Writing Time & the Angel with a Flaming Sword

“Waiting for the muse” is how many of us start our writing lives. We wait for inspiration to strike, then rush to the page. At that stage, the idea of planning to write feels workaday, even distasteful, a betrayal of an enraptured state.

I believed in this approach, sincerely, for years. It just doesn’t really work. Stories peter out. Novels inch along so slowly that we’ve outgrown them before they’re halfway through. Poems are rare as hen’s teeth. And as adult responsibilities build up around us, it gets even less viable.

I thought it was impossible to write at set times. It’s not: it’s hugely inspiring. I thought it was unromantic to have set writing time. But I found a new romance: writing time is the Garden of Eden. And like the Garden of Eden, it needs an angel with a flaming sword to protect it.

The truth is, writing will never be urgent – not unless you get a two-book deal, and you have to put in a lot of non-urgent time to get to that point. Meanwhile, the rest of life is clamouring with urgency. So it’s up to us, and only us, to prioritise our writing.

This isn’t about “should”s and all those ghastly shouldn’t-you-be-writing memes. Writing is play, a joy, a delight. We do it because we want to. I believe in never setting plans or goals based on “should”s: drill down from the “should” to find the “want to” within it. If you can’t find any want-to at all, is it even worth keeping that plan? If you do want to, then like a relationship, you can commit to it and set clear boundaries for that commitment. Because you want to.

And the best commitment you can make for your writing is writing time: to set, protect, and use the time.

Setting the Time

Setting the time means calendar time. Block the time off in your calendar; talk about it as a fixed calendar plan: “I’m writing on Thursday evening.” When the time is, and how much time, is completely up to you. Some people work well in small sips: one of my students catches the bus to work half an hour early and writes in a coffee shop opposite. Some people (me included) can’t concentrate with other tasks rapidly approaching and need a swathe of time: the whole of a weekend morning, or all the time from finishing work until bedtime on Tuesdays. Some work best early in the morning, while the world’s asleep. Some (like me) are stupid blinking owls in the morning, but can write on into the evening. Some people like to write every day; some don’t. Set the time that works for you.

Once you’ve set the time, keep checking in with yourself regularly, to see what’s working and what’s not. If it’s not working, don’t just blame yourself: dig into why it’s not working and see how to fix that. If you’re too lonely to lock yourself away that evening, then your writing time needs to be when you’re already socially topped-up. If dinner prep stole two hours of writing time, then look up some quicker or batch-cooking recipes. If you felt despondent and uninspired because you had PMT, consider writing around your cycle. If you were too overstimulated to settle into it, think about ways to soothe yourself, like spending time near water.

And if all the adjustments still fall short, check if your plan is realistic and fair. For ages, I tried to write two evenings a week, and consistently only managed three evenings a fortnight. Eventually, I deduced that with the best will in the world, that was how much I could actually fit in, so I changed the plan: three evenings a fortnight.

As I explained in Writing Habits Are Like Punting, it’s about gentle continuous course correction, not Big Pushes. Bit by bit, tweak and adjust when, how often, and how much time works for you. To start, I suggest you check in with yourself weekly. Take five minutes to look at what worked, what didn’t, and what you can tweak.

When you have your writing time, the rest of the time is not writing time. This is equally transformative. So many of us live in a constant fog of “I should probably be writing” guilt, which in turn sours our relationship with writing. Deciding when we’re not writing means we get to look forward to writing and enjoy all the rest of life in the other time. No more guilt.

Protecting the Time

Once you set the time, everything comes rushing in to try and steal that time. It’s like blood in the water for time-hungry sharks: chores, work over-running, interruptions, tiredness, overstimulation, even very lovely people and people you dearly love.

That’s why you need to protect the time like an angel with a flaming sword. As Lucifer says in the TV show, “the Flaming Sword, the weapon that guarded Eden, the weapon that can cut through anything, even the Gates of Heaven itself,” – yes, that sword. Or to continue the Lucifer metaphors (I’m watching it for the first time and just love it), like the scene where Amenadiel has to block the hospital door to save Lucifer’s life, and remain completely immoveable no matter what. We’re writers; we’re storytellers. Go mythic with your metaphors; go Gandalf “You shall not pass”; whatever works for you. Remember what I said at the start: writing time will never be urgent. It’s up to us to protect it.

Keep checking in with yourself, reflecting, and adjusting. Keep looking for practical solutions. Did work overrun? Well, if your writing time is earlier in the week, work doesn’t have a chance to overrun yet. Did people interrupt you? Maybe you can write somewhere they’re not. The more you practise protecting the time, the better you get at it.  

Using the Time

My complete saying is, “Protect your writing time like an angel with a flaming sword and within the time be free.” Once you’re inside the writing time, there’s no clock-watching, list-ticking, word-counting. I think of it as a clock without hands: the time is contained and protected; inside, it’s timeless. You are under no pressure to use the time as productively as possible or to be efficient. Writing doesn’t respond well to those, anyway. The measure of good writing time is time spent writing.

Time spent writing doesn’t even have to mean you produced new words: heaps of valuable writing activities make no difference to our word counts. If there are writing-things you need to do “before you can write”, like research, brainstorming, plot musing, character invention, etc, do those in your writing time. They’re part of the writing. So long as you’re protecting the time from all non-writing things, you can use it for any writing-y thing at all.

To make it easier to use the time, and to stay inside the writing time, think about your writing space and sensory cues.

Your writing space

Lots of people find it easier to write away from home, especially if they’re responsible for the bulk of chores and mental load of home. Plus being away from home means that you stay in writing-space even when your concentration span lapses and you need a break. See what your area has to offer: cafés, pub gardens, community spaces, libraries (if you’re in Oxford, we have lots of libraries available), etc. In good weather, you can write outdoors in parks and meadows.

If you’re writing at home, set up your writing space so it works well for you. Maybe it needs tidying and decluttering, maybe nicer lighting. If it’s the same space as you work at, how can you change it up? (In my twenties, when I worked from home and home was a single room, I switched on fairy lights, lit a candle, and sat on the opposite side of the desk, for writing time.) The same way you’d make an effort with the space to delight someone you fancy, for a date, make it special for your writing. And part of that is..

Sensory cues

Sensory cues make it so much easier to slip into writing headspace, and into flow. A writing playlist. A candle that smells of freshly-cut grass. A mug of Lapsang Souchong, which you only ever drink when you’re writing. An age-soft sarong thrown over the table. The side-lamp and the fairy lights instead of the big light. Think about sounds, scents, textures, lighting.

Whatever sensory cues work for you and your space, use them whenever you’re writing, and only when you’re writing. As the association builds, they become more and more effective as a shortcut into your writing state of mind. I’ve been using that writing playlist since 2020, never playing it unless I’m writing or rereading my writing, and at this point it activates me like I’m a sleeper cell. Music on: Megan writes. Choose your sensory cues and let them develop with time.

