For as long as I can remember I’ve always wanted to be a writer.
From the moment I learned to read I had my nose in a library book or a secondhand paperback. The more the appetite for stories and ideas was fed the more it grew. And although I kept it under my hat, I loved English classes and composition homework, it didn’t bring the same sense of profound boredom and avoidance that all other subjects did.
I could happily have written essays and reports and stories and poems forever. It was what I wanted to do with my life as a grown up.
But I had no frame of reference, no mentors, no real-world examples.
And so I went to the Big City, and rather than pursue the dream with gusto I studied academic subjects rather than honing my creative talents. Yes, I kept a journal intermittently and wrote out story ideas and novel outlines but it was undisciplined and unserious.
I became a minimum wage worker with a useless degree- one of millions in the post-2008 financial crisis world. The dream of writing gave way to the daily grind of pouring pints or plating meals in a claustrophobic and sauna-hot industrial kitchen.
The closest I got to the world of literature and books and intellectual discussion was serving drinks to a bunch of regulars who all worked at the giant publishing house up the road. They were all well-spoken, well-to-do, affluent, self-assured. Their world was not my world. I could see no way in for someone like me, someone without the connections, without the background, without the credentials to move from one side of the bar to the other.
But the desire wouldn’t die.
I told myself that by the time I was thirty I would somehow release a book that I had written, a book with my name on the spine that could sit on my shelf alongside all of my literary heroes. Well thirty came and thirty went. Nothing.
I left the Big City, worn-down by the stagnant wages and escalating living costs. By the cramped studio flats, noise and pollution. Able to breathe, I straightened my shoulders and set a new deadline. By thirty two I would somehow release a book. I worked hard, I developed some discipline and consistency, but the project fizzled out. Thirty two came, thirty two went. Clearly I was doing something wrong.
The problem, I realised, was that I was going it alone. We think of writing as a solitary pursuit, but it isn’t really. You need people around you, people in your corner. All great art comes from scenes and movements. No man is an island, as the saying goes.
So I would have to find my people- I would have to turn the I into a We. I went online, I made a website, I joined social media, I started sharing my work and what I had learned through those years of autodidact study and solo practice. It began to work. I had an audience now, I had valuable feedback, I had people who shared my values and ambitions and love of the written word in my corner.
But still the book wouldn’t come. I was closer but there was still a major piece of the puzzle missing. And that was that although twitter undoubtedly helped me find my people it also proved to be a huge timesuck and energy-drain and robber of the laser-focused attention span that the kind of writing I wanted to create demanded.
There needed to be a better way, a better alternative.
And then lockdowns were announced.
Enter The Social Club
People who had been on the go, on the treadmill for years were forced to stop and reflect. To introspect. Some questioned the life they had built for themselves, the path they had chosen, while others felt the reawakening of creative impulses left dormant. The I became a We as many people became receptive to my message about the need for new writing and new art outside of the top-down monoculture.
The world had changed and the old art had lost its resonance.
Now was the time.
So I created my group, the banner under which the We could operate and create. I called it The Soaring Twenties Social Club, after my most popular essay at the time. Emboldened by all of the support, encouragement, creativity and wisdom of its over 200 members I found myself willing to set a new deadline.
I told myself that by the time I was thirty five I would somehow release a book that I had written, a book with my name on the spine that could sit on my shelf alongside all of my literary heroes.
Well today I’m thirty five years old. And here’s a link to my debut book.
It collects first fifty essays that I have written for this Commonplace Newsletter, including the titular Soaring Twenties piece that made me realise that I had to turn I into We.
Its release would not have been possible without the help and graphic design wizardry of Craig Burgess, or without the feedback and encouragement of the Social Club members. Without them I would not be in the position to write full time. Without them I would not be able to spend the rest of my years writing and releasing more books to sit alongside this debut collection on my shelf.
This is just the beginning, not only for me but for us. The Social Club members- with their vast array of talents- will be creating many more projects in both this year and beyond. I look forward to helping, encouraging and showcasing their work just as much as I look forward to creating my own.
At thirty five I feel as if I have just taken my first step. I hope you’ll join us and see where this path will lead.
Congratulations!! This is all so exciting!!!!!!! And the book is beautiful.
Happy Birthday Thomas. Looking forward to seeing the Soaring Twenties book on my shelf in a few days.