Am I A Writer Yet?
BA Creative Writing student Anna Brizzolara battles with calling herself a writer. As she walks by the river Nidd near her home in North Yorkshire, she contemplates the importance of being able to call herself a writer and if she ever will.
“You can’t call yourself a writer.”
In my head there’s a voice, it’s the matriarchal love child of Kristen Scott-Thomas and Maggie Smith, patronisingly delicate yet with a cutting edge, it says,
“You can’t introduce yourself as a writer or say that’s what you do because you’ve yet to publish anything and be paid for it.”
I battle with the Kristen-Maggie voice as I walk my dog. I tramp across fields, gritting my teeth, stomping footprints in the grass. Mentally I’m listing all the pieces I’m planning to revisit, redraft, rewrite, resubmit. Often, I’ll run rather than walk, let my legs take off down-hill to the river, daring myself to go as fast as possible whilst dodging twisted roots and navigating stepping-stones. The river, constantly flowing. In winter you can hear it, we nickname it the Coca-Cola River as it gushes under the bridge spraying brown water in every direction, in summer it reveals its rocky bottom and brave souls get in to escape the heat of the pedantic British sun.
On these runs I’ll silently recite poetry for performance. I’ll record my poems on my phone and then listen back through my headphones as I run, cringing at the sound of my own voice. The rhythm of running helping to drum the sound of the words into my brain, over and over, the path a map for each verse.
At the start of lockdown, before university, I regularly walked the dog first thing. The sun creeping into the sky. I remember the cold, frosty mornings, everything crisp under heavy winter cloud, like walking under a duvet. Muted. There were two barn owls that would tag team, swooping up and down one of the fields. They’d fly, arrowlike, with graceful swirls and twirls and then suddenly pounce on their prey. Each morning the same routine, but every time a different dance of flight.
I also spotted a heron. I’d never seen a heron before. A long-legged creature with turquoise feathers. It would stand at the edge of the river like the first long stroke of an artist’s brush. One long line which would bend slowly and the incredible creature, with the widest wingspan, would levitate and dive under the water. Hardly a splash. Silence. Then the river would gasp, expelling the bird and off it flew to enjoy its catch.
I remember watching these birds as I think about calling myself a writer. It’s dawned on me, these creatures have no idea that we give them names. Owls don’t know they are called owls, herons have no idea they’re herons. They don’t care. The owls fly around that field every morning, the heron swoops and dives into the river each time its belly rumbles. They don’t do it for applause or adoration, it’s just what they do. Some of us happen to find watching them in action quite beautiful, we are an audience to their ticketless show.
Yesterday, after finishing a long day sat at my desk, I needed to get up and get outside. My brain was buzzing with the day’s conversations. It wasn’t time to write, it was time to get under the sky, go feast on the world of the river and let the day settle in my head. I got the dog and off we marched. At first my brain was on overdrive and Mother Kaggie, was in full swing. As I walked the rhythm of my footsteps took over, as did my eyes watching the little bee collecting honey. There was a family of ducks on the riverbank, they were having a wash and settling in for a nap in the late afternoon sunshine, bliss. I watched the long grass as it swayed in the wind and spotted a frog heading ‘out-out’ for it was Friday evening after all.
Getting outdoors, the expanse of the sky, the creatures going about their lives was exactly the distraction I needed. My day had been intense, a day spent on-line delving into creative practice which was great but overwhelming. Getting outside, being reminded of the cycle of life by the river helped me put my day, myself, in perspective. I came home with a plan, new projects in mind and feeling ready to keep on going.
The owls, the heron, the ducks and the frog, they have no need for labels, titles, names. They don’t seek financial reward for their daily efforts, they do what comes naturally. They get up, they work hard, they rest and enjoy the sun, make the most of the day, every day.
Studying Creative Writing has given me a lens through which I’ve been able to identify my creative practice as a writer. The way I see the world, process, learn and harness my curiosity has been magnified. I’m recognising that what I do and what I am, fits under the label of ‘writer’.
I am not going to fundamentally change. I have, will always watch and document with words the world as I experience it. I can improve, I can build, I can try to monetise my writing. Regardless of expectation I will always need to write. Just like a bee will always need to make their honey, happy and content, unknown to itself as a bee.
Anna Brizzolara is studying for her BA in Creative Writing at Leeds Arts University. She has performed her poetry alongside TS Eliot award winning poet Joelle Taylor and was chosen as the first Spotlight Artist for Leeds Poetry Festival. Anna is currently working on her creative non-fiction writing whilst looking forward to entering the final year of her studies. She is also interested in writing for stage and screen. Anna is next performing her poetry at Spoke Manchester on July 20th and again on August 7th as part of Leeds Poetry Festival's one year anniversary celebration. She lives in North Yorkshire with her two children and her dog. You can find her on Instagram @anna_brizzolara
