I’ve been Googling…

‘What’s it like to launch…’

The first thing that came up was ‘what’s it like to launch a nuclear missile?’ I have questions, so many questions… who needs to know this? Why? And is Trump being supervised when he is at the computer?

The next result was ‘what’s it like launch into space’, and while this little side quest was full of fascinating facts, and I can highly recommend checking out Cady Coleman, an American Chemist, Engineer, former US Air Force Colonel and retired NASA Astronaut if you want to know more, it wasn’t the question I was asking.

Nor did I want to know how to launch a business, a rocket or, bizarrely, run a supermarket. (I’ve been binge-watching Superstore with the fabulous Lauren Ash and America Ferrera, so I could pretty much run Morrisons already, I reckon.)

The thing I wanted to know was ‘What is it like to launch a memoir?’

(I did not need Google’s helpful additions of ‘in Birmingham?’ or ‘in a superstore?’ Spying much Google???’)

The thing is, the book is out in a month, and I have all these feelings.

The internet is full of helpful advice about how to start a memoir, how to write a memoir, how to publish a memoir with 12 do’s and don’ts (apparently I should not get discouraged, should make it believable but extraordinary, remember it will have pages,  and should or shouldn’t read other people’s memoirs, that bit’s unclear.)

The internet is distinctly lacking on how it might feel after you have done all of that.

Excited? Terrified? Vulnerable? Exposed? Worried about who you might upset, or have forgotten to thank? Hate the photos of you? All of the above? I don’t know?

No one knows, or at least no one is telling.

I’m excited. This is two years of work. My first book! And it comes at a time when I feel most like myself, having let go of all the stories I’d internalised about women like me.

I know the writing is good. Actually, I know the writing is brilliant, but as a working class woman, I was not raised to ‘blow my own trumpet.’ That’s called ‘showing off’ where I come, that and ‘being too big for your boots’ followed by ‘know your place.’ But if writing a memoir has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t know my place.

Writing a memoir is not about listing everything that happens in your life.

It’s not even about ‘sharing your story,’ because writing a memoir is more about ‘shaping’ a story. It’s about making your story interesting for the reader, and cutting out everything that doesn’t fit with your theme. (that’s what the internet says, anyway)

With that in mind, in the book, we don’t get to explore my obsession with encouraging people to do belly dancing, despite having never belly danced myself.  Nor do we do a deep dive into my love of baking and my heartbreak at having to become gluten-free. ( I’m currently a gluten-free vegan. All I can say is that no one would read that book – dreary, darling, dreary.)

Writing a memoir is about cutting out loads of boring bits (or really interesting bits that you are saving for book 2!).

You can’t lie, and you absolutely can’t make shit up, (mentioning no books about paths or condiments). You can’t even paint yourself in the best light, or be the heroine of your own story, even if, like me, you’re always right, always on it, and are an absolute fucking delight to be with.

So, how does all this make me feel about launching a memoir?

Well, we are back to searching the internet to find my feelings: excited, terrified, vulnerable? But maybe a little bit better that I will be sharing it with friends.

(or maybe that’s worse???)

Let me do a quick Google.

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