November 20, 2017 § Leave a comment
My poems are in a book. Three of them. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever done.
The first, the most important, is Lonely Sound. It’s probably my favourite piece of writing and seeing it in print was a magical moment. It’s so personally evocative for me (God knows what a reader thinks) and it’s a really important thing that it’s out in the world.
Here’s how I explained Lonely Sound when I first wrote it:
Lonely Sound is an imaginary body of water that lives in the recesses of my mind.
It’s a desolate place. The sun never quite breaks through the cloud cover and it’s only ever warm and damp or damp and chill.
Looking out over the sound is a sad old cabin with a half-collapsed porch. It’s rotting from the outside in and it’s full of empty rooms that no one could be bothered to care for. The air is thick with melancholy and you wouldn’t want to be stuck there.
I started believing in Lonely Sound a long time ago, before I knew its name. Then I read about a place called Doubtful Sound in New Zealand and it gave me such a weird, creepy feeling – like I knew it somewhere in my memory.
Lonely Sound isn’t even really a sad place. It’s blank. You might feel sad reading about it but it’s worse than that; it’s depression and the kind of hunger that exists when you’re past wanting to eat. It’s where you go when you’ve done all the crying and you’re left stoney and still.
I find Lonely Sound comforting. I can go there when I need to feel more than what my life is. Do you keep a memory or an idea that helps you feel pain? Lonely Sound is my place for that. My unhappy place.
October 17, 2017 § Leave a comment
Any single thing that seems to be empowering or educational or whatever – someone’s got to do a think-piece that explains otherwise.
If you were asleep yesterday, #MeToo was trending as women all over the world were brave enough to say ‘Yep, sexual assault. This is a thing that has happened to me.’
And now cometh the ‘Why #MeToo is problematic‘s. So here’s my two pennies’ worth.
I am usually pretty matter-of-fact about my own experiences of sexual assault but yesterday I had to steel myself to post #MeToo because I didn’t want to seem like I was somehow using it for attention or give the people I know an undesired impression of me.
How sick. I didn’t put it on Facebook because I don’t want those people judging me, guessing at who it was, discussing me, disbelieving me. Although I felt OK with posting it on Twitter, I did so in a way I hoped came across as unhysterical.
— Honor Clement-Hayes (@mutatedmusings) October 16, 2017
Why? Why shouldn’t I be hysterical about it? It’s something people must surely be expected to be hysterical about?
But I didn’t want to change people’s idea of me with something someone else did, that I couldn’t control. I didn’t want my brand tarnished by someone else’s behaviour.
After I’d posted my #MeToo, I filled in a survey about sexual assault that a lady I follow tweeted – she wants to write about women’s experiences. And my down-to-earth, matter-of-fact self went all to shit.
An experience I’d previously been fairly OK about suddenly had me #triggered. (Turns out that meme, that JOKE is a real thing.) I felt shaky and panicked and sick. A 10-years-old hurt I’d mentally put to bed came back and bit me in the ass.
Most of how I felt came from putting it into words – something I realised I’d never done, despite being a writer and oversharer in all the time since – and launching it into the public. I had to face up to how I’d deal with people I know being aware of it. I had to choose whether I gave identifying details. Then I had to wrestle with why I DIDN’T give identifying details, why I chose to protect someone who should have protected me from his selfishness and didn’t.
That’s a whole lot of shit for a Monday morning. Women (hey, anyone who experiences it) walk a tightrope when it comes to talking about sexual assault; both saying something and not saying something come with a whole lot of baggage. Posting this will be difficult because if I don’t, I’ll feel hypocritical and weak. If I do, I’ll make people sad and uncomfortable – selfish honesty.
What a mess.
So, y’know. When we DO manage to be honest, maybe don’t go and piss all over it with your think-pieces.
September 12, 2017 § Leave a comment
Last week, a copybuddy said she was suffering with the old imposter syndrome malarkey. You know it, I’m sure. She asked Twitter for advice to quiet her traitorous mind, and I advised putting on a silk peignoir, smoking a candy pink Sobranie and reciting excellent lines from the silver screen to her reflection in the mirror.
The older I get, the more I find comfort in small things. Is that my life shrinking? I don’t care if it is. I’ve seen enough.
These are my ways to stop feeling like shit:
Make coffee in the stove-top percolator, then drink it from my Wedgwood cup and saucer. In the sunroom, preferably looking out at some rain and listening to it thrum on the roof. Pyjamas or silken robe must be involved.
Check New Arrivals on Zara. I know, how awful. But it’s the truth that I am comforted and cheered by how Zara just GETS me. It’s like looking at the inside of my brain. Moss green velvet, puce silk and tiny glistering beads on a cashmere blend.
Put on a podcast about serial killers and lay down on my soft soft bed. Perhaps a smol dogcat will come and lightly jump onto the covers, pad across to my face for a snoot boop, and then settle down to tangle their claws in my hair.
