Tag Archives: Headspace

A long and frustrated mental health post

Creative Scotland has taken over my blog for far too long. I’m still talking about the latest twists and turns in the saga over on Twitter, but the most recent piece of [headdesk]-worthy action took place while I was caught up with the double bill. Besides, Hannah McGill has been well and truly on the case and I don’t really have anything to say that she hasn’t already covered. I doubt I’ve written my last Creative Scotland post, but there are other things I need to write about just now.

So back to one of my other major topics: The Crazy and how to live with it. It’s that time of year. The dawn simulator has been back on my bedside table for a while. Mornings are just that wee bit harder than in summer (yes, even Scottish summer). And after my last self-sabotaging battle with myself, there’s an alarm set on my phone to remind me to take my antidepressants.

I wish it were as simple as just taking the bloody things, but instead it’s a minor skirmish every time that alarm goes off.

You  see, I hate taking antidepressants. I understand why I have to. My body is physically incapable of producing, transporting and absorbing sufficient serotonin by itself. So I get it. If my body won’t do this by itself and it’s a chemical I can’t do without, medication is necessary. But I hate it.  Logically, I understand that this mental illness is a manifestation of a physical problem and that I can’t overcome it through willpower alone. But to hell with logic – the point is that I hate that this is something I can’t control without relying on drugs.

Having established that, let me make it clear that any comments suggesting that I don’t really need antidepressants and could probably just take St John’s Wort or do more exercise or find god instead will not be met with grace and gratitude. I’ve spent the past 12 years learning the hard way that I have to take these drugs. Believe me, there’s only one possible outcome to my not taking them – my mental state deteriorates to the point where I stop eating or talking and start causing myself physical harm.

Earlier this year I had to increase my dosage. The dose I was on was no longer working for me. I could feel the symptoms of depression kicking in again, so I did the sensible thing and asked my GP for a higher dose. She put me on the next dose up. I’ve been round the block often enough to know that side-effects are to be expected and that the best thing to do is just hold tight for a while and see whether they subside. When the side-effects emerged, that’s what I did.

Within a few days of starting the new dose I noticed nausea, increased anxiety and problems with my short-term memory. I persevered for six weeks to see whether these side-effects were just teething problems, but nothing changed. I can deal with the nausea – it’s not pleasant, but as long as I eat little and often and/or suck sweets or sip water, I can manage it. The memory problems were much more of an issue. I’m used to having a rather good memory, but now I find that I reach for information and what I get is fog, or that tasks and appointments are completely forgotten unless I write them down (and I don’t always have time to write them down before they’re forgotten.) That scares me. It’s really unhelpful, especially as I’m self-employed, and it’s really worrying considering that I will probably have to increase my dosage again in future and don’t know whether that will make things worse.

Knowing that short-term memory is affected by concentration and that my concentration has always been affected by increased anxiety, I went to the GP to ask if there was anything I could do to control the physical manifestations of the anxiety. I was given beta blockers, which made me so dizzy I couldn’t stand and then made me fall asleep.

As you can probably imagine, that wasn’t ideal for getting through daily life. I stopped taking the beta blockers and asked to be referred to a psychiatrist to help me find antidepressants that will keep me from being depressed and suicidal but will still leave me in a fit state to live  and work. In the meantime, I was already struggling with self-destructive behaviour patterns. I got married at the beginning of the summer and found myself caught up in a massive internal battle between my newfound happiness with my husband and the depressive part of my brain that tells me I’m not allowed to be happy and that everyone I love dies. (Yes, that is what my brain is like even when I am taking antidepressants.) In my infinite depressed wisdom I decided the drugs weren’t working so I wouldn’t bother taking them.

Well, that worked out predictably badly. My mental state deteriorated, I found myself relying more and more on the façade and increasingly scared of being around lots of people. I did a bit of self-sabotage. Then finally the sensible bit of my brain remembered that I’ve done all this before and that it might be wise to take my tablets. Just for a few days. So I went back on them and voila, the greyness started to retreat… taking my short-term memory with it and leaving anxiety and nausea in its place.

