By Cath Weeks
There’s something in the air at the moment, something that needs discussing. So I’m going for it here and now.
We need to talk about fear.
At first I thought it was just me, the sense of something ominous creeping up on me at my writing desk. But then I noticed other authors alluding to it: anxiety at festivals, whispered conversations over wine glasses, out of earshot…
Because whilst fear has always been an occupational hazard for writers, we’re not really supposed to talk about it. Not in front of publishing pros. Because then we’ll be that person. The one who struggles to get another deal.
We can moan to our agents; that’s what they’re there for, after all. But we run the risk of being deemed unrealistically ambitious in a tricky market.
So that leaves us with our writer friends, hence the whispered conversations.
There’s definitely a lot to be frightened of right now. AI springs to mind. We’re all thinking about it, wondering what to do about it. Every day there’s a new AI scandal. It’s hard not to wonder if one day we’re going to wake up to a world where the idea of a book written by a human is laughable, passé.
There are rumours about publishers putting freezes on acquisitions; authors dog-walking to make ends met. Last week, I read an article declaring the death of the traditional author as a viable career.
There’s also the problem of invisibility in a saturated market – the over-crowdedness that makes many authors feel there’s little point in showing up at all.
And yet…whilst these are valid fears that need addressing urgently by someone in authority (if only everyone in publishing wasn’t in the same boat: overstretched, overwhelmed), it struck me recently that there’s something we’re missing in all of this, or something we’re overlooking, rather.
And it’s this.
Fear and anxiety are part of the job.
I know that’s a little banal, oversimplistic. But it’s true. And we ignore it at our peril.
Somewhere along the way – between the introduction of the powerhouse shoulder-padded hair-sprayed novelists of the 80’s, and JK Rowling’s seemingly easy rise to mega riches as a single mum typing about magic in a café – we lost the idea of the struggle and reframed writing as the ultimate comfort job, working from home, adored by readers, coffee at hand, dog curled at our feet, log fire crackling.
And of course it can be all that – and should be all that and more – but we also need to acknowledge our writing ancestry and DNA where possible and note that more often than not fear and anxiety were our predecessors’ bedfellows. Even their muses.
Dickens wrote his novels under the pressure of brutal monthly – sometimes weekly – deadlines, whilst supporting his large family. Shakespeare’s stability was entangled in the risky nature of theatre, with serious financial problems and threats of closure constantly looming.
I’m not saying we should struggle, or embrace poverty and pain. In fact, I think we should try to bring as much pleasure to the creative process as physically possible, given all the above.
Fear and anxiety, as our writing heroes proved through the ages, can be terrific fuel for motivation and momentum. So long as it’s kept under control. Which is why talking about it really helps. To each other. Our families. The dog. Anyone who’ll listen.
Whatever happens, we mustn’t ignore it. Because left unchecked, fear will take over and before we know it, it’ll stop us from writing, from doing what we love.
Instead, when it creeps up, we can acknowledge it as part of the writer’s life, like death and taxes, and think of Dickens, Shakespeare. Or closer to our era and genre: Christie, who endured grief, financial instability, breakdown and divorce.
And then we can use it as fuel to write.
Because what do we have that AI doesn’t?
Yep, you’ve got it: fear and anxiety. Real human emotions. Which we work through in our thrillers.
So do you worst this year, Fear. We see your feeble speculations and raise you printed words typed with joy, pain, hard work and endurance.
It’s what we do.
