My husband and I have this debate about how to describe ourselves these days. He says we’re retired. I say he is but I’m self employed. He counters this with the reminder that I’m the one drawing my pension. I reply that’s only a financial practicality to support my new, and fiscally challenging occupation of being a writer.
I suppose the real difference in my mind is that the Lovely Mr M decided to retire, whereas I decided to leave one profession to do something new.
I guess I’m also resistant to the idea of retirement because of the age implications: I don’t feel old enough to be retired. And there’s something about the word that implies stepping back, not quite doing nothing but some sense of withdrawing from the world of productivity.
I mean, I have stepped back from my old profession, but I feel I’m more productive than ever. Much of that is to do with having more choice over my time and what how I spend it. No more filling in forms imposed by others. No more forcing my body into sleep patterns that don’t suit it. No more reinventions of processes. No more having my opinions and expertise ignored.
And, of course, in order to write, I have had to withdraw to some degree – to give myself space and privacy to do it. But I can’t turn inwards completely if I want to thrive. I need to engage with the world still. And I don’t mean just so I can publish what I write.
I need to give and receive support from other creators. That’s one of the reasons I’m enjoying the novel writing course I started last week. Meeting with people with the same purpose and passion but coming from different backgrounds and angles from which to view each other’s work. It kind of reminds me of church.
We’re into a pattern now, very like my MA course, where each week we have a short teaching session (this week was on writing a good hook for your opening) and then we give feedback on the pieces we’ve previously submitted. But there’s also plenty of chat and getting to know each other – we were bonding over a shared love of dogs on Thursday. We’re a range of ages, we live in different places, and we’re at different stages of our writing careers. But none of that matters; it only adds to the experience.
It adds to the enjoyment meeting in such a fabulous venue. I drive to Charlestown early (you’ll recognise where Poldark’s harbour scenes were filmed) and sit taking in the view while I eat a picnic tea. Last week it was full of music – dance from one of the harbourside bars and Buddy Holly from a busker This week was quieter: two wetsuited teenagers jumping in the water, and the sound of a flourishing dovecote in a sheltered corner.
Then it’s off to the Lady Daphne, a century old Thames Sailing Barge, which used to be involved in the China Clay industry in the area. She’s beautiful. And below deck in the cargo bay, it’s the perfect space for our writing course.
So now, when someone asks me what I do, not only can I say I’m a poet but also that I’m writing a novel. Not that poetry isn’t an occupation, albeit the only one that pays worse than being a jazz musician (as Padraig O’Tuauma says), but there is something satisfying in how tangible writing a novel sounds.
And it’s definitely not retirement.