After that I began trying to work out a viable pattern. Halving the dose doesn’t give me enough to keep the depression fully at bay, but more than half lets the side-effects run riot. Taking one tablet every two days is the same as halving the dose. My next move is to re-time the alarms on my phone and try one tablet every 36 hours rather than every 24.

I also went back to the GP for something unrelated, but while I was there I asked how my referral to the psychiatric department was coming along. The GP looked in my notes. Nope, nothing there about a referral to see a psychiatrist – just some stuff about my time with the community psych nurses. Why, did I want to go back for more CBT with them?

No, I damn well didn’t. If I want to do CBT worksheets (which I don’t, because the way I learned to do CBT was much more free-flowing and didn’t rely on worksheets as if I were still in primary school) I can do that by myself. I can certainly do it with a hell of a lot less judgment than I encountered from the two community psych nurses I saw before deciding that this really wasn’t for me – all they seemed to want to do was contradict my existing diagnoses and do those bloody worksheets. (Forgive me if I don’t give much credence to their contradictions, but I’m more likely to trust an actual psychiatrist who gives a diagnosis based on considerable observation and proper assessment techniques than a psych nurse who bases it on a five minute conversation and the infallible logic and clinical analysis that says “you couldn’t possibly have had a personality disorder at 18, that’s far too young”.)

So no, there will be no more psych nurse visits for me. Perhaps there are excellent psych nurses out there, but I got burned twice in quick succession. Also, CBT is not the answer here. CBT helps me with day to day management of my mental health, but it does precisely nothing to cause my body to produce, transport and correctly absorb serotonin. It’s the drugs that do that, and it’s the drugs that are causing me problems so I need to talk to someone who, you know, knows about drugs. GPs are barely trained in psychiatric medicine, hence my request for the referral in the first place.

I explained all this to the GP who told me that she was new to the area and didn’t know what was available, but she’d find out and let me know. To her credit, she did – but her letter was deeply disheartening. Apparently my options are 1) go back to the psych nurses for more CBT worksheets, because somehow that’s going to achieve something and not just waste resources that might actually benefit someone else or 2) go to a private clinic for which details were enclosed.

I checked out the private clinic. All it offers is psychotherapy. I have found psychotherapy useful on many occasions, but this time I do not need a therapist to talk to. I need someone who can advise me about medication. A psychotherapist cannot do that. A psychologist cannot do that. Who can do that? A psychiatrist. I’m not asking to see a psychiatrist because I think they’re higher status than psych nurses or psychotherapists or because I want preferential treatment, I’m asking because they are the people qualified to do the thing I need them to do.

So realistically, my options are 1) continue with the medication and see how long it takes for me to get myself into trouble for forgetting something important or simply being paralysed with anxiety and unable to do things, 2) find a private psychiatrist and hope against hope that I find a good one first time because at their hourly rates there’s not much room for trial and error, or 3) come off the meds and see how long it takes for me to deteriorate to the point where I am hospitalized, because at least there’ll be psychiatrists in the Royal Edinburgh. That last one really scares me. So far I’ve always managed to avoid being put in hospital. Even first time round, when I absolutely couldn’t take care of myself, my parents looked after me at home. Even last time round, when I was breaking my own bones, I only ended up in general medical. It’s unknown and I’m scared of it, and it would be the ultimate confirmation that my mental health is not under my control. And the path to get there is really horrible and involves the risk that I’ll succeed in doing myself permanent or terminal damage before I succeed in finding help.

I’m not particularly keen on any of these options, but most of all I’m frustrated – not just by the lack of care available, but more than anything else by the fact that the GP doesn’t appear to know the difference between psychotherapy and psychiatry. This is one of the biggest and most exhausting obstacles that you face in dealing with the Crazy. The GP is your first port of call, and even if you can get them to believe you (easier with depression than with just about anything else, but still tricky) it’s a real struggle to get access to any help. You might be lucky and win the antidepressant Russian Roulette where the GP prescribes you whatever’s cheapest and it either works for you or it doesn’t, but if you lose, my current situation is about the best you can hope for. I don’t know where this will end and all I can do is hope I don’t lose too much along the way.