Drink something with my best friend. It needn’t be alcoholic but it is a totemic symbol, the chalice. It allows us to cup our hands around our subject and pour forth all the twisty stuff we’ve been storing. It’s easier to untangle with your best friend.
Write. It can take an effort, when you feel like a failure, but I always remember I’m pretty OK at life when I write. I also make money when I write so writing in any mood is a good plan.
Have a gin in a gold-rimmed champagne coupe. Stir with a small, glittery plastic spoon I keep solely for the purpose of stirring magic into cocktails. Probably smoke a fag, to be honest. I’ve stopped a thousand tears with a well-timed cigarette.
Play fetch with my boycat. Scrubble his tummy every time he brings back the sodden mouse and say “You such a good bo-oy! You such a good BOY!” I always insist he SITS between throws, which he’s getting very good at. A pure joy.
Instagram. Yes. I’m sorry. It’s just Instagram’s algorithm knows me so well? I can go on Discover and see thousands upon thousands of pictures of 1950s dressing rooms, hand-shaped novelty jewellery and cat portraiture. I’m sure it’s terrible for my psyche but it’s an indulgence that never fails to bring me pleasure.
Send my workbuddy a dog to name. Just that: one of us will send a picture of an animal and the other names him. The original sender then usually derides the namer for their choice. “Are you BLIND? His name is obviously BRUISER, you idiot.”
Write down outfits (OK, fine, make full-on mood boards). So soothing. Now I have all my clothes on rails, I can flick through them easy pie. Getting dressed is probably my number one hobby. It brings me so much happiness and totally influences my day.
September 7, 2017 § Leave a comment
I was worrying about something on my drive home last night.
They say (who, who is they?) it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at anything.
I was concerned, because I figured there’s no way I’ve spent that many hours copywriting – how could I look my boss in the face and happily collect my salary?
So today, it came up in conversation and I apologised to him for being such a rookie charlatan. And it played on my mind some more. It was time to do the maths.
I work 37.5 hours each week
There are 52 weeks in a year
I get 25 days of holiday plus 5 bank holidays each year, and probably have for my whole career
So I work 1,920 days each year – I’ll take 6 off for that weird flu I get every spring and the odd furbaby emergency
1,914 days a year for 6 years = 11,494 hours
And I freelance too.
June 12, 2017 § Leave a comment
All of last week, I lived in dread. Absolute dread. You see, I was up for an award.
I love to win but I hate to lose far more. I would mostly rather not set myself up as a vulnerable, hopeful being if there’s a chance I might be cast asunder, beaten and bloodied by defeat. It’s just too humiliating.
Luckily, that didn’t happen. I won Young Marketer of the Year at the Insurance Marketing & PR Awards and did my first genuine smile of 2017.
Everyone was so kind and it was a definite highlight of my long, weary years.
ingenie also won Brand of the Year which is pretty frickin’ sweet.
May 24, 2017 § Leave a comment
What’s your overall take on the ‘salaries/rates’ bit of this year’s survey results?
More women took the survey than men, and the gender pay gap’s still increased. Why do you suspect that is?
Have your own rates changed since last year’s survey?
Is ‘put your rates up’ the catch-all answer?
What’s the best pay-related advice you’ve been given, and what tips do you have for other writers?
“Here’s a strapline for a few hundred quid. That’s yours to slap on every bleedin’ TV ad/item of stationery/T-shirt/novelty hat/website/banner ad/dirigible/200ft-high holographic squirrel you produce over the next 2,000 years.”
Folks, if you’re good, you’re worth good money.
In-house, not freelance, but I was stiffed on my starting salary at my current company. I had an offer below what I wanted (a salary I was actually already earning) and I negotiated, asking for more once I’d passed my probation. That was agreed and I was proud. I later found the job specification with my boss’s salary estimate. It had taken me nearly two years to start earning what he’d set as the maximum for my starting salary.
I still work for the company and took enough of a leap in both role and salary to make that OK – and that particular boss is no longer here, though I don’t blame him for my own mistake. But I certainly learned a little something from that.
You can’t pitch too high if they want you; they’ll come back with another offer and you don’t have to take that either. Once you know you’re good enough for a company to really, really need you, you’ll feel less scared about shooting for that shiny ol‘ moon.
March 3, 2017 § Leave a comment
Yes, I’ve been missing. But missing in action. I’ve written millions of words, I’ve filled pages with pictures, I’ve worked a LOT, and – after a very long wait – I’ve adopted two children.
They’re five weeks old so there’s still eight weeks to go before we can bring them home. They’re so tiny and delicate right now but when we next see them (in three weeks) they’ll already be bouncy creeps who want to play. By the time they’re ready to leave their mam, they’ll be gangly, leggy dog-cats.
After so many years of wanting and nearly a year of waiting on a litter, I couldn’t quite process that they were real. I’ve never seen a kitten that small except in pictures. I held our boy and he was warm and soft and confused. A few minutes later, all six were a sleeping puddle on their blanket, with Bramble the show-winning knock-out laying protectively next to them.
Their names are Dio and Dime, and they’re going to change our lives.