I quit my job.

Four innocent little words that strung together have the same potency as a Hiroshima shaped nuke aimed straight at my family. I’m pretty sure my mum had heart failure. My wife definitely swallowed her tongue while trying to blink her way through the wide-eyed horror. Even my dad – who’d spent the last eighteen months telling me to quit – had a momentary aneurysm at the news.

No one thought I’d quit.

Hell, I didn’t even think I’d quit.

But on March 5th 2019, I found myself sat at a canteen table, both my managers staring back at me. One of them knew. Maybe it was written in the glint in my eye or the tremor in my hands. Perhaps it’s just that somethings are inevitable. Somethings you can taste like the cut of thunder in the air before it arrives.

I didn’t even open my mouth.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” he said.

I was.

Clutching a piece of paper with a single line of text printed on it, I uttered those fateful words, “I’m handing in my notice.”

Ironic really, that as a writer I’m struggling to capture the emotion I felt in what has to be one of the most momentous points of my life. I’ve worked in local government for eight years. Eight very long years. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with my organisation, more that I personally wasn’t suited to working in a conservative organisation with more than its fair share of bureaucracy. But hey, it taught me things too. Lots.Of.Things…

Things I Did Learn!

• I have a deep seated aversion to authority
• A healthy thirst for subverting any – and all – rules thrust upon me
• I point blank refuse to be anything other than myself at all times
• And while I can toe the line and do diplomacy and small ‘p’ politics, I’d rather stab myself in the eye than swallow anything inappropriate I’ve got to say

The Universe Listens, Be careful What You Say

Sat at the canteen table, eight years of emotions swirled in my chest. I’d wanted to leave more or less from the moment I arrived which was:

416 weeks (2920 days or 70,080 hours) ago. Seventy THOUSAND hours of doing something I didn’t want to.

I guess sometimes you don’t know what you want, to find out, you’ve got to do something you don’t.

I’d spent the entire of 2018 saying 2019 was going to be my year. Without being too philosophical about this, I honestly think the universe listens. If you say something enough – and you’re willing to put the sweaty, frequent tear-gushing, sleepless nights into it – then you will manifest it. Think of it as a self-fulfilling prophecy if you like. Granted when saying it I had no idea 2019 would actually lead me to quit my job. I’d assumed I’d cut hours down and be financially better off. Not once did I think I’d leave. And yet, I blindly stumbled down the path of writing with a singled minded obsession of getting out, of being ‘free’. And here I am. Writing a blog post I never thought I’d write. Trying to capture what an eight year fight for freedom was like.

I should have listened to my friend back in November. When booking a writing retreat to Dubrovnik for June 2019, she said she had a feeling I’d be writing full-time. I laughed in her face, literally. Had she lost her fucking mind? At that point in November, there was no possible way I could write full time. Yet, just three months later, I was sliding that piece of paper across the table. It’s eye-wateringly shocking to me that I can shift my life that fast and that extensively in such a short period of time. November I was staring down an eternal barrel of doom, depression and demoralising slavery. And then, just as suddenly, I wasn’t.

The Intangible Tangible

I still can’t get my head around it. As I write this, I’m sitting in my office – something else I didn’t think I’d have having spent the last five years on the diningroom table – sipping a coffee, the patter of rain splattering the cobbles outside. I still can’t believe I’m here. I don’t know how to adequately convey the inexplicable swell of joy my chest.

Looking back it all seems so close and yet ethereally far away at the same time. Memories are funny like that. So tangible in a wholly transulcent way. Capturing the wrenching pain of the last eight years seems fruitless. But I’m going to try if for no other reason than to encourage someone reading this to take the first step in their journey. Life is too short to be in pain.

The Past

I used to wake up every day knowing I had to spend the majority of my day doing something that made my skin crawl and my heart bleed.

Every day, every email, my chest ached writing anything corporate instead of fantastical. Such a simple task – penning an email, yet it caused me a kind of physical hurt. A searing pain that made me want to scream and cry. I wasn’t doing what my soul wanted nor what my purpose for being alive was.

Out of Body Pain

I’m not being dramatic when I say that some days were like out of body experiences. I could feel myself climb out of my body and sit on the floor beside my office chair. I have these strange memories of metaphysical me on the floor clasping her hands around her knees and rocking, quietly moaning and sobbing and clawing at her face. There were weeks (yes, plural), where I cried every day. Be it in a toilet, or a tree, or a corridor. I wept because I hurt. Because I was frustrated and because there was a thing so beautiful and so pure beating inside me but it was trapped in a cage with bureaucracy and monotonous paper pushing bars.

Each day I tortured myself with continuous clock watching. I counted down the hours and minutes until I could walk out the doors and yet with every tick I knew I’d have to come back the next day. That was the worst bit, knowing there was no way out, no light at the end of the tunnel.

Even now, sat at my desk with freedom in my heart, there’s a pull. A gnawing fear in my gut that someone is going to turn around and say, “Only joking silly girl, off you go back to work.” I know that cold slick of fear when I go to sleep at night will take a while to disappear. I’m okay with that. I’ll use it, turn the fear into motivation and drive to create more, earn more, do more. There’s no way I’m going back to employment, not until my cold, dead body is ash and rot.

