“It’s looking really positive, and he’s talking about promoting you as the next Jackie Collins.”

 

I’ve already written about my mental health issues in relation to writing, and I apologise if this feels a lot like same same but not so different.

But I wanted, no I NEEDED to sit down and write about it again because the other day, when I replied to a post on Substack and mentioned the “Jackie Collins” thing, the person who had written the initial essay about women’s fiction and romance asked me how the “JC thing” had affected me. I have thought a lot about feeling like a failure in relation to writing, but had never pinpointed anything in particular. And I tend to make sense of things by writing them down...

When my agent called from London with that news, my confidence should have soared. My creative confidence especially. My agent had just received feedback on my book, which is now published as Just Like A Movie, and at the time was called Mucho Caliente, from one of the biggest names in American publishing. He had absolutely loved it, and couldn’t wait for everyone else in his team to read it and get back to him.

When a few weeks later, his sales team wobbled about the deal, he told my agent they wanted to have a second book in the pipeline before they took me on.

“Make sure the next one is just as good,” she said, aware that I was already working on something. “In fact, make it even better! Keep me posted.”

I was terrified. I knew I couldn’t afford to stumble. I had to up my game. I had to deliver. I had to do better. I couldn’t let my agent down. I had to show that legend of publishing in America that I was worthy of being the next Jackie Collins. I couldn’t let him down. I couldn’t let my husband down, nor my family, my dog, my hamster, my friends, the neighbors…

 

You get the picture.

 

Anxiety sent my brain into the washing machine, the tumble dryer, the pressure hose, the KitchenAid, the vacuum cleaner. I couldn’t write a single sentence without overthinking it, undressing and re-dressing it, over and over and over. Pink knickers? No, blue knickers! No, green. Maybe just beige... In the end, I turned my beautiful, epic story into a boring, greige sludge. For over two years I floundered in that sludge. Eventually, exhausted, stressed out and at a loss, I sent the manuscript to my agent knowing full well that compared to the giggle-fest and romantic fireworks of Mucho Caliente/Just Like A Movie, the only thing going for this overwritten dud was its lovely title, and the wonderful premise.

 

Well, she hated it. I left her London office in tears. She hadn’t been unpleasant, she’d just told mewhat I already knew in words that might have needed a teeny bit more sugar-coating for me to be able to cope with my profound shame. I should have asked her for help, for some guidance. I should have explained what my brain had been doing, not pretended that everything was absolutely fine.

 

Instead, I just flew back home to Switzerland feeling like a fraud, and tried to move on to writing something else, only to find that merely sitting in front of the computer gave me vertigo. I had constant nausea. I know now that I should have spoken to a doctor, that I should even have sought psychological help to deal with my predisposition to always put far too much pressure on myself. But twenty years ago, it seemed like only people with serious mental problems saw psychologists or psychiatrists. I told myself there was nothing wrong with me; I just wasn’t really a writer. The entire thing had been a fun-filled, short-term, exciting fluke.

 

But I missed it like crazy.

 

For twenty years the weirdest thing happened to my brain whenever I tried to write anything creative: I felt as though my thoughts trailed off into an ellipsis. They didn’t go anywhere. It even happened when I was trying to make sense of something important, of something that worried me.

I couldn’t join the dots. I felt broken.

This feeling terrified me, yet I never spoke to anyone about any of it because it seemed pathetic. It also frustrated me no end, because I felt as though a part of me was missing.

I now know that a part of me really wasn’t really missing, I’d just buried it very deep in the icky corner of my brain reserved for the rest of my shortcomings, such as not being able to do math, which I know now comes down to being extremely dyscalculic, but which throughout my childhood and early adulthood only made me feel incredibly thick. There were other things too, such as quitting university six months before the final exams because I was terrified of failing the orals. Or when I didn’t get a job because I’d badly failed the typing test because I had a very sore middle finger that was all bandaged up like baby Jesus in swaddling clothes, and the lady told me I was a catastrophe, but I didn’t show her the finger to explain why I’d bungled the test so badly! Or all the times I forgot my dressage tests during competitions because I couldn’t think straight because I hadn’t slept all night worrying about all the things that could go wrong, and how upset my trainer would feel when all those things did go wrong, and how upset my husband would be, because horses are a huge expense and...

Ellipses!

And then there’s the guilt linked to being prone to depression while having nothing but first world problems. But that’s a whole other essay, which probably will contain a lot of ellipsis!

When I first joined Substack, the literary talent on there overwhelmed me. I called my account “Just For Fun” partly because that was what I’d lost in my writing for so many years, but also because it felt safe. It made me feel a little invisible. Not too serious or important. You know?

I still battle with fears of not being good enough, of not living up to people’s expectations, and – more importantly – not living up to my own very high expectations. But I’m showing up more. I’ve written something almost every day for months now. I’m writing a novel. I write poetry. I’ve started recording audible versions of my poetry, something I would never have done a mere few months ago. I’ve filmed myself reading my poetry on my website and on Instagram. For someone as shy as me, this is huge!

I know myself better and can usually recognize my destructive thoughts and jiggle myself back on track. My brain still does the weird ellipsis thing at times, but it’s ok because I’m now aware it’s just anxiety, and that my brain isn’t broken. I recognize a panic attack when I feel one coming on. I know that I need to talk to my therapist if my mind really starts running away with me.

I wish I’d figured all this out twenty or thirty years ago, but with age comes wisdom, right? I had the gift of the goof, but no confidence. Now, most days I have a bit of both. And it’s really nice.

Can you relate to these emotions? Has your brain ever done something similar to the “ellipsis” thing I describe? How do you take the pressure off? Talk to me about it! If there’s one thing I know I’ve always been, it’s an excellent listener.

 

Thank you so much for reading.

 

Francesca xx