Simon Whaley's Business of Writing: December 2022
Welcome to my December newsletter. I hope everyone has had a safe and Merry Christmas, and you’re now looking forward to 2023.
I am, if only from the fact that in mid-December I caught COVID-19. Somehow, I’d dodged the virus for the last (nearly) three years, but I finally succumbed to, what turned out to be, one of the worst flu-like viruses I’ve had in many, many years.
Of course, this meant I had to cancel most of my pre-Christmas gatherings with friends and fellow writers, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s not been a major disaster because I’ve simply re-arranged them for January.
Thankfully, I still managed to sit at the computer for a couple of hours every day, even if I didn’t have the energy to go for my walk.
During this time, I was working on April’s Business of Writing article for Writing Magazine, where I chatted with Nicola Chester. Now, Nicola’s book, On Gallows Down, was shortlisted for this year’s Wainwright Prize for Nature. So, I asked her why she thought the nature, landscape, and conservation writing genre was so popular at the moment.
’I think we are all becoming increasingly aware of the peril our wildlife and planet are in, and how we're actually reliant on it all for our own health and survival. As a species, most of us are as far removed from 'nature' as we've ever been, in where our food comes from, in experiencing its awe, wonder and abundance, and in our connection with it. I think the pandemic accelerated and shone a light on this broken relationship in a new way.’
’Many people sought nature out—at first as a form of exercise and escaping the confines of home—where we could. Those that had access to nature, wildness, and the countryside realised they had a genuine privilege. A deep inequality of access to (and the presence of) nature, can lead to personal and societal ills. It made us readdress what nature is and what it means to us, to our physical and mental health. Writing and reading about it will only become more important as we face the deepening climate and wildlife crises, as well as the crises of inequality, the cost of living and mental and physical health. It's a way to connect, to deepen our knowledge, to travel without going anywhere, and understand the world better.’
I found myself agreeing with Nicola here. Living where I do, in the Welsh Borders, meant that during lockdown, I really appreciated how lucky I am to live where I live. I have always felt lucky to live where I live, but the pandemic only heightened that appreciation. I know thousands of people would live here if they could.
In fact, during the pandemic, there were television reporters in my hometown because when some restrictions were lifted, we were then inundated with visitors from the West Midlands, who were desperate to see a bit of countryside themselves.
While I was talking to Nicola about the Wainwright Prize, we discussed prizes in general, and how they’re helpful to writers, but Nicola also made another important point:
’I sometimes say that my writing career began in 2004, when I won the BBC Nature Writer of the Year Award—but in truth, it began before that, when I was writing 'for myself' and reading about 'the new nature writing', and deciding that's what I needed to do.’
I think that’s a significant point we should remind ourselves of. We should write for ourselves first, before we focus on writing for others. Writing for ourselves is when we learn a lot about our craft. Writing for ourselves is where we learn to be creative.
A writer friend recently recommended a book by John Cleese, called Creativity (Thanks, Glynis!) It’s a quick read, less than one hundred pages, but it’s a fascinating insight into how John Cleese treated creativity. Here’s a quote that resonated with me:
Whenever you try to come up with something original, you will find that some days the stuff flows, and some days it doesn’t. When Graham Chapman and I started writing together, we would get terribly frustrated and despairing when we hit a fallow period — sometimes a whole morning or even a day when we produced nothing really good. But then we noticed that, despite this, we had a consistent average: every week we wrote about fifteen to eighteen minutes of good stuff. All we had to do was to sit there, whether it flowed or it didn’t, and by Friday evening we would have enough. We came to understand that the blockages weren’t an interruption in the process, they were part of it. For example, when you eat, the bit where the fork returns empty to your plate isn’t a failure. It’s just part of the eating process.
I’ve decided that 2023 will be the year I take time to write for myself again. Because not only will I benefit, but my readers will also benefit from what I learn during that process. And, ultimately, that’s good for my writing business, too.
So, here’s to a productive and creative 2023.
Happy New Year!
Good luck.
Simon