The option I choose, unsurprisingly, is to start looking for a private psychiatrist and hope I can find one who isn’t charging £300/session. I have to keep reminding myself that while the illness is forever, psych sessions are not (because, guess what, I don’t like them either – not a fan of anything that suggests I can’t deal with this entirely on my own). All I need is long enough to get advice and a new prescription. I’m very good at monitoring on my own and following up with GPs. All of this is about making that very first step. I wish it didn’t have to be the most difficult and disheartening step of all.

On Emerging

I haven’t yet seen Sylvia Dow’s A Beginning, A Middle and an End. My tickets are booked and I’m looking forward to seeing it when it reaches the Traverse.

My reasons are twofold. First, I have fond memories of Sylvia. I’ve no idea whether she would remember me, but back when I was 16 and still suffering from delusions of wanting to be a singer, she gave me my first major role in an amateur production of Viva Mexico. (Seriously. This is my version of a misspent youth.) So when I saw that she’d written a play I was keen to see it and to hope it’s going well for her. 

Second, even if I’d never met Sylvia I would be intrigued by the publicity surrounding her as a playwright having her first play produced at 73. This fact attracts a great deal of comment in the reviews I’ve seen, and it got me thinking about the culture of “emerging artists” and the expectation that “emerging” should be synonymous with “young”. Take this review from Mark Fisher, for example: Click! The final sentence really interests me, describing this play as “an auspicious, if tardy, debut”.

‘Tardy’ is a really interesting choice of word. Dictionary.com offers the definitions late; behind time; not on time; moving or acting slowly; slow; sluggish; delaying through reluctance. All of these have rather negative connotations – possibly not Mr Fisher’s intention, and I chose his review rather than any other because it happened to be the last one I read. What intrigues me is not the attitude of an individual reviewr but  how the word choice might indicate that we’ve internalised the idea that making one’s debut should happen during youth.

I don’t know Sylvia’s circumstances. I’ve no idea why her playwriting career is just beginning now. Maybe she was happily prioritising other things. Maybe she was languishing in a job she hated and working up the nerve to send out her script. Maybe she didn’t feel the need to express herself in this particular medium until recently. I don’t know.

I would only consider this to be a truly tardy debut if for some reason it should have happened earlier. If, for some reason, some administrative error or some failure to recognise her ability or some dastardly plot to keep her work from being programmed were at fault – if the work was there and ready to go but being held back by some outside agency when it should have been out there – then I might use the same phrase. But if someone makes a series of choices which lead to their beginning a playwriting career at 73, I’d rather use language that applauds them.

The question of what constitutes an emerging artist comes up again and again. Many schemes for emerging playwrights have upper age limits. The Traverse Young Writers group is for 18 – 25s, likewise the Royal Court. Old Vic New Voices only recently opened widened its age range so that you can now make it to the grand old age of 30 before you cease to be eligible.

When I look at publicity concerning new playwrights there’s frequently a mention of their age. Look at Ella Hickson, Lucy Prebble, Katori Hall, Mike Bartlett – just a few off the top of my head, all of whom were in their early to mid twenties when they experienced their first major successes. I remember when Enron came out, for example, much was made in the media of Lucy Prebble’s youth and precocity. It’s understandable that people look for human interest and I suppose age is a part of that, but I think there’s a real danger in the idea that producing work young is automatically a good thing. Some of the work produced by young playwrights is amazing. Some is not. There’s a lot more to it than age.

18 – 25 were turbulent years for me. I had my first major depressive episode at 18 and could barely put my socks on, let alone write. Just after I got back on my feet, my mother died. The following year, my father died and I was being watched for signs of pancreatic cancer. Eight months after that I was badly injured in a car accident. I had to spend two years living in my dead parents’ house because I had nowhere else to go while the estate was being wound up. By the time I was in a position to start rebuilding my life and training as a director, I was 24.

