Some months ago my mum emailed me a selection of creative writing she’d kept from my school days. It included a short piece: A Day In The Life of Claire. I have a vague recollection of writing it, aged 13, but hadn’t thought of it for more than thirty years.
As I read it back, I could feel the joy my young self had taken in weaving together the everyday stories. I’d drawn meaning from ordinary, mundane details and demonstrated a surprising willingness, given my years, to explore my inner world and share it with my reader - my English teacher.
Based her comments, it seemed she hadn’t offered any specific instructions on how to achieve any of this. Somehow, I just knew how.
But even with her feedback written plainly on the page - telling me this was ‘excellent work’ - my young self couldn’t see it at the time.
I explored my dream of becoming a professional violinist. How I knew it would be hard, but that I would keep practicing every day. I shared how I wanted a career I enjoyed. How I wanted to follow my passions and spend my days making music.
As I read my words back, I wept for that dream and the other creative dreams that have died since. At university I discovered I had a talent for writing music. In my final year I even won the university composition prize, and was urged by my tutors to stay and do my Masters. But in the end I chose not to, and went to work for a bank.
Writing and publishing a book is a dream that’s only emerged in recent years, and reading what was perhaps my first attempt at memoir pushed me into a slightly different version of the same hole:
What if I had kept writing for the thirty years that have elapsed between handing in that piece of work, and now?
What if I had truly seen and followed my talent back then?
What if I had followed the deep love and sense of satisfaction I felt every time I sat down at my typewriter?
What if someone had sat me down and said “Claire - this is what I see in you! Look at what you’ve written. Do you see what I see? It’s beautiful.”
I will never know the answers, but my hit is that if the above had transpired, the quality of what you’re reading now would be a damn sight better.
The process I’m in the midst of - rewriting my book - would feel easier. The words would flow more readily. I would be more able to translate my experiences onto the page.
Perhaps by now I would have published several books. Or seen a screenplay brought to life. Perhaps I would have written essays for the New York Times. Perhaps I would know, more deeply than I do now, that my words matter.
What I feel like I am supposed to say next is that all my experiences and choices have led me to this point. That if I hadn’t abandoned my creativity, and rediscovered it via dance, and all that has followed, I would not have a story to tell. I would not be writing the book after all.
But that is true and it is not. If I had followed the creative call sooner, I’d have other stories to tell, and I would likely be better equipped to tell them.
That’s one hard version of the truth, and it’s one I refuse to turn away from entirely. There is power in looking our grief and regret in the eye.
The ‘what if’ questions are very human, and they are also like ghosts. They drift in unannounced and follow me around. They haunt me in my sleep. On bad days they make me dread sitting at my desk with their incessant whispers. They make me want to give up.
But I am here at my desk now, and they are not real.
There are words I want to write. Stories I want to tell.
And I wish to make something from them, not have them fester in my subconscious and die, along with my other dreams.
Other themes I explored in that day-in-the-life piece included the joy my sister’s presence brought to my everyday life. The heartbreak of being rejected by my closest group of girlfriends. Being unable to stand up for myself (and my sister) when surrounded and spat at by a group of boys on the way to school.
These are all themes I had explored and included in my book long before I read back my handwritten schoolgirl essay: The joy of sisterhood. The way women can compete, rather than lift each other up. The perils of speaking up when you’re outnumbered and feel powerless and even threatened.
Perhaps the seeds of the book existed as far as back as 1993. Perhaps what I am making now is what I was always supposed to make.
I don’t know if that is true, but today and for the next five weeks I choose to prioritise my book dream and meet the deadline in place.
I choose to pour my heart and soul and grief and joy into its creation.
Sometimes I think you must be sick of me going on and on and on about the damn book.
But I must document here what feels true, right now, and trust that it will touch someone else who has a shelf full of abandoned dreams, and a longing in their heart to create.
I must trust that doing so will help me move through my regret once again, so I can continue walking towards my current dream. One that is very much alive.
As we grow older, it doesn’t get any easier to follow these kind of longings. But the grief and regret can be alchemised.
Sometimes we have to wait until we’re ready, but it’s not too late.
I was inspired to write this piece by the words of Jen Louden in the first post of her beautiful Substack: It’s Not Too Late. Her opening question:
How can we live and stay engaged in the midst of existential threats and daily heartbreaks while still playing full out and enjoying our lives?
Her post helped me stay grounded and present amidst the heartbreak of the world this week. My sense is that what Jen’s creating, and the community already forming around it, will be a deeply nourishing space. Maybe I’ll see you there :)
Thank you for being here.
With love,
Claire
x
Find me elsewhere:
Live on Zoom on Monday 30th October: How to Write More Like Yourself
Instagram: @clairemackinnonwrites
Website: clairemackinnon.com
LinkedIn: Claire Mackinnon
The internet is a curious river of connections. I found you via your comment on Henneke's post, "How to Write Beautifully..." I clicked on your name and found this post. I always considered the question, "What if?" as one of possibilities , innovation, improvement. But like you, I have found ghostly "what if's" haunting me with what could have been --if only. Despite the unwelcome whispers, I press onward. You are not alone, and I too, believe the world needs more beautiful words to uplift, encourage, and remind us of our worth.
Thank you for pressing onward ( and try to let go of the should have, could have.) Let's focus on the present.
This is so resonant. It has taken me days to be able to read it fully and head-on.