mind has wandered to reading. I’ve heard so many authors say that the best way to become a writer is to read a lot.

I’m reading a lot this year. For Christmas, I got an amazing present from my step-kids. They bought me twelve books, mainly from charity shops, and individually wrapped them. They are on a shelf, in order, and I get to open one on the first day of every month.

They’ve bought me such an eclectic mix of books. Young adult fiction. Nature books. Rewrites of Greek Myths. Political books. I’ve had five so far, and I can’t wait for the rest.

On top of these books, I have become obsessed with reading. I sometimes have three books on the go.

Right now, I’m reading Circe (Madeline Miller), The Redemption of Wolf 302 (Rick McIntyre) and Queer as Folklore (Sacha Coward).

Is it a coincidence that I’m also writing more this year? Maybe. Maybe not. But I’ll keep going with the reading.

How about you, Jo?

What are you reading right now?

Jo:

What an absolutely brilliant present! Twelve books, an eclectic mix to read throughout the year. It is like a long advent calendar. I can imagine all these wrapped up books on your shelf waiting to be discovered. What a creative and lovely idea.

What am I reading right now? Well, like you, I always have more than one book on the go. Sometimes I just read the titles over and over as a way of taking in the core idea! It is hard to stay with one. At the moment I am reading Doppelganger (Naomi Klein), and listening to The Trans Issue (Shon Fay) and Entangled Life (Merlin Sheldrake). I have many other books lined up to read too, that get carried around with me when I have a day or two away and think I will have time. I also have a whole bunch of things on Substack that I want to get around to reading.

I find that my attention span for reading has been really compromised in the past few years, and I have always found it difficult to stick with interesting non-fiction books. I remember when I was studying psychotherapy many years ago, we would be expected to read various books and others would laugh at me for saying ‘I found it so exciting I had to put it down!’. Now I realise (another gift of understanding my ADHD brain) that each interesting sentence that I read sets off a whole explosion of thoughts and layers and references that easily becomes overwhelming. So I put it down thinking that I will come back to it when I have more capacity to focus. Ha ha!

I notice that the books I am reading are all non-fiction. I have a hunger for the ideas, not just the writing. But I am so delighted when I read books that are written in a conversational, creative, quirky style. I am enjoying the growth of acceptance of different writing styles and a move away from formality and ‘correctness’.

I love it that you are both reading more and writing more. It doesn’t sound like a coincidence. I am still struggling to prioritise both reading and writing in my life, but also I feel that my writerly self is developing in creative and delightful ways. This collaboration with you is a delight and I realise how much it helps to write in collaboration or at least in the company of someone else.

I am not sure how to end this bit as I know we may be coming to the end of this particular adventure. So my question for you is, what are your reflections on your experience of this piece of writing we have been doing, and what do you think is next for you?

Max:

A year-long advent calendar! Yes, that’s a great description of my reading experience this year. I highly recommend it, especially as it brings the element of mystery and surprise every month. Delicious.

Your list of current books sound great. I’ve read Entangled Life and thought it was fabulous. Fungi are just so cool.

Onto your question, and thanks for asking about my reflections as we come towards the end of this piece.

I think writing to you like this has been an example of some of what we have been describing as playful, free and liberatory. We haven’t had a fixed plan, there has been no real agenda and no end goal. We simply agreed to write to one another, using this format of a dialogue. I think it’s worked well as a format, and it’s been fun and interesting. I have no idea whether anyone else will want to read it, but that was never really the point, and so I am not going to worry about this. I suggest we just share it in the public domain and let it go.

It’s helped with my commitment to have a writing practice every day, as I have used some of my writing slots to respond to you. It’s been a great way of playing with ideas, because I never knew what you were going to ask me. In responding, I have tried to write from my heart and gut instinct and not overthink my answers. It’s taken us to places that I didn’t know we would go.

It’s been an adventure.

In fact, it’s been a bit like an advent calendar. Well, this analogy only works if you imagine an old-fashioned advent calendar with pictures rather than chocolate. When we write to each other, it’s like opening a window, and seeing what is behind it. Exciting. And as more and more windows have been opened, a bigger picture has emerged.

There are two clear images for me.

The first is about the discipline of a daily writing practice. For me, this really works. It’s so important to keep going. It’s a gift to the self to prioritise just 20 minutes each day for writing.

The second is about what I want to write. Our dialogue has lit a fire in me, and that is about storytelling. I want to do more. Short, playful, possibly never-to-be-read by others. Stuff like your nativity story, and mine about Edmund and the wolf.

Jo, what are your reflections on what we have done here? And – if you are so inclined to answer this question – would you be interested in collaborating on some kind of storytelling adventure?

Jo:

An old-fashioned advent calendar! I have deliberately shunned the chocolate ones but have really got into a delightful digital one for years now from Jacqueline Lawson. But the picture ones with a door everyday – yes, this writing adventure with you has been like that for me too. When I get your email with your latest update I relish the moment of opening and tend not to let myself read it until I am ready to respond. Then I can enjoy the interesting places you invite me to and give myself the treat of some spontaneous writing in response.

My reflections on this collaboration are quite similar to yours I think. I have also been enjoying the unexpected twists and turns that our conversation has opened up. I love knowing that you are going to read what I am writing and that it will prompt further thoughts for you. I have really enjoyed getting to know you better and having such a creative way of being in touch.

I am thrilled with myself that I have continued to show up and take part and not let it dwindle away, although I know there have been some replies later than others.

It makes a huge difference to me to collaborate with someone else – I think that is one of my main takeaways. I am still struggling to show up to a regular writing practice and the part of me that thinks there is no point is in ascendence right now. Another, important, part of me is sure that a 20 minute writing practice every day has a huge point to it and thank you for reminding me of that.

I recently went to stay in a secluded Welsh valley where there is a chapel dedicated to a young woman who rescued a hare from a hunting prince. The chapel has hare images everywhere and I would love to write a story about her. The people I met there were warm and inspiring and would easily inspire a novel if I was given to that sort of writing!

So, yes to your last question. I would definitely be interested in collaborating on a story-telling adventure. Bring it on!

Yes, let’s share this in the public domain and let it fly free. What a great experience and I hope it inspires others to do the same thing.

Thanks Max.

______

Max (they/them) is the founder of Write on Changemakers, co-lead of Soul Fire Writing Retreats, co-lead at The Cabin and The Lodge, and co-lead of Call of the Wild. 

Jo (she/her) is a trainer, facilitator, coach and writer and she also runs a community choir. One of her current projects is a new course entitled ‘The Magic of Warm Listening.’