Hope is Insidious

If there was one defining trait that represented humanity, hope would be it. But hope is a tricky little bastard. It helps you keep going. Gives you the fuel and drive to keep pushing and fighting for the thing you desire. And all the while it reminds you that you don’t have the thing you want. Like the carrot on the end of the proverbial stick, hope is unreachable because, of course, once you get the thing you want, you no longer need hope. And in the meantime, while it’s driving you forward, the slippery bastard is also pushing you down and cheese grating reminders of what you want all over your consciousness.

This is a horrific photo of myself. And you might wonder why on earth I’d share it. Well, I’m sharing it because it’s the ugly truth and sometimes the truth is needed.

I took this photo the day before my son’s 4th birthday. November 29th, 2017. It was my lowest point, it’s not a pretty selfie, it’s not even pleasant to look at. Everytime I look at it it sends a shiver of fear-laced pain down my spine. I never want to go back there. I never want to be her again.

It was a wake up call. When I looked at the photo I was shocked at the amount of pain etched into my skin, I didn’t even recognize the girl in the photo. So I kept it as a reminder – I had to get out. I had to keep fighting because otherwise, it was going to kill me.

Want to know what it looks like when you choose not to follow your dream? This is it. Take it from me, you have to do what your soul craves. You have to pursue it until you get it. Because the alternative is  mental prison… This is what a cage does to a person.

I was broken.

Completely and utterly cored out until all that was left was a battered shell, empty eyes and an aching heart.

But Still, I Didn’t Quit

And you shouldn’t either.

I could have quit. Believe me. Right there in that moment I wobbled. I wondered if it was all worth it. If the pain of wanting something so much and not being able to reach it was worth the anguish, the hurt and the grind. But what other choice did I have? Quit? Then what? Continue in a life I hated. There was no choice because I couldn’t quit. If I quit, I lost. And even in that broken state, I wasn’t about to be beaten.

So I carried on. This is my message to you.

Keep Fighting

I returned to my laptop night after night. Weary, exhausted and with no light at the end of the tunnel, and I kept writing anyway. I created affirmations and goals, I studied the craft relentlessly, listened to podcasts. Sacrificed more things in order to make more time. I trimmed down what I was doing until I was left with only the tasks and projects I knew would help me leave work. If you’re interested, I’ll write more about my strategy in later posts.

I’d love to tell you that an offer suddenly came through or my books became a roaring success over night. But that shit is for Cinderella and fairytales. This might be a dream come true, but it certainly isn’t a fairytale. Dreams are two parts gritty-sweat-fuelled hard work and one part time.

It was 17 months after that photo before I was in a position to quit.

S.E.V.E.N.T.E.E.N. MONTHS of clawing my way out of a hole. Of gritting my teeth and pushing on anyway. But I made it.

The Luck Myth

And that’s why I don’t believe in luck. Luck is a bullshit myth made up for the lazy and unmotivated. If you’re sitting here reading this thinking she’s so lucky to be free and working from home. Give yourself a slap and wake up sister. Luck doesn’t exist. I’ll tell you what luck is, luck is working two full time jobs, it’s obsession and unwavering belief you can do something even without a shred of proof that it’s possible. It’s working until midnight so many nights on the trot you’ve forgotten what bedtime is. It’s grit. It’s single-mindedness. It’s getting up when you fall down. Hard fucking work is what luck is made of. And trust me, if I’m capable of leaving my job and following my dream, so are you.

Truly. I believe it. You just need to too.

This might be a dream come true, but it certainly isn't a fairytale. Dreams are two parts gritty-sweat-fuelled hard work and one part time. #Amwriting #IARTG #writingcommunity #indieauthor
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The post I Quit My Job – Lessons in Perseverance: the Good, the Bad and the Ugly appeared first on Sacha Black.

I am going to run a series of writing tips posts, and a series of writing inspiration posts. As an aspiring writer myself, I am constantly researching and reading other peoples blogs and tips, so I figured why not share the nuggets of wisdom I’ve found for all the other aspiring writers out there.

Scene Lists –

When drawing up your novel structure, something to think about is a scene list – akin to an outline – it helps to formalise the order and details of your scenes – in order. If you use a spreadsheet or table it also makes it super easy to rearrange them. Plus when you need to quickly remember your story – or certain aspects this sheet will provide an easy to read, easy to navigate summary for you.

Key things to include in your scene structure:

• Chapter title
• Chapter number
• Summary sentences of content / key action points
• Proposed word count
• Actual word count
• Scene location
• Any foreshadowing

Theres a link here to nine famous authors scene charts.

The post Write Tips #1 Scene Lists appeared first on Sacha Black.

I am attempting to take more time for me now that I am beginning to get some semblance of routine back into my life. With work just round the corner an the end of my maternity approaching, I am trying to think more about myself and where I want to go. I don’t want baby black to grow up with a miserable mother – just because I carried on doing a ‘job’ that pays the bills. I want to be a role model for him, to show him if you want something bad enough you can do it, you just have to work hard. So, now I have a fixed laptop, it is time to crack on with my writing course. Incase anyone else fancies themselves a writing course you can find it here.