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Writing time is your Garden of Eden and you’re the angel with a flaming sword. You’re not on your own with this, though – the obstacles, the need for practical strategies, the delight.

Want more writing advice? In The Writers' Greenhouse Community, you'll get expert advice on tap, help developing your writing, and the chance to connect with your writing community.

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Happy writing!

Tips for a Feedback Writing Group

This post is specifically about writing groups to give each other feedback. I have a general post on writing groups including other kinds here.

A writing feedback group is absolutely transformative, both for you and for your writing. As I said in my Top Ten Tips for My Students, other people can do something we can never do for ourselves: tell us how our vision is coming across on the page. We know the effect we want to create, but we need other people to tell us the effect they’re experiencing: how characters are coming across, if a poem is clear or inscrutable, and so on. Bouncing ideas off other people also works better than working alone. We solve other people’s creative dilemmas more easily than our own, and in return, they can do the same for us.

The group helps us, as well as our writing. Having readers and feedback is motivating and keeps us going when we hit a hurdle or a dry patch. If we’re having a bad word day, or struggling with a plot problem, we know we’ve got people to ask for help. And we’ve got companions, in the strange wild worlds we invent and the strange wild process of doing that, who also know what it’s like, celebrate our steps forward, hug us when we cry. (And when we finish a first draft, they’ll throw a party instead of asking “When can I buy it in the shops?”! They get it.)

For all of this, we need a consistent, long-term, suitably sized writing group, which can read each other’s work over time and build strong bonds. We need to trust them, because we’re showing them the early drafts, the imperfect work – even if we’ve got it as perfect as we can make it on our own. They can only give us the support of bouncing ideas if we feel safe asking for help. Having them as readers is only motivating if we feel this is a good place to share our writing.

So here are my suggestions for how to assemble and develop a group like that, some extra feedback tips especially for writing groups, and how to find those lovely people in the first place.

Assembling a group

Who’s a good fit

In my experience, having the exact same level of experience and the same genre isn’t that important. Different genres teach each other good things and a mix of poems and fiction can also work well.

What matters most is...

• You read each other’s genres / forms, even if not devotedly.
• You have a similar-ish level of output.
• You have a similar level of commitment.

Practicalities fit

The basic practicalities are just as important: for the group to last, it needs to fit well in our lives.

• Are you looking for an online group or in person?
• Do you want to be geographically close? (Eg ours meets online but we keep it to Oxford so we can also meet up socially in person.)
• How often do you want to meet? Once a week? Once a fortnight?
• What times and evenings work? Agreeing a set day is much easier than trying to juggle multiple calendars, which often leads to a group petering out. Our group sometimes shifts for a term, because of my teaching, but then we stick to the new day for that term.

Group size

4–5 people is a really good cohesive size long-term and means everyone can get feedback each meeting. That said, groups often shrink for all sorts of non-bad reasons (babies, job changes, evenings available shift, all sorts of Life Stuff), so it’s fine to start larger.

Developing a group

Agree the rules

Having clear rules up front helps prevent a lot of social stress and potential frustration. The rules should cover:

• How much you can send in each time. Our group has a 4000-word limit.
• When it’s sent by. We’ve recently moved this to the weekend before, to accommodate work schedules.
• How many is quorum to meet if various people can’t make it. (For us, quorum is two.) This also helps prevent the calendar-juggle, which can lead to petering out.
• How long to spend on each person’s feedback. 20–45 mins is often good, depending on how much people are submitting. Allowing too long can be unhelpful, as people start trying to find extra things to say. I find that 20 mins is great for 2000 words; 40–45 for 4000. We put the person getting feedback in charge of watching their time, so they can move the discussion on if they need to.

You can always adjust the rules as you need to – eg if someone’s finding the word-limit too high, and struggling to read everything, you can discuss it in the group and change the rule. But having clear rules makes everything smoother.

Allow time for chitchat and social meetings

This is essential for bonding, to build that trust and relationship: ruthless efficiency doesn’t build bonds. It’s important to respect everyone’s time, so the group stays viable long-term, but also to allow 5–10 mins to chat at the start, and a bit of space to chat between people.

High trust, high honesty

This is something that builds. Our writing is close to us, dear to us, and something we’ve made. So sharing it is quite vulnerable, especially at first. I’ve got lots in my Top Ten Tips for Giving and Receiving Feedback about how to approach feedback well, and some extra feedback tips below, to help with that.

The other aspect of high trust is to be honest with your group about where you’re at. If you’re feeling fragile that day, they need to know. If you need extra buoying up, tell them. That doesn’t mean they say anything false (that’s unhelpful) but they remember to prioritise the stuff that’s working well. Everyone in my group has, on at least one occasion, burst into tears. And this is an incredibly safe very bonded group! Not because anyone was cruel, but because the person getting feedback was overwhelmed by whatever else was going on. Sometimes we don’t realise that until we’re crying and then it’s, “Wah, sorry, this is kinda about where I am right now, not what you said.” We’re all allowed to be vulnerable, hence being honest, and trusting.

Celebrate!

Part of being a group is celebrating each other: if someone creates a chapbook of poems, or finishes a short story, or the first draft of their novel – rejoice with them and celebrate with them. Sometimes (in fact often), they’re struggling to celebrate at that point, so rejoice for them, throw celebration at them!

I love cooking, so I love making a dinner party based on the food in someone’s story: I had enormous fun devising nettle pies with vegetarian hot-water crust and a fey foraged salad, for one. In January 2026, when I finished a huge rewrite, my group threw me a pirate party, complete with menu and decorations based on my story’s world. (I’m not the only cook in the group!) For someone else’s completed first draft, we had a lunch out at her choice of spot and ordered custom LEGO mini-figures of the characters in her novel. We also have extra celebratory rituals – eg if someone submits the final instalment of their story, we give them the whole session for feedback, just them, with plenty of time to go through “yellow bits” (phrases / words we’ve highlighted as especially good).

Whatever celebrations, rituals, and festivities work for your group, celebrate each other.

Extra feedback tips

Absolutely read my Top Ten Tips for Giving and Receiving Feedback: there’s heaps of essential detail there on these ten tips:

• Ask questions
• Say what's good
• Say what could be improved
• Listen and consider
• Feedback should help people write more
• Think growth not talent
• Set time and length limits
• Be careful who you ask for feedback
• Avoid group-think in writing groups
• Have multiple feedback sources

Different patterns emerge when we work together over a long time, so I have five extra tips specific to longer-term writing groups.

Don’t worry about spoilers

Your writing group is so you can help each other: share each other’s worlds, spot the things you can’t, be a source of motivation and encouragement, and so on. So you need to share what you have with them, for them to do that.

