A rallying cry, of sorts
in which the author establishes the tone of this newsletter, then promptly lowers it by wanging on about goblins
“So, what is it that keeps you going?” he asks.
‘He’ being a friend, an altogether good human, who has just patiently listened to me list everything in the world and my own head that tells me I don’t belong, that my dreams are silly and hopeless, that I’m not worth anything, that I’m a failure who’s missed every shot and doesn’t deserve another.
(It’s quite a long list. We’ve had to break for tea.)
I know I should probably answer ‘love’, or, ‘hope’, or ‘an unshakeable belief in my skill as a writer’. Something positive and optimistic that will turn this misery-fest into an inspiring tale of triumph over adversity.
Instead, what I tell him is: “Spite.”
I mean it too.
Spite is my motivator when all else fails. It’s what gets me out of bed in the morning when the house is cold and the world is unfriendly, and writing feels like trudging through treacle. It’s what ensures I won’t quit, even when getting what I want seems impossible and hoping for it seems naïve. It’s my final move in The Sandman’s Oldest Game: when it feels as though I’m up against the dark at the end of everything… I am spite. Staunch. Stubborn. Still here.
I’ll show those bastards. Just you wait.
When I first thought about starting a newsletter, I came up with a thousand reasons not to bother. Wouldn’t it be self-indulgent? Who would want to hear from a random fantasy writer without an agent or a publisher, who has no wisdom to impart because she’s still figuring almost everything out? What if people think I’m arrogant, or silly, or not worth their time?
And then I thought (or rather a pal shouted at me benevolently until I thought)… I still could though. I don’t need permission. I have every right to spite the world and my own worst self by being loud and visible and very clear about the things I want. Even if people do think I’m arrogant or silly, I still can. If I want to. Because wanting to should be enough of a reason to do anything1.
And there might be others out there who feel the same way, and who might like to see this stuff articulated. People who desperately want to succeed in their creative endeavours, but are constantly battling thoughts that say even the wanting is more than they deserve. People searching for a home for their work when all the doors seem to be locked and barred. Who long to find the courage to show Those Bastards2 that they’re here, they’re worthy, and they’re staying put, so there.
People like me who are all out of optimism, running on pure spite.
Those Bastards can be all sorts of things, by the way. They can be structural biases and barriers that make being marginalised extra-gruelling. They can be avatars of a world that seems to be getting darker and crueller by the day. They can be the people who hold power in the creative industries; the decision makers and gatekeepers whose verdict can make or break us. They can be the people in our lives who think we’re wasting time on our silly little pipe-dream projects. They can be – and very often are – our own impulses to self-sabotage and count ourselves out before anyone else even gets a look-in.
And to keep going in the face of everything Those Bastards decide to throw at us, we need a little spite. Not nastiness towards others, not embittered, indiscriminate lashing-out because life hasn’t handed us a book deal and a basket of puppies, but a focused, unwavering determination not to shut up and go away just because it would suit Those Bastards better if we did.
We can’t control whether other people choose to respond to our work or not. We can control whether we send it out into the world. We can’t control whether people listen to us or not. We can control whether we speak.
When we cannot soar, we must dig in. Plant our heels. Even in those times when we cannot see a way forward, we damn well mustn’t retreat. New fears may creep in – it’s too late, I’ve stood still for too long, my work isn’t relevant any more – but we must stay standing, in spite of it all, because the only other option, comrades, is surrender.
And if we surrender, if we each let our own personal version of Those Bastards win… they won’t care. They won’t declare a week of feasting and games to celebrate their victory over us. The harsh truth is, they won’t even notice.
Most of the time we can’t be worthy adversaries to Those Bastards, because they are big and powerful and loud and hoarding all the resources, and we are small and squishy and tired and terrified.
But we can be horrible little goblins living in their basement, as hard to shift as black mould, and we can embrace the power of our spite. Cackle loudly at 3am for the sheer joy of getting on their nerves. Bang on the pipes when they’re trying to concentrate. Steal from their larders and crash the parties they won’t invite us to. Chip away at the foundations and keep them up at night worrying that the whole place might come crashing down around their heads. Band together with other horrible little goblins to wreak more glorious goblin havoc. Never provide a moment’s peace, never willingly give an inch of ground. Be an absolute pain in the arse, and delight in it.
And so, I’m going to write about how to keep going in the face of a hostile world, intimidating odds, and traitorous brains.
How to develop a strong sense of self-worth when the society you live in refuses to see your value.
How to find creative joy and fulfilment amid the current maelstrom of uncertainty and despair.
How to maybe, one day, turn a little of that spite into hope.
These are things I’m currently muddling through, trying to find answers, and I don’t expect the process will be quick or easy. But for now, I’m declaring this newsletter my little corner of the basement. It’s my patch, and it’s where I’m going to talk about these tricky, ugly things that make being a marginalised writer far less fun than dedicating your life to making up stories ought to be.
It will also include book recommendations, nice recipes I’ve found, writing updates, and pictures of my dog Bowie, because he is very handsome, and has never once doubted he deserved anything in his life.
I can’t control whether or not you choose to read more of it. But I’d like it very much if you did.
Things I can’t shut up about
I’m currently suffering a terrible book hangover after consuming R F Kuang’s Babel, a stunningly clever, furiously anti-imperialist alternate history with a highly original magic system. It’s extraordinary, the best thing I’ve read in a long time, and I fear it has ruined me for all other books.
Unfortunately I was away for most of this year’s Manx Litfest (my friendly neighbourhood book festival) but I’m so glad I managed to catch headliner Michelle Paver’s talk on crafting scary stories. I found her inspiring, genuine and lovely to chat to, and am now seriously considering trying my hand at a horror novel. I’d read and enjoyed her latest, Wakenhyrst, a couple of years ago, but put off reading Dark Matter for ages because every single person who mentioned it to me used the exact phrase ‘it properly shit me up’. (One friend who listened to the audiobook ended up screaming out loud in Tesco.) And now I see why. It’s a perfectly crafted ghost story, playing on our most primal fears of isolation and the dark, and I highly recommend it. It also wins bonus points for Isaak the husky, one of the Very Goodest Boys in literature.
I had a chance to try my hand at GM-ing for the first time at Halloween, and picked Stephen Dewey’s Ten Candles (Cavalry Games), a oneshot apocalyptic horror TTRPG played by candlelight, in which everybody dies at the end. The system is clever, elegant and designed to build tension and anxiety as the players’ failures lead to more and more candles being extinguished. Trust me, it’s the best fun you’ll ever have getting annihilated by monsters in the dark.
Until next time, pals
Gemma x
Except maybe murders.
Must be pronounced the way Sean Bean does it in Sharpe, with the same amount of vowel-chewing vitriol.