I’m now a few months away from my 30th birthday. Going by many people’s definition of ’emerging’, I’m either already past it or I’m about to be. Yet it took me until a couple of years ago to be able to write anything I felt I could submit, so in many ways I still feel like an emerging writer.

On the one hand, I’ve got a ton of valuable life experience. On the other hand, I’ve got all the angst that goes with it. That kind of life experience isn’t necessarily something that you can put to use straight away. For a long time I found that it was just to painful to write anything truthful. Even if the subject matter wasn’t directly related to my own experiences, I couldn’t put my characters through anything really difficult because I couldn’t bear to subject anyone to the same levels of pain that I had been through, even if they were fictional. Writing plays where nothing too bad happens to anyone doesn’t really get you that far, since conflict drives drama.

Or I would go to the other extreme and write deeply tortured work, trying to understand why I had to go through so much, trying to make sense of my grief. I still have the things I wrote then. At this moment I think it’s unlikely that I’ll ever share them, because some things are just too raw and too personal. There’s no way I could handle criticism on that stuff, especially not from anyone who hasn’t had similar experiences.  Perhaps I’ll change my mind someday, but I’m not convinced that that will ever be for public consumption.

The bits and pieces that I wrote during that time added up to nothing complete. My focus was too narrow – I would write scene after scene going over the same ideas, because my focus was on making sense of my experience rather than creating a narrative that could be understood from the outside. Working my way past that stage took time, so I didn’t have a completed play to my name until I was 28.

Sometimes that makes me feel ancient, slow, somehow less worthy than all these people who were produced playwrights before they turned 23. It makes me feel that if I had only worked harder, applied myself more, I could have done that too.

Realistically, I know I couldn’t. Being an only child dealing with the emotional and administrative nightmare of dying parents is… well, time-consuming, amongst other things. My dedication and application weren’t really the issue. At 21, my priority was making sure my dad’s final months were as painless as possible. My head was full of Power of Attorney and Do Not Resuscitate and morphine:sedative ratios. Shaping anything I wrote into something worth reading would have required energy I simply didn’t have. And as for being trapped in their house, surrounded by memories and devoid of other options… it’s creatively stifling, to say the least. If you can’t imagine why, think yourself lucky.

Anyway, all this is to say that for me, getting anywhere with my writing when I was under 25 was simply not on the cards. Even without my slightly melodramatic circumstances, it’s quite possible that for some people it simply takes a while to find their way onto that path. Priorities change. People change. Perhaps it would be healthy to respect and even celebrate that, rather than clinging to this slightly X-Factor-ish idea that people are “born” to do something and work towards it all their lives, never letting anything get in their way. Really, how many of us can honestly lay claim to that? Passion is no less true because you discover or acknowledge it later in life, and only a privileged few don’t encounter any major setbacks along the way.

I realise that in order for support for artists to exist there are always going to be categories and that most of the time these will be pretty arbitrary. It’s imperfect, but it’s part of life and all we can do is look for ways to keep improving things. That said, I think it’s worth keeping an eye on the tiny, subtle judgements and values that sneak their way into our thoughts, revealing themselves every so often in the words we use and the way we respond to things.

That’s a lot of words to say “Why can’t we just judge writers by their writing rather than their life stories?”, but I don’t write these posts just to throw questions out into the void. Nor do I write them thinking that I’ll reach an answer on the first attempt. I write this and leave it here, perhaps to be unpicked further after these current thoughts have percolated for a while. In the meantime, I’ll continue to look forward to seeing Sylvia’s show later this month.

Buzz buzz

My mum had a fantastic way of describing me – “her head’s full of bees and they’re all buzzing”.

It’s true. The inside of my head is a noisy place. Now it has a name and I know a bit more about Attention Deficit, distractability and hyperfocus, but having lived with it so long and never having experienced anything else… it’s just my brain. That’s just what it’s like.