It’s fine to try avoid spoilers, when you’re trying to work out how something plays out, but in the end there are inevitably “spoilers” – when they’re seeing a rewrite of a chunk, or you’re working on a full redraft. That’s where beta-readers come in: they can see the much more polished draft (thanks to your group) and answer those questions. Your writing group helps you create and improve it, so they need to see what you’ve got.

Offer problems not solutions

That seems wild but it’s the right way round. We’ve spotted something that’s not working for us in the poem or story. It’s in our remit to say what’s not working, and why (ie exactly where in the text we’re getting that from). But it’s not in our remit to give the “fix”.

The writer knows their own work much better and once they understand the issue, and if they agree, they’ll have a wider repertoire to draw on for changes. (In a 2014 FantasyCon Editor’s Panel, the professional editors said the same.) In fact, jumping in too quickly with our own ideas can stymie their process: before they’ve had a chance to think, we’ve already sent their thinking a particular direction.

Similarly, never lead with just suggestions. It might feel like flagging up the problem is “negative”, so we start with the suggested fix. To them, without the problem being identified, it feels like we took a perfectly fine story or poem and started trying to write our own on top. If they want suggestions, they can ask or we can offer.

A few years ago, when everyone was getting too excited about suggestions and new ideas, and overwhelming each other, our group instituted a “no suggestions unless asked for” rule. We absolutely still ask for and offer suggestions. Bouncing ideas around and getting advice from each other is a beautiful part of the process. It’s wonderful when a group stepping-stones their way to a perfect fix: one identifies the issue; another suggests a fix and flags up an issue with the fix; a third uses that to suggest an alternative that works; and so on. But we need to keep really clear boundaries on that and make sure, at every stage, the writer still wants ideas and isn’t having them rained down.

Before giving suggestions, ask:

• “Would you like a suggestion?”
• “I have an idea for how to resolve that, if you’d like.”
• “Do you want more ideas at this point?”

And if you don’t want other people’s ideas at this point, you can say:

• “I’d like to think about it more myself first, thanks.”
• “Actually I’m fine for the moment.”
• “I need to process it on my own a bit first.”
• “Thanks, but I think I’ve got plenty to explore.”

It’s fine not to give all your feedback

It’s the writer’s job to say what they want feedback on. We need to answer what they’ve asked, ask if they want anything else, and stop there. It doesn’t matter how brilliant our edits were if they didn’t ask for edits.

The temptation to give exhaustive feedback is always there, and only grows stronger when we get more invested in each other’s work. We’ve got great ideas! We’ve got very useful edits! We love the piece and want to make it better! We need to resist that temptation. Exhaustive feedback breaks people. Remember the original Tip 5: Feedback should help people write more.

Beware the “Actually, now I think about it...”

It wasn’t an issue. Some of us flagged it as something we liked. But now we think about it, as the conversation goes on, it’s really a problem actually? And maybe they could do this, or that, or the next thing… And increasingly, the suggestion would throw their story or poem out of kilter, tone, voice.

This can be a result of allowing too much time for feedback, so we scrape for more to say. In a long-term group, though, it also crops up as a result of good bonds. Agreeing with each other feels good, in a group! And we need to beware of that, in our writing groups. (That’s the original Tip 9: Avoid group-think in writing groups.)

It’s fine for someone else to pick up on something we didn’t and for us to agree. We can just say, “I didn’t notice that, but I agree.” If we start extemporising on it, having only just thought about it, we risk creating a pile-on.

We’re the readers

As we get more engrossed in each other’s stories, and feel deeply invested in them, it’s easy to start speculating “what a reader might think”. But they’re testing it on readers, right now, right here: we are the readers of their poem or story. In a past writing group, we had this exchange:
“A reader might be confused by X.”
“Were you confused?”
“No, not at all.”

We don’t need to hypothesise readers: we are the readers. Likewise, if we’re seeing a rewrite, we can’t be a first-time reader and guess what they might think – that, again, is where beta-readers come in.

The only reason we forget we’re the readers is that we’re so engaged with each other’s work, and that’s beautiful. In fact, all these extra tips come in to play precisely because it’s a fantastic, long-term, supportive group. And that’s what exactly what we need, to know our writing’s effects, to bounce ideas, to motivate each other, to ask for help, and to enjoy the company of other writers!

Finding your people

So where do you find people to create a group like this? The best way is to meet other writers, in person or online – a chance to chat to them, live. That’s one of the reasons I create as many opportunities for that as I can, in everything I run.

If you’re in the Writers’ Greenhouse Community, you have the chance to chat to each other in the monthly Writing Boosts and to follow up those connections in the online group chat. When I run online workshops, including the freebies, I always include time to work together, to meet each other. If you’re in Oxford, everyone’s welcome to the Summer Drinks, plus the Summer of Writing workshops are fantastic for meeting other writers and chatting about writing.

And in the multi-week courses, whether online or in person, you really get to know each other well – pretty much every course I run goes on to create a writing group for those who want one and don’t have one yet. Some of them now running for years! You can see all the live courses here.

May your writing group be a joy and a boon, may you help each other, trust each other, and celebrate each other. And happy writing!

CELEBRATING 10 years with my 10 best feedback tips

In the previous celebration post of my top 10 tips overall, the final tip was to join the circle of writers: our creativity flourishes best together. A vital part of that is giving and receiving feedback well. Over the last ten years, I've given feedback on well over a thousand pieces of writing and I've learnt a lot about giving feedback that genuinely helps people. In my own writing groups, I'm both giving and receiving feedback: being on the receiving end is essential for my own writing and to remember what it's like for my students. So gathering all of that together, here are my 10 best tips for giving and receiving feedback.

1 Ask questions

When you give someone writing for feedback, say what you want feedback on. Tell them what level draft it is, eg first draft, reworked but not edited, almost-final draft, so they know where to pitch their feedback. If there's a typo in a first draft, you don't need to know; almost-final draft, that's useful info. Then ask questions. Useful questions for fiction might be...

• What do you think of x character?
• Did the tension lag in any bits? Did any parts feel too expository?
• What do you guess / suspect will happen next?
• Is the voice consistent?
• Where could I add more description?
• Middle 2 paragraphs of pg 3: I'm debating cutting these. What do you think?

For poetry, questions might be...

• What mood does it evoke for you?
• What's your interpretation of what it's about?
• What does the reference to x mean to you?
• Which do you think are the strongest / weakest lines?
• What do you think of x-y rhyme pairing?
• How does the metre flow for you?

Keep your questions open-ended, avoiding spoilers and yes/no answers. For example, instead of "Can you tell Y is the murderer?" ask "Who are you most suspicious of?" Instead of "Is X-character coming across as intelligent enough?" ask "How is X-character coming across?" For characters, the three-traits test is good: everyone in the group writes down three character traits for that character, then compares. That gives a great cross-section of views – plus if people are struggling to think of three, you know the character isn't clearly defined yet.

