Use the nice notebook first (or, why I wear sequins to the theatre and why you should share your art)

If there is one question I get a lot, it’s ‘what do you do with all those notebooks?’ (People seem weirdly baffled when I give the most obvious answer – I write in them). But this is often followed by something along the lines of, oh, ‘I love fancy notebooks, but I can’t bear to write in them’ or ‘I don’t want to spoil them’. And I realise this is too often an attitude we apply not only to our possessions, but to our lives and our art.

We don’t use the nice notebook because we are worried that we’ll mess it up with a mistake. What if we start a project that we then abandon? What if we do something we need to cross out? All that lovely, pristine potential of the unwritten-in notebook, ruined. It’s too special to use for ordinary things so we wait, in vain, for something special enough to turn up.

We don’t wear the bright colours or the tight clothing or the swimsuit until we’ve reached our ideal weight – until our bodies are special enough to deserve that attention. We save the good plates and glasses for ‘best’ rather than letting them add joy to everyday.

We do the same with our creativity. We don’t start writing that novel until we ‘have enough time’, or until we have figured out every detail of the plot – and so we never start to write it. We don’t enter that playwriting competition because we are convinced that we are not polished enough and everyone else will be better. We don’t share our stories or our songs or our writing until we are completely, utterly ready – but we don’t know what ready looks like, and so we never reach it.

The reasons we give ourselves are nearly always false excuses. I remember helping a friend do a wardrobe clear out (which I am excellent at, FYI – when it comes to other people, at least) and coming across a gorgeous skirt I had never seen her wear.

‘Oh, I’ve had it for ages but it’s dry clean only, so I never wear it. I hate the thought of it just sitting in the laundry basket.’

Leaving aside the madness of thinking a skirt needs to be cleaned every time you wear it – if I managed nothing else that weekend, I at least disabused her of that notion – isn’t it better to at least have worn it once and have it in the laundry basket, than never have worn it at all?

In the same way, isn’t allowing yourself everyday pleasures better than holding off for some mythical future that might never come? Isn’t the pleasure of using the nice glasses every day worth the small risk they might get broken? Isn’t it better to use your nice notebook for something, even if it’s just writing shopping lists, rather than have it sitting on a shelf unused? And isn’t it worth sharing your art before you are 100% sure it’s perfect?

Perhaps it’s because I have spent much of my career working in industries with frequent and tight deadlines – you miss a broadcast or a print deadline and that deadline is permanently missed – that I have tended to take a ‘publish and be damned’ approach to my work. Couldn’t find a publisher? That’s fine, I’ll publish my books myself. Not sure where or how to pitch that article? Stick it on the blog. I’m not saying it’s always the right approach or the one everyone should take – I have friends who are far more successful than I am because they have chosen patience over promptness. Friends who stuck out the 30 agent rejections and struck lucky on the 31^st, who have built up impressive careers through traditional channels. But that path also requires boldness and a willingness to put yourself out there, rather than sit on a manuscript or an idea forever because you are scared to press send.  (I also suspect I personally would not have written 9 books, 2 plays and a shitload of other stuff if I had done it any other way.)

I am certainly not immune to the allure of ‘someday’. I’ve failed to pitch perfectly fine articles because I wasn’t sure of their reception, and didn’t want to look stupid for trying. I’ve put off taking a break from work until all my freelancing was aligned – which meant for years I never got to take a break. I’ve not worn the clothes I wanted to wear until I had the body I wanted to put in them – which, since that was the body I had at 25 (and, actually, pretty much hated then), isn’t likely to happen anytime soon.

Like many people I thought the pandemic might bring a step change in our thinking. A realisation that life was uncertain, and since we didn’t know what was around the corner, we should make more of an effort to enjoy the now. But, like the ‘everyone will be kinder and more compassionate afterwards!’ prediction that was circulating in the first lockdown, that seems to have disintegrated, as people feel increasingly crushed by an ever-shittier world.