On the one hand, as I’ve mentioned here before, the hyperfocus element can be remarkably useful. It has led to some fantastic writing binges. It can also lead to some horrible bouts of writer’s block. I’m not sure how other people experience writer’s block, never having been in anyone else’s head, but for me it’s not a lack of ideas. If there’s one thing I have never been, it’s lacking in ideas.

No, for me writer’s block is the sensation of being trapped beneath an avalanche of ideas, trying to claw my way out. I feel like I’m trapped in that moment of inception, it just happens again and again and again. I end up with snippets scribbled on bits of paper, random pages of notebooks, Word documents – I’ve got a whole folder where most of the documents don’t contain more than a sentence or two, because I can’t get past that stage.

When that happens I have a couple of options. If I don’t have a deadline to meet and there’s no strong contender forcing me to work on it, I can give in to the randomness for a while. I read, go on long Wiki walks, watch films, listen to music, watch my cat, hang around in busy places. I keep my notebook to hand (or at least in my handbag) and scribble things down in the hope that at some point one of them will demand my attention. The important thing is to keep going, because when I stop, when I try to ignore the ideas and not work on anything I get stressed and upset. My idea of hell is a long train journey with no pen, netbook or phone to make notes on. When I’m really in the depths I feel better if I have my fingers on a keyboard for as much of the day as possible. It’s just comforting to know it’s there. It used to be a notebook and pen that gave me that comfort, but times change…

The other option is to try and force a writing frenzy. I can pick one of the existing ideas from the Folder of Single Sentences and try to find the right place in my head for it. I need its soundtrack or a particular physical location that I can work in, or I need the right voices in the background.

(Voices in the background are why I watch TV while I write. My television has never been tuned in and probably never will be because the voices can’t just be random, I need particular ones and I need them until I’m done. When I was younger I would achieve this effect by watching the same film over and over again. When I got a bit older I discovered American television with its massive long seasons, so now I’ll happily put a box set and settle down to 20+ episodes of the right voices. The voices keep the bits of my brain that aren’t working on writing occupied, which means they don’t whine and tug at the sleeve of the bits that are. I have no idea if this makes sense to other people, but trust me – I struggle to work in silence, as my every school report can attest.)

If I can find the right sounds and feelings, I can trigger a writing binge that will either last long enough to flesh out an idea, taking it to a place where I can continue to work on it bit by bit, or I’ll finish the first draft in one go. The latter makes my life much easier, since it means I have a sense of actually having finished something. If I don’t finish the draft all at once, it means there’s a strong chance of my becoming distracted by the sound of the other bees and moving on without ever getting it finished.

The partial first drafts annoy me much more than the single sentence ideas. This is because every time I try to trigger a writing frenzy on the same subject, it becomes a bit harder. I struggle to recapture that initial fervour. Those bees don’t buzz as loudly as the new, shiny, unlistened-to bees.

The best feeling comes from the organic, unforced frenzy, when I simply get caught up and can’t stop. But those are comparatively rare, and we all know that the work can’t be dependent on perfect conditions or nothing ever gets done.

For the past couple of months I’ve been struggling with the buzzing. Perfect conditions certainly aren’t happening, and forcing the frenzy hasn’t really been an option as it’s my busiest time of year and I can’t just drop everything because the characters are chattering. So mostly I’ve been writing reviews. Reviews have deadlines, structure, discipline. These are not usually things that I like.

Yet something is working. Despite August being busier than any other month, despite assuming that my creative writing would have to take a back seat to reviewing and performing, I find I’ve done more work on existing ideas in August than I did in the previous three months combined. I have some material for the as-yet-unnamed children’s novel. I have a much clearer idea of where the current play is going and a new completed 15 minute piece. Randomly, I have a plot and the beginnings of a script for a webcomic.