These questions are important for the people giving feedback, so they know what to comment on. They're equally useful for you: thinking carefully about what questions to ask gives you new insight into your writing. It also acts as a lovely safety net while you're writing. If I'm having a difficult-words day or feeling insecure, I dash down the questions to ask my writing group, then carry on, knowing their help will be coming in the future.

You're also allowed to ask for positive feedback only. If something's tentative first-draft, you don't need to know the characterisation's still weak or pages 2-4 are all exposition: you need to know which stuff is exciting and interesting. You need enthusiastic readers who'll help you spot the possibilities. 

Finally, put your questions at the end of the piece. Let the reader form their opinions then see what you want feedback on. Often, in our group, we find we've flagged things up before reaching the question on that issue, which is an extra confirmation it needs sorting out.

2 Say what's good

The first time my students give me work for feedback in a course, the instruction sheet says "DON'T PANIC" (in large friendly letters) and then "You're not being marked on your work: I’ll tell you what’s working well in it and give you suggestions to improve it." Sometimes students joke about the "shit-sandwich" approach: the idea that to give negative feedback, you start and end with positives. But that's not what it's about, in writing feedback. Yes, hearing positives makes it easier to take negative feedback on board, but saying what's good in writing is 100% valuable in itself. We need to be told what's good because we don't already know. In a first draft, you often can't tell. By third or fourth draft, something you worked hard on at the start is so familiar you've forgotten it's even doing something important. If you're cutting your writing down for length (I'm a chronic over-writer), it's a Godsend to have the group's feedback on which are the best bits, so you know to keep those.

Saying what's good in someone else's writing is also one of the best ways for you to improve as a writer. Spotting flaws is much easier than spotting what someone's doing right. Flaws stand out more. We're trained to look for the negatives. And we spot the flaws in areas we're already good at. If your dialogue is excellent, you see in an instant that someone else's is clunky. But spin it round. If your dialogue is poor, can you spot good dialogue? Seeing what other people are doing well teaches you far more than seeing where they're not as good as you. Everyone wins.

3 Say what could be improved

This is the second half of what I promise my students. Hearing what's good is essential, but so are suggestions for how to develop. If something is unclear or confusing, if the tension lags, if you genuinely can't make head or tail of a poem, that’s part of feedback. When a writing group or writing-buddy relationship becomes too "kind", it slowly stagnates – and it's not actually kind, because it's not helping each other progress.

That said, be gentle in your delivery. Talk about the writing, your response to it and understanding of it, not about the author. It helps to use “it” and “I” language, not “you”. Instead of “You lost me on pg 3” say “I found pg 3 a bit confusing”. Instead of “All your exposition is slowing down the story” say “It has a lot of exposition, which is slowing down the story.” We identify strongly with our writing so a critique can feel personal: help it stay focused on the piece. And remember to stick to the brief, ie their questions: if someone's submitted first draft and doesn't want line-by-line feedback, don't go in with your editorial red pen, Just because you've spotted something doesn't mean it needs flagging up now.

4 Listen and consider

When you're receiving feedback, it's tempting to jump in and say "So what I was trying to do there was..." or "I need to put that in because..." Bite your tongue for a bit. In some groups, we've even had a rule that the writer isn't allowed to speak for the first ten minutes. That helps the feedback stay focused on what's actually there on the page, not what the writer meant to be there. It also helps you listen and process your first responses, especially if you're feeling defensive. Nod, thank people, make notes. Once you've listened fully, you can ask follow-up questions: "I do need some of the stuff about lemons as set-up for later: do you think it would work if I just kept x line?" "I can see the character's not coming across the way I intended. Which bits made her seem hostile, to you?" and so on.

The other part is to consider. No-one's feedback is the Word of God engraved on stone tablets. It's another writer's opinion. If you disagree strongly, don't chuck it out immediately: sit with it a bit, sleep on it, think it over. Consider it. And if you consider it's wrong, then you can dismiss it.

5 Feedback should help people write more

I've had a number of students join a course with serious scars from past feedback from other courses or agencies. Often they've stopped writing for years. The thought of getting feedback again has made some of them shake and nearly cry. I'm in awe of their bravery, that they have still signed up for a writing course, that they're giving me their writing to read, however fearfully. And I am Mother-Bear furious with the people who did that to them.

Feedback should help people write more. The single biggest factor in improving our writing is writing more. All the theory, tips of the trade, and craft-of-writing books in the world are useless unless we're writing lots. We don't have to figure out every writing trick ourselves, through trial and error, but we do need to use them in our writing – which means we need to be writing. If someone's feedback stops a person writing, that feedback is a complete failure. It doesn't matter how clever it is, how "insightfully" it "identified the problem": it has failed at its fundamental purpose.

Remember this, if you've had or if you get feedback that quashes you: the person giving the feedback has failed, not you. To avoid ever giving feedback like that, all these tips will help, plus a few other pointers. First, pitch your feedback to the person's level. Look at where they are in their writing development right now, and choose areas to improve that are within their grasp. Second, be selective: don't detail every single aspect that could be improved; focus on the things that will make the biggest difference. We are all always developing as writers, but we can't develop on every front at once. And we'll develop best by continuing to write.

6 Think growth not talent

One student, who's also my oldest friend, told me, "Your feedback's always so helpful for improving stuff, but it's so positive that I don't know if I'm any good at writing." We had a slightly puzzled conversation, because I'd just told her, in her written feedback, what was good in her writing and what could do with work. Eventually she said, "But what if someone's just really bad? Would you tell them?" Then I realised we were coming at the question from completely opposite ends.

There's no such thing as a bad writer. There's no such thing as a good writer. There's no such thing as talent. There are people who have some slight advantage – for instance, learning to read young and growing up in a wordy household, which creates more exposure to language, so their early work is ahead of their peers, so they're encouraged and praised, so they do more, and continue to, in the constant sunlight of admiration... That's just getting good by doing something lots and being encouraged, but it gets mistaken for talent.

We all develop as writers. Would I tell someone their writing is "bad"? No. Nor would I think that. It's at a particular level of development. I'd tell them what's good in it and make suggestions to improve it. As I told my friend that evening, some of my students producing fantastic quality work, publishable and/or published, gave me intial submissions that she'd call "bad". If I'd cut them off then, they'd never have had a chance to develop. If a student wants to know if a particular piece is ready to be sent out for publication, that's a different question, which still isn't about them being good/bad, but how developed that particular piece is. None of it's about being "good" or "bad", it's about developing.

