Writing has always been a part of my life, from stories about cutlery carefully written out in seven year old handwriting onto ruler-drawn lines to angst-ridden teenage poetry and novels typed out for NaNoWriMo at four in the morning, barely aware of what I was writing. I always had this idea in my head that secretly, deep down, all I wanted was to be a published author. I had no idea what it was exactly that I wanted to write, flitting between teen romance, spy fiction and edgy feminist prose, but I knew wanted to be published.
As I got older, I tried to plan my life. I knew how old I wanted to be when I got married and had my first child, how many children I would have (four) and that I would be a family law solicitor. Despite the fact that I continued to write, keeping a daily diary and starting endless stories surrounding girls who, whilst they varied greatly in appearance and actions, were all me, I found myself compartmentalising 'writing' into a box marked 'hobby'. After all, how would I find the time to write when I was working for a top law firm in London?
As I started to loosen my grip on those plans that I held so tightly, I thought I lost my grip on writing. In my gap year, I never sat down with the intention of writing, I wouldn't dream of stories or fill up word documents with book plots and narrative ideas. But as I was stuck on endless trains and in windowless rooms entering data into complicated programs, I would jot down little glimpses of my life as I worked and saved and lived. I have a little notebook where I wrote things like 'running to the train breathless and grinning, we didn't make the train but I felt alive', a million little moments that I tried to capture what it was like for me at work. I needed to use my words, I couldn't stop writing.
When I got to Kent, I saw the Creative Writing Society at freshers fair and went up to try and talk to them. It was busy, the marquee was hot and stuffy, so I picked up one of the book pages that they were giving out as a 'hook' and promptly forgot about it.
It was only when my housemate invited me to a session that I actually considered joining. It was a fun, if slightly awkward meeting where we played story games and people read their work. It seemed so insignificant at the time, but it would begin my on-off relationship with the Creative Writing Society.
I struggled with the society itself, the tight-knit, impenetrable group at its core and the changeable nature of the president, but, with a little help from Helen, I stuck with it. Because even though I didn't love Creative Writing, I fell in love with performance poetry.
I just need to state right now that this post is not going to end with my debut as an amazing performance poetry, nothing like that, I just really loved seeing such talented writers and poets. Before Uni, I never considered that anyone could become a "poet", I thought it was antiquated, that you could never make any money and that they were only useful to AQA so they could update their GCSE poetry anthologies. Poetry was what I wrote to vent, it fell out of me, unformed, and I never edited it. I didn't consider it art as much as word vomit (though I really hate the word haha). It was only when I went to my very first slam at the Gulbenkian that I saw how wrong I had been. The poetry on stage wasn't stale and dull with forced metaphors only seen under a microscope and over-examination, the words were alive. Whilst some people simply read their work, the most powerful works were performed.
It was performance poetry that kept me writing, despite the fact that I was not writing performance poetry myself, though I did, on occasion, attempt it horrifically. In the least pretentious and cliche way possible, I was struck by the beauty of words. I wanted to write again.
So over my first year at uni I wrote a lot, I wrote prose pieces dissecting my thoughts and feelings on the changes of the year, I wrote poems capturing tiny moments like I used to do on the train to work, I started to write stories again. Most of it was awful, but every so often I would write something that I was proud of.
This week at Kent there was a really great festival on campus to celebrate English literature with free lectures and performances. Midweek there was a launch for the Creative Writing Society's illustrated anthology with free pizza and wine and readings from various contributors. And, whilst not my favourite or finest piece of work, there is a little something of mine in there. I didn't think it was that big a deal as it was being put together, I offered my latest piece that I had written, a prose piece from the point of view of frustrated feet who feel undervalued by the rest of the body, something that I would never have thought would be the thing that I published, and I was actually really proud to see my work in print.
I am now a published writer! Just about.
But more than the actual written piece and the anthology itself, the Full English Festival was a great reminder of the amazing literary scene that I have been a part of whilst studying at Kent. I would have never have thought that I would be voluntarily attending lectures on contemporary literature and Maya Angelou.
The last event of the festival was a performance by Luke Wright, support poet to John Cooper Clarke, and it was amazing. There was a small crowd in this tiny, insignificant marquee outside the library, but he was magnificent. His pieces ranged from feminist discourse on hyper masculinity to the Essex "lion" and each one was funny and intricate and beautiful.
I never expected to get involved with literary circles, but I am so unbelievably glad I did. It is a community that I hope to be able to find next year in Lehigh, and one that I have been grateful for this year, despite my lack of attendance at official meetings! Being around writers encourages me to write, or at least want to write, and I hope that one day when I publish, or lets be more realistic, self-publish, something I am actually happy with, I can't wait to share it with the people I have met through Creative Writing.
The last event of the festival was a performance by Luke Wright, support poet to John Cooper Clarke, and it was amazing. There was a small crowd in this tiny, insignificant marquee outside the library, but he was magnificent. His pieces ranged from feminist discourse on hyper masculinity to the Essex "lion" and each one was funny and intricate and beautiful.
I never expected to get involved with literary circles, but I am so unbelievably glad I did. It is a community that I hope to be able to find next year in Lehigh, and one that I have been grateful for this year, despite my lack of attendance at official meetings! Being around writers encourages me to write, or at least want to write, and I hope that one day when I publish, or lets be more realistic, self-publish, something I am actually happy with, I can't wait to share it with the people I have met through Creative Writing.