Constraints bring clarity. I should know this, it’s one of the things I say all the time in Affectable. Sometimes having that discipline in one area of your life frees you up to be creative in another. I wouldn’t say I’ve found exactly the right balance yet, and considering that there’s a lot of emotional stuff going on at the moment (dead parents, as ever) I don’t expect that I will in the immediate future. But I feel closer to it than I have done previously, and I’m enjoying the constraints of having to marshal my thoughts and present them in a way that makes sense to other people. That goes beyond just reviewing, that goes for blogging too. As we approach October I’ll be interested to monitor what effect the ninth anniversary of my Mum’s death has on my creativity and my ability to blog here. I might set myself a couple of challenges in this regard.

We’ll see. I’m certainly not committing myself to anything publicly at nearly 2am and under the influence of the Fringe. I have a tendency to convince myself that I’m invincible at this time of year. There’s been sunlight and theatre and nothing can possibly ever go wrong. Best to wait until my feet touch the ground again before I say more.


A friend who reads this blog recently asked me whether I’m concerned about the possible repercussions of writing as candidly as I do. (That might make my friend sound a bit judgemental – that’s not the case, I believe she was asking out of curiosity, not judgement, and she knows me well enough to know I’d take it that way.) The answer is ‘not really’.

Perhaps I should be, since this is a public blog on my personal site and I don’t make the slightest effort to conceal my identity. But to be honest, you won’t read anything here that I wouldn’t tell you in person, and if you asked about it I’d tell you on pretty short acquaintance. If I’m open about it in person, why not online?

There was a time when I worried about what people would think of me if they knew I had mental health problems. I would never actively conceal it, but I wasn’t as relaxed about it as I am now. For a while I stumbled through conversations making vague references to ‘illness’ and ‘being unwell’, trusting that people wouldn’t enquire further. They didn’t, but I found I wasn’t comfortable with keeping the waters muddy on purpose.

It’s difficult not to talk about it when you have these problems. I don’t mean that I spill the whole story to every passing stranger, but I’ve been dealing with it for over a decade and I’ve lost large chunks of time to the Crazy. There are gaps in my CV, my educational history and my life story due to non-functioning headspace, and if I’m getting to know someone it means that sooner or later they’ll start to notice that the chronology of my life doesn’t make much sense without context. My options are 1) redirect the conversation if it goes anywhere near the subject, 2) gloss over it by making the aforementioned vague references, or 3) tell the truth, with or without all the gory details.

I prefer the truth. I spent long enough being uncomfortable with all of this and fearing other people’s judgement. Keeping things vague only keeps people at arm’s length, and feeling that no-one knows or understands me feeds into the low moods during depressive episodes. Yes, it’s a leap of faith every time. No, I’m not always happy with the results. But on balance, it’s worth it. I can deal with the occasional bit of judgement in exchange for having other people open up in response to me.

As for whether this blog will ever hinder me professionally, I don’t know. Once again I find that I don’t really worry about it. I’m a self-employed artist and I choose to work with people who are likely to have experienced these things themselves or seen them at close quarters. The levels of judgement are reasonably low. Perhaps that wouldn’t be the case elsewhere in the industry, on the commercial side where the focus is more on business than art, but the choices I’ve made mean that I’m unlikely to find out first-hand.

More importantly, some of us have to take the chance. Talking openly about something that’s stigmatised will always put you at risk of being subject to that stigma. It’s not for everyone, but these days I’m feeling secure and supported enough to do it. I know how lucky I am to have that – there have been times in my life when I haven’t had that support and I know how much harder it makes things to be dealing with it alone. Every judgement, every bad day seems a hundred times worse. I haven’t forgotten that, and that’s why I feel the need to reach out from where I am now in the hope that it does some good. It helps me more to focus on that than to let myself go down the route of giving too much thought to what people I’ve never met or barely know think of me. If writing this costs me a job, I doubt it’s a job that would have lasted.

The Introductory Post

I am Jen and I am an artist.

Confession time: I rewrote that first sentence again and again before settling on that form of words, because there’s still a bit of me that struggles with applying the word ‘artist’ to myself. If that kind of internal struggle/level of wankiness distresses you, you might want to leave this page now because it’s only going to get worse.