I've learnt to reflect that in my language, when I give feedback. In the early days, I'd say "You have a talent for description" or "You have a flair for dialogue", and so on. Sounds encouraging, right? Actually, it's unhelpful and even insulting. It insults the work they put in to write that description and dialogue: it didn't "come naturally", they did that. And it doesn't help them. Next time they're stuck with their dialogue or description, what should they think? That they've lost their flair, their talent? If I recognise the work they did and say what they did to make that bit good, then they can do that again next time, when it's coming less easily. These days, my feedback will read more like this: "You've written very natural dialogue, by using contractions and leaving out unnecessary words. The way you imply x, rather than explaining it, gives us a sense of how well they know each other." and so on. And it feels a hell of a lot better to be praised for the specific choices you've made than to be told you're "talented".

7 Set time and length limits

Whether you're writing buddies, a writing group, or a teacher taking in work for feedback, set strict length limits on how much someone can send in. Our group of 4–5, which meets weekly, has an upper limit of 4000 words. (Introduced to keep me in check!) For student submissions, I limit it to 2000 words of prose or one poem of 40 lines. Likewise, set time limits for when stuff need to be sent by, if you're reading each other's work before you meet, and set time limits for how long you spend on each person's work. These may seem like humdrum logistical points compared to the other tips, but they're the basis of a healthy long-lasting writing group or buddy arrangement: clear boundaries which keep it doable for everyone. Reading other people's work takes time, talking about it takes time, we all have other things we need to slot it around. Respecting everyone's time keeps the relationships harmonious.

8 Be careful who you ask for feedback

You show your family and friends your writing, and they read it. (Result!) You say eagerly, "What do you think?" and they say, "I liked it." You push for more feedback. Striving to be helpful, they start to criticise it. They point out typos, tell you they don't like the genre, flag up a swear word a character used... The experience is upsetting for everyone and discouraging for the writer.

Non-writers are usually hopeless at giving feedback – and fair enough. You have to know a lot of the machinations of writing to give useful feedback and being a reader isn't enough. I'm a driver, but I couldn't give a car mechanic feedback on their work; all I can say is "It's making a funny noise" or "The noise is gone now." It's not fair to expect our family and friends to give us helpful feedback, especially when a piece is still developing. If you want help, ask fellow writers. If you don't have a writers' group or a writing buddy, set one up. Lots of students on my courses form writing groups at the end of the course, and anyone who's been on the courses can join the Slack / Facebook community, to find people to form groups with.

Be especially careful not to ask for feedback when you actually want praise, validation, or just to share your world. It's easy to fall into this trap with parents and partners / love-interests: we say "What do you think?" when we mean "Look what I made!" So use your writer-words to say what you really mean: "I'm so pleased with this poem and I wanted to share it." "I'm having so much fun creating this world and I wanted you to know about it too." If you really need them to say more than "I liked it" then return to Tip 1 and ask questions you want the answers to. "Which is your favourite bit?" "Which character did you like most?"

Your family, friends, and partners are there to love you and share your delight. Your fellow writers have the know-how to help you develop your writing.

9 Avoid group-think in writing groups

Similar to the danger of a writing group or buddy arrangement becoming too "kind", a group can develop "group-think" over time. That's when keeping the group harmonious becomes more important than thinking critically and independently, and it can lead to some very skewed perspectives. 

To avoid this, firstly, actively embrace disagreement within your writing group. If one person thinks a particular page should go and someone else loves it, good! If one person hates a character and someone else loves them, good! Never try to move from that to a group consensus: someone will be backing down and you'll be losing their insights. Make a note of the differing opinions, and you as the writer can choose your course later. Secondly, work apart and then together. In the three-traits test, everyone writes down their own view of a character and then compares. In our group, by sending our writing in advance, we read it independently and then compare our views. When people are forming and expressing their opinions at the same time, it's very easy to landslide down with the first, loudest, or strongest opinion, and not even notice we're not thinking independently anymore.

The beauty of a writing group is getting multiple opinions at once: keep them multiple.

10 Have multiple feedback sources

Having multiple opinions within a writing group is fantastically helpful. Having multiple groups and writing buddies is also good, not disloyal. We need different people for different stages. The person you've talked out the whole plot with can't tell you if your suspense and reveals are working: they already know everything. The group that helps you hammer and polish your first draft can't read the final draft with fresh eyes: they know every detail of what you're trying to do. This is also where family, friends, and partners come back in.

In my writing, my partner knows every detail of the world. I read aloud the raw first-draft to him in the kitchen in the evenings, at the Plough on weekends, on holiday in Turkey. That's him being my cheerleader and my love: I want to share my world. I thrash out plot problems and pick his brilliant brain: then he's my co-creator. When I turn that raw first-draft into actual story, I write it, type up, print it, add bits, refine it, print a clean copy, and give him that to read: then he's my alpha-reader. He flags up anything that strikes him as odd. Sometimes practical matters: if you saw a barrel lengthways, it'll fall apart. (Doh!) Sometimes story-structure matters: x character seemed completely unsurprised by that news. Sometimes suggestions: he'd like to see that scene in more detail or that part is happening too fast. I make adjustments and then it goes to my writing group.

The writing group are my writing experts: they hammer down into the serious story structure stuff, flag up exposition, comment on prose. I come away with a sheaf of edits and usually some reworking. If I'm heavily rewriting a scene, I'll bring it back to them for a second pass: it's not going to surprise them, at that stage, but they can help me check the language.

When the book is finished and I've edited it, then I need fresh readers. These don't have to be writers, necessarily, just readers, so it can be friends and family. This isn't about looking for expert advice, it's finding beta-readers for a reader-response to the finished book. To make that work for both of us, I need to remember Tip 1 and ask questions. At the end of each chapter: "How is x character coming across? What do you think will happen next? Who do you suspect? What most surprised you?"

That's 6 different roles, some of which need more than one person: cheerleader, co-creator, alpha-reader(s), writing expert(s), beta-readers. Some of them can overlap and be the same person; some absolutely can't, because it needs fresh eyes. It's not "disloyal" to have several writing group / buddy arrangements: it's important. And we absolutely can't be alone, as writers. As I said at the start, we need each other: our creativity flourishes best together.

*

My aim, as a teacher, is always to empower my students: people shouldn't be dependent on me, to write. But we don't have to be independent, either: we're interdependent. Over the last ten years, I've learnt so much more about teaching, thanks to all of you and your feedback, created so many new courses and workshops, thanks to all of you and your input, got to read so much of your lovely writing and share in so many different worlds and stories. The solstice tips today and the year's almost over, so this is the last of the ten-year celebration posts, but the Writers' Greenhouse is going strong, thanks to you. And whatever year it ends up actually happening, we are definitely having that ten-year anniversary party!

Happy writing and may all your feedback be helpful!

