I've tumbled from one personal disaster to the next, and one thing saved me
There’s only so long even an anxious, self-absorbed neurotic like me can spend worrying about houses and gazing at her navel. I’ve spent almost a year panicking about property, feeling my life was on hold until I’d bought somewhere to live. But now, settled and happy in my silly, twinkly caravan, I finally have headspace to think about something else. And what I begin thinking about is starting a writing course in Somerset.
Teaching is not something I had done much before lockdown, but in the last year, I gave it a try. At first, in Cornwall, out of necessity – lonely, bored, slightly depressed, for entirely selfish reasons, I contacted Falmouth University’s journalism department, offering my services. Luckily, they found some use for me: getting me in to give the odd seminar and take on a few journalism students as mentees.
I was surprised by how much I enjoyed working with young writers. It was vitalising hearing their ideas. I was buoyed by their enthusiasm, which I’d carry back to my desk. I enjoyed their company, their creative energy, their occasionally crazy projects and interests that made me feel ancient and realise how out of touch I was with yoof! Perhaps I also liked the promise that my otherwise self-indulgent career might be useful to someone. I enjoyed working with Falmouth students so much, I explored other volunteer projects.
From the Isle of Sheppey, I met Gary and Kyle, two incredible men who’ve created Curly’s Legacy, a community farm that’s become both an essential local resource and a magical place for young people who might struggle in traditional learning environments. Inspired by their work, I offered to run a writing course at their farm, subsequently spending the day there with a group of young girls producing a newspaper. It was joyful to see their playfulness with words. ‘Cows may look fearsome but they have a kind heart,’ one wrote.
There are plenty of reasons to write: to win prizes, get published, be rich. One friend, who is writing a fantasy book, writes because he plans to be the next JK Rowling and buy a £6 million Georgian mansion in Hampstead. I write because my mum used to tell me that books are our friends. That if you have words, you’ll never be alone. I find writing comforting. It helps me relax, although do remind me I said that next time I’m crying over a deadline.
At times this last year, when I’ve tumbled from one personal disaster to the next, writing has been a gift that’s saved me. It helps me organise my jumbled thoughts. Through this column, it’s also connected me to amazing people who have offered invaluable advice and support. Mostly though, I don’t write for profound reasons. I write because it makes me happy. And doing bits of teaching, I’ve loved sharing the joy writing brings.
In the van, these thoughts come together as I start forming a plan to start a writing course in Somerset. Not something expensive or elitist, but aimed at anyone who’d like to write. Not professionals – who I’m sure I’m unqualified to teach – but anyone with a story who’s felt nervous about committing words to the page, which is scary, especially in an age when other people go online and rip your words to shreds.
I raise the idea with some local writers and they’re keen to be involved. And so, a new plan is in motion. One more certain, and perhaps more exciting even, than a house.
You can read Katie Glass's column, What Katie did next, every Saturday from 6am on telegraph.co.uk
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