When ‘Gaslight’, my second book for young people, won Wales Arts Review Young People’s Book of the Year 2017, I thought I would feel like a writer.
Two books published and a third on the way. A transformation would undoubtedly take place overnight. I would wake with a Woolf-like first line in my head and joyously Blyton my way through the rest of my days.
The next-morning deposited doubt at my window like curdled milk and as the condensation cleared Eloise the Neurotic’s reflection returned with admirable tenacity.
In a recent interview I was asked whether I considered myself to be a writer. After much deliberation I replied that yes, I did, then agonised over my response for days. How pretentious I am, I thought. Me? A vaguely Valleys’ woman with a dubious grasp of grammar. A writer? Scoff!
Yet here, among the company of other writers I am transformed. I have learned that there is no pomposity in the act of being a writer. It’s a gift we have been given and a duty. A calling. A job. An irritating scratch. If we don’t do it we have an allergic reaction to the world.
The writers who have given their time to us here on the Hay Writers at Work program have been nothing but generous, genuine, workers, crafters, creators of genius. They have treated us as equals, friends. They haven’t welcomed us to their world – they have told us we are already a part of it.
When I came to create a blog post for Hay Festival I began to write several times with phrases I believed would make me seem intellectual, erudite, a raconteur of sorts. But I have learned in this last week that you give what you have to offer. I don’t have an Oxford education, a benefactor, received pronunciation when I speak.
I have truth to give. I have myself and my stories.
I am here. Welsh accent. Honest words. Writing. A writer.
Eloise White is one of the 2018 Hay Festival Writers at Work. Find out more here.