Guess what? Me.
On life writing, having notions and casting things out into the light.
Not Leeds Festival, but a camping trip from the same era. The camera! Look at what we were dealing with!
One university summer, back in the days when I had nothing to worry about beyond my next overpriced pint of Carling, I packed a tent and headed to Leeds Festival with some friends. While we were enjoying the early noughties delights on offer - The White Stripes, The Darkness and, somewhat incongruously, 50 Cent - one of the lads came up with a joke about a mutual friend who was quite keen on talking about themselves.
“Guess what?” he’d say, apropos of nothing.
“What?”
“ME!” he’d reply, and cackle.
“Guess-what-me” became the catchphrase of the weekend - even the person it was directed at started saying it (bit awkward). And it was funny, because nothing is more triggering than a person who can’t stop going on about themselves. Amirite? I mean, having something to say and wanting people to hear it? All that confidence? Euuurgh. And so I laughed along, knowing that as long as I was laughing at someone else I wouldn’t have to think about my own crippling brand of early-20s worthlessness.
Hahahahaha. Hahaha. Ha.
In Ireland, there’s an expression: notions. Hilarious Irish TikToker Garron Noone explains it best as “the worst label a person can be branded with.” Someone with notions is, Garron says, “full of themselves, fond of themselves, shows any kind of individuality or has thought about themselves at all in any way.” Wearing a scarf when it isn’t cold enough to warrant one? Notions. Owning a full-length mirror? Notions. Coming back from London with a taste for avocado? Notions. It’s far from oat milk ye were rared.
Garron kills me. Understand notions fully here.
The concept of ‘notions’ has ruled my life; it’s one of the main reasons I didn’t write for years. But in 2020, stunned and galvanized by my mum’s sudden death, I went back to writing. I couldn’t even say it was something I actively chose rather than something I had to do. Life was cast in a new, urgent light; I felt bulletproof.
Life, though, has a funny way of bringing you back down to earth and, over time, uncertainty crept back in. Who was I to think I had anything to say? But fair play, I kept on (albeit furtively, beyond closed doors), knowing at least on an intellectual level that society has well-practised, highly-effective means of keeping women - particularly working-class women - quiet. Then I started entering writing competitions, safe in the knowledge that the odds of winning or even being listed were miniscule.
Imagine my shock - and subsequently, my horror - when I was listed for something and my words were out there for people to read. Imagine the sickness-inducing shame of receiving a flurry of furious WhatsApps from a relative horrified by my crossing of an invisible line. Writing down your thoughts and feelings? Airing dirty linen? Notions, notions, notions!
(I mean, this makes it sound like I’ve written something loud and sexy and outrageous rather than a book about, err, the trauma Irish people in Britain face from generations of displacement and the lack of a concrete identity or sense of home! but I digress!)
When I signed with a literary agent this summer, I thought momentarily about making a big fanfare of an announcement before reverting to my usual modus operandi (“Notions. Best not.”) I know I’m in a position many writers envy but, truthfully, I’m holding my breath. There are too many things that could go wrong. What if the book doesn’t sell? What if it does sell and I get more furious WhatsApps? Am I resilient enough for snotty comments on Goodreads and 1-star Amazon reviews?
Lately, I’ve been very taken with the ‘Museum of Failures’ social media trend. People post a short video of themselves overlaid with text detailing things that’ve gone wrong in their lives. The failures range from the heavy (“I live my life based on external validation rather than alignment”) to the somewhat relatable (“I’ve written off three cars”) to the lighthearted (“My dressing gown is manky”). God, they felt daring! I even toyed with the idea of making one myself before - you guessed it - notions.
Here’s @finestimaginary’s offering for Museum of Failures.
I also *relished* a recent Instagram post from author Megan Nolan. In it, she writes about crying on the phone to her dad after a “painful” review of her novel Ordinary Human Failings. “The main feeling was embarrassment - it’s awful to feel exposed and to feel the shame of your stupidity and inadequacy explored at such length,” she writes, her words accompanied by screenshots of the snipey review. She finishes the post with “It’s bad timing because I’m starting a new book just now and I don’t want to hold onto this privately!”
I found this flipping REVELATORY. You can cast the bad thing out into the light! It doesn’t have to be a horrible dirty secret gnawing away at your insides! By putting it out there, you can hear what others have to say; listen to how they might reframe the terrible, shameful thing. “I’d rather be an artist crying on the phone to my dad than a respected critic any day of the week,” one person replied. “There’s real risk in making a world.” Just…wow, and yes, and wow.
WHERE AM I GOING WITH ALL THIS? Well, for my first Substack, I couldn’t think of a better topic to write about than the dichotomy between the life writer’s desire to tell the story vs the urge to hide away under a rock. I think many life writers (or maybe just…writers?) can relate. Interviewing author Freya Bromley for Projecting Grief, I asked her why she writes. “Because the story burns a hole,” she replied. I’ve thought about those words a LOT since then. I don’t think I’ve found a more perfect or succinct way to explain the overriding need to tell a particular story.
I might not have made my own Museum of Failures (yet). But I have written something here. I have deliberately shared it. I’m keeping on keeping on, a bit less furtively, the door cranked open a little wider.
And I’ve called it ‘Guess what? Me’ (and named myself @fullofherself) as a way of casting out the bad thing - being accused of having notions - into the light.
Yeah, I’m full of myself. What of it? Aren’t we all?
Reading:
Truth & Beauty: A Friendship, Ann Patchett. About the platonic love shared by two writer friends, as well as their vulnerabilities as they ride the creative rollercoaster of success and despair. No fear of having notions here! American writers are so good at not being embarrassed about memoir; I am in awe of your confidence (rather than condemning ye for yer notions)!
Listening to:
Annie MacManus’ podcast Changes. Yes, I’m late to the party, but Annie seems to have interviewed everyone I’m even vaguely interested in - plus some people I didn’t know were interesting but are. Go figure. I think my top three episodes are Jayde Adams, Sinéad Gleeson and Charlotte Church. It’s currently on hiatus but there are tonnes of old episodes to work through (ooo, and she’s just started a Substack: Changes with Annie Macmanus).
Watching:
I’ve finished The Bear and now feel bereft. I’ve made a Spotify playlist featuring a lot of REM, which is helping a bit. I also watched Will & Harper on Netflix about Will Ferrell’s roadtrip across the US with his friend and writer (and trans woman) Harper Steele. Yes, I’ve read the Guardian review calling it flawed, but personally I thought it was funny, messy, brilliant and came from a Really Good Place.
Moment of appreciation for Carmy’s arms, please. Thank you, People Magazine, for these “sizzling snaps”.
Social media reccy:
Relevant to this week’s theme of bringing the bad things out into the light, I just wanted to say I’m a big fan of Confident Lass Kirsty Hulse and the way she deals with snarky comments on her LinkedIn posts:
HI MARK!
Back soon x
I’m Laura McDonagh and I’m a second-generation Irish writer from the north-east of England.
My work explores memory, grief, social class, how place and identity intersect, being Irish in Britain, the 90s (💖) and more.
Subscribe to my Substack ‘Guess what? Me’ and I will love you forever IDEMT.xxx