Writing is better with a cat

And other things I learned as a 'baby' writer.

Two weeks ago, I submitted my manuscript, almost eighteen months after I made that cat-filled decision to write a book. It has been a hell of a journey, and most of it has been spent in my tracky dacks (tracksuit/sweatpants for those outside of Oz).

Writing makes you feel all the feels, and today I am feeling a bit retrospective. So here is what I have learned from my many months writing about cats in Australia's past.

Writing is not for everyone because the world is a shitty dumpster fire.

Being afforded the opportunity to research and write while my partner took care of the breadwinning was a privilege, and one seldom afforded to others. The opportunity to take almost eighteen months off paid work* to dick around with cats is an opportunity many would have to forgo. I was fortunate not to have to work and write, as my partner earns a wage that comfortably supports both of us. I remember and check my privilege every day.

Writing is equal parts exhilarating and f**king painful.

When you are in the zone, that glorious space where words flow effortlessly, and where the backdrop to your life is the satisfying click of keys; writing feels like a warm hug from your lavender-soap-smelling grandmother. But when the words do not come, and you are faced with an eerie silence, it can feel like the sludgy depths of hell. Writer's block feels like your innards are being squeezed in a vice by one of the devil's minions who is also shouting, 'you suck, and you are really stupid' directly into your face.

Some days, I wrote a thousand perfectly placed words that, once re-read, jumped off the page and danced before me. Other days, I wrote and re-wrote the same scrappy, ill-conceived fifty words, over and over again. I had more scrappy fifty-word-a-day days than melodious thousand-a-day ones.

Writing can be really bloody lonely, but it doesn't have to be

Choosing writing as a vocation can be an introvert's dream, and after spending most of my working life avoiding the water cooler - I mean, why are workplaces so peoply - the opportunity to spend several months alone with my cat felt like I had won the lottery. But after several months with only my feline colleague for company, I started to feel pretty isolated. It also dawned on me that I actually don't like being alone with my thoughts. I mean, Poppy is a great work colleague, don't get me wrong, but she spent an inordinate amount of time sleeping, which meant I had no one to actively listen to my workplace woes.

When an ex-colleague reached out and offered to mentor me, I jumped at the chance. This ex-colleague is a prolific writer and dead-set legend - he was once deemed an enemy of the state for refusing to sign up to America's war in Vietnam. He fought for his own right to not be reduced to cannon fodder, and the rights of hundreds of others also. Dead-set legend. Rowan and I spoke every week over FaceTime, sometimes twice a week and messaged and emailed regularly. We would chat about my work and his, but also other stuff like where to find the very best pie and the joys of a good counter-meal at the local club.

Every writer needs a Rowan Cahill in their life; without him, I would still be stewing in my own illogical thoughts of failure and would not have been introduced to the joy of culinary conversations.

My feline work colleague slept most of the day. So too did WWII camp cat, Troppo pictured above [State Library of Victoria, ca.1943]

Writing makes you feel gloriously alive but also dead inside.

The mind expansion that comes from learning new things is a feeling like no other. I remember my years as an undergraduate, moving through the world with a new, fancy vocabulary and an expansive body of knowledge. I knew things, big important things and it felt bloody good. The world that I had inhabited for thirty-odd years started to make sense. In university classrooms, all those marbles that had been rattling around my brain just fell into place. I remember sitting in a modern European history lecture thinking, ' Ah, that is why the world is so f**ked'.

Writing is also a mind-expanding exercise, each key stroke bringing you closer to God. Well, the vocabulary/knowledge gods. Writing is also exhausting, and after days of writing and re-writing the same fifty words, you can feel hollowed out and totally spent. I would often alight from my office chair and wander aimlessly from room to room, wondering what I had done with my life. I knew that if I didn't get the words I needed on the page, then I had failed. I would be a middle-aged woman with no job and no prospects. Too old to hire and too young to retire. Writing can engender catastrophic thinking. They should put this warning on the tin.

Writing is knowing that your work will always be a little bit shit.

I took WAY too long to write my PhD solely because I could not bring myself to hit the submit button. I harboured the belief that every word I wrote was utter crap, and that my examiners would be compelled to email my supervisor and inquire about who gave this woman entry to a higher degree. I felt that I hadn't done enough. My research was flawed, my writing was immature, and I needed more time to add extra scholarship, double-check my arguments and assertions, and polish my writing.

I finally let go, five years after enrolling and after much counselling from an actual counsellor and my very patient supervisor. I passed without amendments and an examiner's commendation. My PhD won the faculty prize. I still think it's pretty shit.

The very excellent John Birmingham states that the state of 'not letting go' is a common affliction for 'baby writers' like me. The fear is very, very real, particularly in the age of social media, when a thousand strangers, tucked behind the safety of their computer screens, feel emboldened to heap hate and scorn on those with whom they disagree or even find mildly annoying. Moreover, the hordes of judgey strangers are way more menacing if you are a member of a marginalised community. Social media is a dangerous place for many.

I still think much of my writing is pretty shit, but I have learned to live with this voice in my head, and my excellent counsellor worked with me to develop strategies to turn the volume down just enough to keep me from plummeting into the depths of despair. Oh, and to also hit the submit button. As John Birmingham so eloquently states, 'you don't have to finish with the work in the metaphysical sense. You just have to finish with the motherfucker'.

Writing is better with a cat

I get to spend every day doing something I love and focusing on a subject I'm passionate about. And I was able to perform this passion project with a cat by my side. What a gift. We should all be given the opportunity to do what we love and to be supported - financially, emotionally, metaphysically - to do it. How many of us travel to a place we hate to perform a job we despise, only to have to get up the next day and do it all again, wash and repeat until they usher us out the door with old age and hopefully a decent retirement party. If we are lucky, we might land a job a bit less shit, but we'll still inevitably find ourselves crying in our car as the minutes tick down to 9am and clock-on time. Or maybe that was just me….

I knew that I had landed on a job I loved because I met every new day with a feeling of hope and purpose, and a bloody big smile on my face. I found the act of writing hard, but I was writing about something I truly cared about, which motivated me to move forward every day. As a wise woman once told me, 'Do something that lights a fire in you. Because how else are you going to blaze a trail?'.

As I continue on into writing adolescence and eventual adulthood, I hope that the backing track to my life is the busy clacking of keys accompanied by my cat’s gentle purrs. This, my friend, would make the most exquisite music.

May the purrs be long and the cuddles deep,

Yours

Jodie Stewart

Cat Historian.

* I was paid an advance by my publisher based on how many copies of my book they predict I will sell. If I was living alone, financially supporting myself (and my cat) this would not have been enough to cover my living expenses. Publishing advances seldom do, unless you are Stephen King or Liane Moriarty whose books sell into the millions.