Which is why I started wearing sequins to press nights.

Admittedly, I have always been one of nature’s over-dressers (although weirdly, never for the theatre – why dress up to spend two hours sitting in the dark?). I’ve also spent years shopping for a life I don’t actually have, which is why I had a magpie wardrobe of unworn clothes that was equal parts Grey Gardens and Vegas showgirl. This was only exacerbated by the pandemic, where I spent every day in leggings and a t-shirt and distracted myself with online shopping for some fantasy future where we would all be out somewhere glamorous every single night. The fact that I had been to precisely 2 parties since 2017 didn’t seem to deter me: I realised I might have a problem when I went to hang up two sparkly dresses in my wardrobe, only to find the identical outfits hanging there already, bought and forgotten in a lockdown haze.

I was also in denial about my body. The pandemic hit me hard, but it also arrived when I was already struggling. Perimenopause crashed into menopause like a tsunami, leaving me floundering on the rocks. Everything about my body felt out of control – from fluctuating weight and unpredictable periods to skin flare ups and hot flashes, with a side order of mood swings and anxiety just for fun. I felt like a passenger stuck in a car with a drunk driver, and the ride left me so exhausted all I wanted to do was hide away and nap.

So instead, I put on some sequins and went out. Because when you want nothing more than to be invisible, and you feel like you look like shite, of course you should make yourself a beacon for attention. But also: why not? I had a wardrobe full of ridiculously shiny clothes and a life that was mainly spent at a laptop in my spare room. Theatre press nights were a part of my job: if I was being forced to leave the house for work, I figured might as well dress up for it.

In part, it felt like it wasn’t just myself I was dressing up for. The pandemic made me realise how much I valued live theatre, and how lucky I was to live in a city blessed with a rich cultural scene. After months of isolation, here we all were, in a communal space, where people were sharing and enjoying art. The resilience inherent in that felt like something to celebrate. Surely that deserved putting on a little sparkle.

The knock-on effects were impressive. I was no longer the woman who had to convince myself it was OK to squeeze my middle-aged body into a sequinned frock and possibly spend the night feeling sweaty and ridiculous. I was the woman who wore sequins to press nights. And also, apparently, the woman who thought, hey, maybe I will pitch that article. Maybe I will enter that competition. Maybe I will start that new book. Because the act of being bold makes you bold. It doesn’t necessarily make you fearless, but it sure as hell helps.

The writer Julia Cameron says in her book The Artist’s Way that treating yourself like a precious object will make you strong, and I have come to believe she is right. So many of us are so hard on ourselves. Maybe treating yourself like you deserve to use the nice notebook or drink out of the fancy glasses or wear the sparkly frock is sending a message to yourself and the world that you deserve to enjoy nice things. Treating your art as serious enough for attention of others is the same. Sometimes it’s the very act of sharing your art that makes it feel worthy of sharing.

I’m not saying be needlessly reckless. You probably don’t want to be using that family heirloom dish to serve dip or wear your wedding dress to Tesco. (Or, maybe you do – your call.) And you definitely need to apply a certain amount of thought and care to any work that you put out into the public sphere – not only to how it will impact you or your reputation, but how it might impact others. We’ve all seen works of art that could have done with a little more attention to what they are saying about the world, too careless of damaging messages. Boldness should never equate to thoughtlessness. I’m just saying if you constantly tell yourself ‘I can’t do it just yet’ then you need to ask yourself just what you are waiting for, and be honest about your answer.

There’s a saying that has become a bit of a ‘live laugh love’ cliché, but I am going to share it anyway, because I think it’s a good rule to live by. It’s to always have a bottle of champagne in the fridge in case you have something to celebrate – and sometimes the thing you have to celebrate is that you have champagne in the fridge. Sometimes wearing the sequins isn’t the act of celebrating something, it’s making something to celebrate. And lord knows we all need more of that.

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