I direct, write, act, and dabble in film, music, poetry and cross-platform work. Theatre is my first love and it’s where most of my energy goes. If you had asked me a few years ago I would have said that I wanted to work in mainstream theatre – regional houses, West End, well-known material, straightforward stuff. Then I spent a couple of years in London and discovered forms of theatre that I had never imagined. My horizons expanded exponentially and I found myself deeply dissatisfied with much of the work I had wanted to do before.

That’s not to say that I never want to touch a canon play again. Quite the opposite. I believe that if you’re going to work with new writing and experimental techniques, working with classic texts keeps you in touch with the things that make plays work. What I want to change, first in my own practice and then in a more widespread way, is the approach – rehearsal and performance techniques, interplay between disciplines and most importantly, ways of thinking.

I came back to Edinburgh and reshaped my company, Tightlaced. I started building an ensemble of actors with whom I could share Affectable Acting, the technique I had learned from Aileen Gonsalves during my time at Mountview. I began talking to those actors about their ways of working, the challenges that face them and the skills they need. I spoke to other directors and writers about why we make the work that we do and how to strike a balance between the need to build our CVs and the breathing space our work needs in order to fulfil its potential.

Those conversations are still ongoing and probably always will be, because we need to keep analysing and learning and improving if we want to be better artists. And if you don’t want to be a better artist, why bother being one at all?

That’s where the struggle begins. This kind of artistic introspection was not part of my upbringing. I grew up with the idea that theatre is for entertainment, acting is just pretending and being an artist is about god-given and indisputable talent that you don’t really need to work at. I went to schools that didn’t offer drama or music as subjects or clubs. I was specifically banned from doing them outside of school during my exam years (not that that stopped me). I didn’t know anyone who was in a position to tell me what being an artist is actually like, that there are grey areas all over the place and the development of your skills is never-ending.

It wasn’t until I reached my 20s that I began to realise any of this. It wasn’t just a case of getting older and wiser, it was also the result of my parents dying. I found myself with massive freedom, because when you no longer have a family you don’t have to explain what you’re spending your time on to them any more. But on the flip side, I had a mass of emotions to deal with, constantly trying to outrun a tidal wave of grief and feeling that I was betraying my parents every time I did something they wouldn’t have approved of or would have been suspicious of, such as enjoying experimental theatre. It took me a long time to wrap my head around the idea that if they had lived, I would have done plenty of things they didn’t approve of and that actually, in the long run, they wouldn’t have minded as long as what I was doing wasn’t making me unhappy. They were good people who (much as they struggled with this sometimes because, well, they were parents) understood that their daughter would live her own life.

I’m not writing all of this to gain your sympathy. I’m writing it because my non-artsy background and dead parents are two very significant influences on my development and path. With a different upbringing and/or a less bumpy entry into adulthood, I might have learned about various things sooner and taken a different, perhaps more conventional route. Then again, maybe not, because I’m quite stubborn and wilful and prefer to learn from my own mistakes, so I usually find a way to take the more difficult, less direct path.

That’s why I’ve titled this blog “The Scenic Route”. That’s what my Mum used to call it when we got lost – “taking the scenic route”. We always got there in the end, and quite often we discovered new, interesting things along the way. It’s a decent metaphor for my life (although my husband is certain to mock me mercilessly if he reads this). I know where I want to be, but I’m taking the scenic route and it’s time I owned it as a choice.

So I’m writing this blog with Future Jen in mind, the future equivalent of the Jen who would have benefited from a frank account of what it’s like to be on this path rather than the over-simplified success stories that you read in newspapers and magazines. I’m writing in the hope that this will lead to discussion with other artists. I’m writing because writing has always been the best way to get my mind into some kind of order, and since I’ve always felt the compulsion to share and blogs provide a means for sharing, that’s what I’m going to do. This will be an account, an exploration and whatever else I feel the need to let it be.