 

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Want writing feedback or a mentoring chat from me? You can get supportive, constructive feedback for any length of writing from just 2000 words or a single poem through to a complete book.

Or you can book a mentoring hour, to discuss your wider plans (eg how to work towards a poetry collection), to workshop a plot, or to get help with a process (eg how to redraft). Whatever’s useful to you. 

Choose what suits you here, or if you're not sure, email me and we can discuss what'll work best for you.

Tips for a perfect Summer of Writing

Summer is a busy, social time, so in one sense an odd time for workshops – but it's also a creative time. We forget, sometimes, that we're animals. That like any animal, our energy levels rise with the warm weather, alongside our adventurousness, our sense of fun, our enthusiasm, our interest – which is all, in a sense, our creativity. The long winter months often get the credit for creative endeavour, what with staying indoors and not much to do, but creativity isn't a faut de mieux: it's our lifeblood. Our joy. And like the rest of our joy in life, it jumps up and down and does cartwheels in the summer. That's why I run workshops in the summertime, even though it's also such a busy time – it's the perfect time for adventure and discovery. So here are my tips to create yourself a glorious Summer of Writing.

As well as the workshops, book some time off for yourself to write, whether that means from work, from your family, or a pact with yourself. I suggest treating each workshop as a two-day block, so you're just as "booked off" from 10-4 on the Sunday as if you were at a workshop. (That means no other duties, no errands or chores, no family commitments, no arrangements to meet – just a clear space of time for you and your writing.) If you can, look at also booking a few weekdays or a week off from work, as writing time.

Be strict about your start time and protect the writing time like an angel with a flaming sword – but within that time, be free. You don't need to treat writing time like work and it's much better not to. It isn't work, it's a joy! And the more you enjoy it, the more you want to write. (Enjoying it doesn't mean it's always "easy" – we enjoy doing hard things, too. Just think of crosswords and Sudoku. Enjoying it means it's fun.) Don't set yourself up with a bunch of goals, either – throw all that "SMART" nonsense to the wind, forget about aims, wordcount, page counts, estimates, etc. A good writing day is a day spent writing. That is the only criterium. Protect the time, and within the time be free. There's a rock-solid evidence base behind this advice; you can read more about that here.

Write by hand, unless that's genuinely physically impossible for you. There's fantastic evidence that when we write by hand, we write more, for longer, and better quality. Your handwriting doesn't matter, as long as you can read it. A ballpoint pen will quickly tire your hand out though, because it relies on friction to drag out the ink. If you're right-handed, buy a fountain pen – you can get a Parker from WH Smiths for £20 and under, and their nibs are superb quality. (More expensive pens usually have more expensive casings, not better nibs.) Stock up on ink cartridges while you're at it and cache them everywhere, so you never run out. If you're left-handed, and can't use a fountain pen, try a fineliner or a gel pen. (Gel pens are lovely but run out very quickly.) With no friction, you can write happily for hours without getting a sore hand.

The best part about writing by hand, though, is that you can write anywhere. It's summer! You don't need a dim room to see the screen or a powerpoint nearby. Don't lock yourself in a room at a desk, telling yourself you have to "take this seriously" – go outside! Write in the garden, if you won't be interrupted. Leave the house and go adventuring! Find a coffee shop with a garden or one outdoors, like AMT on Cornmarket. Write in a pub garden (they serve coffee, too). Walk across Port Meadow and sit outdoors at the Perch, or try the lovely garden of the Gardener's Arms. Write in meadows, in parks. Take a packed lunch, a bottle of water, a flask of coffee, and off you go! There are heaps of wonderful places to write outdoors in Oxford. (Check for available loos, too – you'd be surprised; even University Parks has well-kept loos in the middle. And AMT is in emergency striking-distance from the refurbished loos by the Covered Market.) If it's drizzling, or chucking it down, find a covered garden – just being in the fresh air is enlivening and inspiring, and the smell of rain on soil contains a chemical which makes us happy. (More than once I've started writing in University Parks, then walked through a downpour to arrive grinning and drenched at the Jericho Tavern, and slowly steamdried in their covered garden. It's fine to get wet, just make sure the writing stays dry!) All the adventuring makes it much more fun and gives you a much wider range of stimulus and inspiration than you'd get at home at a table or a desk.

Once you start adventuring, you might want a Writing Bag: a sacred, adored bag, big enough to carry your notebook / an A4 pad and any assorted pens or notes you want with you, and waterproof. (This is England, to be fair, even in summer.) I have two, a slim one for just a few essentials, and a glorious great multi-pocketed beast for when I need the Full Monty with me and a packed lunch to boot. Both are leather; the first was a cast-off, many years ago; the beast was a £5 charity shop WIN. The writing lives in the writing bag, along with plenty of spare paper and ink / pens. Mine also has a tiny stapler (with eyes) and spare staples, plus assorted coloured pens. (Okay, 90 coloured pens.) Word to the wise: don't put your waterbottle or coffee flask in your writing bag.

You'll probably have your phone with you too, so here's an expert tip: put it on airplane mode. That's usually the only way the battery will last all day and still leave you enough for some texts or a phone call at the end of your writing. Plus, of course, it spares you that enemy of writing: internet distraction. If an idea is tricky, it's so easy to dive into the instant-affirmation of Facebook notifications instead; having it on airplane nudges you away from that. If you do want to look something up, or browse a bit while you're having a break, you can easily switch it back to normal mode, but the fragile battery life of a smartphone is excellent motivation to switch it back to airplane promptly.

Everyone's concentration span varies – mine is almost exactly an hour, and then I need to float back up for a bit, stare around me, eat some water mint, chat with a passing duck, order another coffee, whatever. Don't flog yourself beyond your concentration span; find your natural pace. (That's where having your phone on airplane really helps; it's easier to find your natural pace without distractions. Also, don't eat random plants unless you definitely know what they are; quite a few are poisonous.) After two or three hours like that, I usually need a longer break, which is generally a good moment to eat my lunch, have a wander, maybe change location, perhaps accept that it really is raining and wedging the umbrella handle into my cleavage isn't totally working. Most people can manage about five hours of sustained concentration total a day. That's hard to believe, given the hours most of us work, but nonetheless true. And writing, as well as being enormous fun, is very sustained concentration. Sometimes I spread those hours out, between 10 and 5, with breaks and lunch and walks; sometimes I do a solid block from 12 to 5:30, with only a few float-up breaks. I've learnt not to push it past the 5 hours, give or take. This is summer; this is life; enjoy the rest of the time for other things as well, like a long relaxing walk home, meeting up with friends for a sunny drink, cooking a meal slowly, whatever you enjoy. (Remember not to schedule any Duties, though, that steal the writing time. Duties are for other time.)