So my first assignment, and piece of writing I had to do was a piece of descriptive writing. I thought I would share it with you. It was an observational piece, and we had to choose somewhere of interest and describe it. Feel free to comment if you like:

In the distance an aeroplane rumbled, and I strained to find the contrail jutting out of its rear. Unable to see it, I meandered down the twisted wisteria walkway instead. This was the aisle I was meant to walk down on my wedding day. Sighing, I stroked one of the baby branches arching over the walkway and was surprised to find it furry and covered in moss; my fingers tingled at its touch. Its elder looked down watching it grow, bark as wrinkly as a grandmothers.

The gravel crunched under my feet, as I continued down the path. I halted as I glimpsed a hint of the pillar-box red oriental bridge in the distance. Veering off the walkway I headed towards the bridge to stand at the edge of the lake, I heard the quacking of a pair of ducks paddling in the pond, and the roar of a waterfall pounded the jagged rocks surrounding it. Staring at the pool beneath the waterfall, I wondered whether mermaids lived in the murky midnight blue depths.

I stepped around the end of the walkway into a huge open space covered in a blanket of green grass. It felt like I was entering a magical world. A towering pagoda stood peacefully amongst the trees and boulders around it. If you listened hard enough you could almost hear the clip clop of geisha shoes, and the flapping of kimono fabric in the wind. Poised at my feet, stood a single flower flecked with pink ready to battle the first frosts of spring like a samurai preparing for war. 

I inhaled deeply, and the sharp air cut my throat as it whipped my fringe into my glasses. I pulled my jacket tighter to protect myself from the chilly air and walked through the dewy grass towards the aged mansion at the top of the gardens. I placed my hands on the filigree garden gate, and shivered as the icy metal bit my fingers. A delicate spiders web quivered in the breeze lonely without its eight-legged owner. The stately gardens behind the gate were pruned to perfection, with chess shaped bushes and neat lines surrounding the majestic fountain centerpiece.  

Springs first sunshine kissed the mansions sandy colored bricks. Terracotta turrets bulged out of the roof, and evergreen coloured ivy crept boldly up the walls.  I walked away imagining wartime evacuees waving behind the mansions enormous square windows and running through the great rooms inside.

The post Writing appeared first on Sacha Black.

The thing is, we ask for advice even when we don’t really need it, don’t really want it and then, we don’t really follow it!

I have a bee in my bonnet about this because I annoy myself asking for advice.

Why do I do it?

I… Infact WE all already know the answer. Don’t we?

For example:

Should I go out tonight?

Even though your asking with a little wry smile you already know your going, so why do we bloody ask?

Should I eat a second bar of chocolate?

No Sach, of course you shouldn’t, because once you do, your guna be wracked with guilt over the calories you have guzzled, feel guilty, fat and then reach for a third bar to console yourself – why do I do it? I just shouldn’t ask because I already know the answer!

The real irritation I have with asking for advice is really, deep down, we’re all just looking for self justification. It’s kind of arrogant! We want everyone else to agree and justify what we want to do, even when we know it’s a bad idea.

Oh what should I do? – my (fictional) boyfriends cheated on me… again – should I take him back? I mean he is really sorry this time.

Why can’t we just be confident in our decisions? In what we already know we are going to do. Why do we pretend and deny that we haven’t made our minds up?! The moment I ask for advice I’ve already made my mind up. I know it, whoever I’m asking knows it too. Yet we both persist in dancing around the perpetual advice fence: you justify whatever course of action you really want to take, and the person giving advice rolls around the reasons why it’s a bad idea.

What’s the point? Waste of air.

AND…. Even when we do get advice we never bloody follow it! Humans are awful at following advice. We all give it, and even when we ask our dear friends what they would tell themselves, we still don’t follow it!

So – I decided –

Fuck advice, I already know what I want to do….

I have been searching for the right writing course for two years, the course to give me the right knowledge to finish my novel and kick start what I hope will be a writing career – my dream.

Why I thought to ask whether or not to do it I have no idea. I only got annoyed with what I heard, because really, all I wanted was confirmation I was doing the right thing, and who can actually give me that? No one but me!

Yes it’s 350 quid, but I can pay it over a few months, yes I have a newborn. But so what. Who do I actually need to justify it to?

Does having an infant mean my life goes on hold? That my dreams stop?No. More to the point, if I did put my life on hold, what kind of role model is that for my child? Do I want him to learn that you can be lazy and find excuses not to follow your dreams? Or do I want him to know that he has to work, hard, play hard and never give up….

So, I’ll ignore the pessimism, stop asking for advice and do it anyway. My money, my time, my choice.

I might be, covered in sick, soaked in pee, stinking of baby poop, slightly delirious, and temporarily daisy the milking cow, but that doesn’t mean I can’t follow my dreams…..

Even if I have to do it one handed, smelling of baby fluids and caked in puke. Failing that I’ll do it in the bath once the boys asleep!

The post Tales of Advice appeared first on Sacha Black.