This summer I became a teacher, which would have sat badly with all the teachers who told me I’d never amount to anything. I’ve been teaching life writing all over the place: bouji retreats, online classes, university courses and festivals. A lesser mind would buckle under the responsibility of the job, the fear of having nothing to say. But as I remind the sallow face in the mirror every morning as I slip a Berocca under each eyelid: baby’s gotta make that cheddar. Also baby’s gotta get significantly better at paperwork.
I love my subject, which helps. The confessional form is the genre de nos jours. It’s elastic, taking in literary memoir, journalling, personal essays, even autofiction and Instagram captions. Of course, any life in writing is lucrative and glamorous. As I upcycle a heap of final-demand energy bills into makeshift toilet paper, I rally.