A summer of writing becomes an absolute gift to yourself. Suddenly, setting the time aside for writing isn't a chore, something that could otherwise be used for holiday, or meet-ups, or family time – it's a joy, a luxury, a secret delight. You fall asleep the night before excited to wake up, with your writing bag ready, anticipating the time as if it's a rendezvouz with a lover. You spend your writing days surrounded by beauty, gloating in the wonder of it, staring into your secret worlds. You push on into the autumn, layering on extra tights, scarves, and cardigans. You smile secretly in the winter, as you type up the summer's writing or keep on writing with freezing rain hammering the windows, and as you pass your spots. And you feel your excitement rise, as spring finally starts to warm again, at the thought of being back out there, completely free, completely yourself, writing.

Join in the upcoming Summer of Writing

 

Plant yourself some seedlings

I want you to plant seeds for your writing – metaphorically, but also literally.

When I named The Writers' Greenhouse, I spent months hunting for a concept that would express exactly how I see helping writers. It's not about giving rigid rules, as anything around “school” suggests, and it's not about issuing formulae or dot-to-dot like a colour-by-numbers art kit. When I explain the principles of teaching creative writing, I usually reach to fine art for my metaphors. But when I explain my approach to writing, images of plants growing and of gardening start to sprout. A greenhouse isn't a hot house – it isn't an artificial environment to force fragranceless blooms – but rather a place to tend plants, a safe place for seedlings to get a good start before they're planted out into the garden. That's what I want to help people do with their writing.

The plant metaphors are often most powerful when they're unspoken or when they run alongside actual, physical planting. That's why I want you to literally plant some seeds, actual literal seeds in actual literal soil. And here's how, alongside some thoughts of how this embodied metaphor can help how you approach your writing.

If this seems very odd, think of it as that bit in the story where the sensei insists you scrub the floor with sand at dawn every day and that turns out to hold the secret at the heart of all martial arts!

You'll need a wodge of newspaper, a glass (ideally a tumbler), some soil, and a packet of seeds.

You don't need much to start. You can just start. Now, for instance.

Start with a flat piece of newspaper - tabloid sized.

 

Fold it in half.

 

On the closed end, fold a cuff of about 3 inches.

 

Get a tumbler and lie it on the cuff. (This tumbler has a thick glass base, so I leave that poking out. That also gives me a grip on the glass later.)

Not all planting is putting seeds in soil and not all writing is putting words on paper.

 

Roll the glass in the newspaper, with the cuff at the bottom. (Don't cover the thick glass bit at the base of the glass.)

Turn it upright, holding the loose bit closed

Start pushing the newspaper into the glass, starting with the loose end

Keep pushing gently and firmly - the newspaper will give, so don't push too hard and tear it. The easiest way is to keep pushing the central spike downwards, while your fingers press the sides more against the glass

The more pleasure you take in the process of what you're doing, the more patient you are and the more beautifully you do it.

 

And still gently pushing it in – as the newspaper gives, you can make the sides straighter and straighter

Push the inside down as flat as you can. The smoother the sides and base the better

Loosen the glass from the newspaper and pull it out.

Tada! One little plant pot, next to the proud glass.

Many little plant pots! The glass is very proud.

Take pleasure and pride in what you create.

A tribe! A tribe of plant pots! The glass is clearly outnumbered.

Don't just plant one seed and wait for it to grow. Plant LOTS. They have a high failure rate. That's okay. Not all seeds grow. Some of the others will.

Put them in a tray – one without holes, or put clingfilm inside one with holes.
You can write what they are on the newspaper, with a permanent marker (felt-tips will run when the pot gets watered)

Fill each pot with soil, to an inch below the edge.

 

Here are all the pots, with their soil

Sprinkle water over the soil (a waterbottle makes it easier to do this gently without sloshing water all over the little pots)

Soil is whatever you need to be creative. Don't be surprised if you need some quiet, peace, and space. Don't worry if you need support, warmth, and encouragement. Neither of these make you more or less a writer.

 

Here's the soil, dampened down.

Seeds at the centre of each pot, on top of the soil.

Eventually we want plants to survive outside, but don't put your seedlings out into the snow and declare that if they don't grow they were never any good anyway. Don't expose your seedlings to the snow. Some people are snow.

Fill the pots up with soil so the seeds are underground. (Your seed packet will tell you how deep the seeds like to be - some want an inch depth, some want to be just under the soil.)

Wet the soil again, nice and drenched (and this time you really do need to do it gently, or the soil will loosen too much and the seed float up.)

And...

Wait.

“The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. The second best time is today.” The same is true for writing. It's never too late to start.

And water.

And wait.

You can't make seeds sprout up overnight or guarantee they come up, but if you stop watering them, they'll definitely die.

And water.

And wait. 

All seedlings look the same, at the start - the same as everyone else's seedlings and the same as weeds. Don't judge them yet. Let them grow.

They stay inside being carefully looked after, for now, while it might still frost outside and the nights are chilly. But as it warms up and they strengthen, you can put them outside for a while, to hardy them. Let them get used to the cold rather than going from a sheltered windowsill to fullblown Weather all at once.

If you want some ideas of what seeds to plant this month, here's a lovely guide for the UK. And if you want to plant some writing seeds alongside your literal seeds, you can join the Meddling with Poetry course this Feburary to plant heaps of seeds and start growing them.

New Year's Writing Resolutions

A friend on Facebook is talking about what writing resolutions she might take, to take herself more seriously as a writer - and how on earth you can measure that. I made a similar commitment to myself ten years ago, and over the last ten years have set myself multiple different challenges, with varying levels of success. I've also learnt a lot more about goal-setting and creativity than I knew ten years ago. So here are some ideas for New Year's Writing Resolutions, to inspire you.

Needing to sit near water: on writing & high sensitivity

For years, I thought I was absurdly precious about certain things – a pantsy little princess, inexcusably self-indulgent. These included living somewhere "beautiful" (both home and area), being near water, seeing trees, no office work at all, no big cities – certainly not London! Spoilt little girl with an overprivileged artistic background, melodramatically insisting on her need for beauty. The only way I could defend it, even to myself, is that for whatever reason, without these things in place, I couldn't write. I couldn't insist to protect myself, but I could to protect my writing.

I chose my first university based on which town was more beautiful: not the university with a thriving, brilliant English department, set in an arid landscape, but the one set in lush winelands, whose first language wasn't even English. It was a "bad" decision (I had to change university after my first year – but only for equally beautiful Cape Town), but I didn't regret it, though I couldn't explain why it made sense to me. I just... It had to be green.

"I can't work in an office!" I'd insist, though I couldn't even defend that to myself, much less to the mother who thought I was irrationally rejecting swathes of career options. From my first temp job at 18 years old, I couldn't stand being in an office. Something about it killed me. It wasn't the work itself, just... I jokingly put it down to the tight waist bands of office clothes. I remember teaching English as a Foreign Language one evening in London, looking through the window, through the dark, at the lit office opposite, at people fussing over machines and feeding faxes, and looking back to the contemplative calm concentration of my classroom, and being filled, for that moment, with utter peace. I pitied those office workers so much.

Yes, I lived in London – for two and a half years. For two and a half years, I couldn't write, despite swathes of abortive attempts and ferocious devotion. And yes, I did office work, often for years. At every job, I'd locate the nearest park, ideally one with a fountain. I'd sit cross-legged, crouching my body towards the running water, hungering for something unidentifiable, trying to pretend I wasn't surrounded by roaring traffic and concrete, concrete, iron and concrete, that sickened me like a bite to my soul. "The great grey toad-spirit of London," I called it, only half-jokingly. "It sits on you and squelches your will to live." When I did another brief stint of office work, after my Masters, I had to fight the urge each day to throw myself off bridges. I'd close the bathroom cubicle door and see my own corpse hanging from it, ribs cracked open and heart removed. I got used to peeing while staring through a vision of my own excavated torso. I couldn't leave the job for my own sake, but I could for my writing: "It just leaves too much to-do stuff in my head, it's anathemic to writing," I could say, and return to the lower pay and sweet calm of teaching English as a foreign language.

Every time we went househunting, I insisted it had to be near water, we had to have views of trees; every property, I'd beeline for the window and stare out at a doleful carpark, trying to train my eyes on the straggly birches beyond – would they be enough? Would they hold my soul together? Homes near water, with plenty of good-sized trees around, tend to be on the pricier side. Spoilt, indulgent, snobby little princess!

Despising my abominable preciousness, I nevertheless put together the life that I did, for whatever indefensible reasons, need, to be able to write. No offices. A home near water. (That, at least, is easy enough in Oxford.) Trees. Beautiful rooms. Immaculate tidiness, like cool water pouring over my soul.  I'd steer visitors away from the crowded babble of Cornmarket Street: "Let me take you the scenic route!" I navigated the city by canal paths and parks and back roads. If I had to dip into London at all, I'd walk an hour or more rather than catch the Tube, navigating the quiet back streets, treating parks as oases. I sneered at my ridiculous requirements, but at least I could write.

Then, within months of each other, two good friends were signed off work with severe depression and stress.  And both of them, independently, told me about this thing called "high sensitivity". You overstimulate easily, they both said. It's like everyone else has a shell but everything hits your raw flesh. Noises are louder. Colours brighter. Crowds overwhelm: you have no defences against all those people with their complex, humming lives, never mind the roar of a thousand conversations. It's all just so intense. "Water helps," said one. "Especially the sound of running water. Like a weir."

I flashed back to when I was teaching long days and loving it, returning to a shared house crowded with people I adored, and would stop each day by the canal, next to the weir, for half an hour, until I could cope with more people.

My two friends explained themselves, listing every single of the "ridiculous requirements" by which I had reluctantly and self-sneeringly lived.

For years, I refused to believe that high sensitivity, aka HSP, was a diagnostic term. (It's better known now, especially as an autistic trait, though they're not the same: not everyone autistic is highly sensitive, and not everyone highly sensitive is autistic.) Even when I still resisted it, though, I clung to it as a useful term. And of the two friends – well, one of them I saw as a bit fey, perhaps someone I could imagine going for a "special-snowflake" diagnosis (given that she's built most of her house with her own hands, she will rightly kill me for that description) but the other was blokey and pragmatic and "solid". Both worked for large international organisations in unforgiving fields – not exactly the kind of companies to shell out for years of sick leave without some solid proof. They'd worked in busy, noisy, open-plan offices, in demanding high-pressured jobs, relentlessly showing face. Both had always had the same "ridiculous needs" as I had, but without something like writing to cling to, had found no way to defend themselves. Both of them ended up being signed off for several years. It turned out that writing, instead of being this fragile tropical bloom I had to protect, had been protecting me, all this time.

One of the main websites dealing with it, The Highly Sensitive Person, has a quiz that is sort-of useful as a diagnostic, but can feel like a bit horoscope in its applicability – surely we're all like that, at times? Some of the questions seem outright special-snowflake: who wouldn't tick "I have a rich,complex inner life"? Similarly, the book I bought on it seemed to describe introversion rather than actual high sensitivity. It mentioned that maybe some people may be extrovert and highly sensitive, but then blithely dismissed that as rare and continued to talk about introverts and high sensitivity. They're not the same. I'm not an introvert. (Actually, on a good test, I register as an ambivert.) I found my friends' second-hand explanations, and first-hand descriptions of their own experience, more useful than the site or the book, which is why I've described some of my own experience in such personal detail. Wikipedia assures me there is a large body of research on HSP and it affects 15-20% of people, so it's not the latest-fad aren't-I-special thing to throw around. (You'll probably have noticed, by now, I have some minor reluctance towards special pleading...) But even without that, even though I'll be the first to yell "SHOW ME THE EVIDENCE BASE!" on any other subject, well before I realised that it is absolutely a mainstream thing, I clung to it like a mast, because my friends were explaining to me the aspects of myself I had known, fought against, dismissed, and derided for years, and only agreed to for the sake of writing.

So: there is such a thing as high sensitivity. My name is Megan and I am a highly sensitive person. And writing, prioritising writing and what I needed in place for that, has quite likely protected me from the kind of collapse my two dear friends suffered. I wasn't being precious at all, but protecting my sanity. And the writing may not be entirely coincidental – creativity and high sensitivity often overlap. Being given a term, so I can say "This is a thing" helps me to allow for that, for the sake of writing, and also for myself. So I avoid crowded streets. I choose the quietest coffee shops. I navigate the city through parks, canal paths, and back streets. If I must go to London, I dip in and out like a bird grabbing a beakful of water, or arrange to meet people next to a park, or in an art gallery, or overlooking the Thames. I work from home. I make things beautiful, for myself and for my students. I limit my time on Twitter. And I seek out water: the canal, the river, the weirs. At the end of most days, I lean over a stone bridge, looking down at the weir water rushing, the ripples, the fish darting, and feel a world of peace return within a few minutes.

If you recognise your own experience in what I've described, I'd offer three thoughts. One, you're allowed to protect yourself. It doesn't make you a special snowflake and you don't have to sneer at yourself as a "special snowflake"; it's just how you are and other people are like that too. Two, seek out water. Especially running water. Whenever in doubt, overwhelm, or stress, go sit next to some water. And three: this isn't just a burden. There's a reason so many poets, writers, and creatives are also highly sensitive. That extreme alertness to sensory input is also what makes us thrill to the smallest beauties and tune in to every detail. The world may easily overwhelm us, but in wonderful ways which we can spin into art.