Stage fright, anxiety, and the fine art of procrastination

I am limbering up for my first ever performance as a solo musician in a week and a bit’s time when I ‘launch’ an EP of five songs that I wrote, all by myself, into the world. I am struck by the fear. Since 2017 became a reality rather than a far-off future event, and I realised that I was actually going to do THIS THING, I have been struck with the FEAR at all sorts of inopportune moments. Maybe people have noticed my face darken slightly, a frown creeping across my brow, as I suddenly remember that I have to do THIS THING. Or I find myself ruminating in absurd detail about all the things I have to do and all the disasters that will no doubt befall me, right when I should be sleeping. I am almost immobilised with THE FEAR at times. Why am I putting myself through this? I have thought all the unhelpful thoughts like…nobody cares about your music, you’re too old for this, you’re a shit piano player/singer/songwriter (delete as applicable or all of the aforementioned) etc etc. No one will turn up. Or what if lots of people turn up, and hate it. And thus me. And I have to leave the country.

Self-doubt is normal, so I’ve been led to believe. If it’s normal, then I am achingly normal. I have self-doubt running through my very veins on a regular basis. If I were a stick of rock, you could break me open at any point and it would say ‘she doubted herself’ in bold pink letters. What is more, music is personal. These songs are personal. So I feel very vulnerable and exposed when I think about the launch. Just how do musicians do it? How do they put themselves out there and believe in themselves enough to perform without needing to go off and vomit? Or run very, very far away?

Oh boy, I know about procrastination. I have procrastinated so much on this project, I can hardly tell you of it. From playing the songs to Rich in his studio, back in November 2015, when these were very under rehearsed songs and I thought of them as a personal work, to be recorded in a very stripped back way for my own edification, through the recording process where they became something greater with all the intricate production and layers and weeks and months of work on them, and now, finally when the songs are complete, and they have to be ‘birthed’ into the world. Weeks have elapsed with very little work at all, and I realise now that these lulls have only occurred because I have felt so unbelievably unworthy of the task I’ve set myself. They’re only five songs but it’s been a labour of…what, love? I wouldn’t exactly call it that. And how does one get the energy together to self-promote when one barely has the energy to leave the house some days?

But crucially, two things have got me to this point with a finished EP with lovely, glossy artwork, and a launch event in the diary. One is the art of breaking things into really, really tiny manageable chunks and ticking them off, with accompanying sense of satisfaction. This is proving at least as invaluable a process in the rehearsal space as at any other time. And the other, the help and support of my friends and family who believe in this project, and believe in me, even and perhaps especially when I don’t. I am profoundly grateful for all the pep talks, the cuddles, the positive feedback on the songs, and the help with photos, artwork and general advice I’ve been given. I am a lucky woman, I know.

So, I will screw down my courage because like a juggernaut hurtling down a hill, nothing will stop this now. I have to do it. And I will. Because I always do the things I’m most scared of, including zorbing and paragliding and climbing up a 25 metre rock face and going to live in a foreign country by myself.

Now for the self-promotion part. Deep breath. If you fancy coming to watch me overcome this personal obstacle, and maybe enjoy some music, I am playing on Sunday 5th March in the upstairs function room of the Greenbank pub in Easton from 8pm.

Phew.

Why I marched on Saturday 21st of January - and why I will march again

I’ve tried a variety of different approaches for this blogpiece on why I marched in the Women's March Bristol on a beautiful Saturday in January, and why I will march again for women’s rights, and the rights of any marginalised group who has been threatened by the swing to the right in politics over the last few years. It’s hard to distil my thoughts and feelings into a neat piece of writing as there is so much, so much to say, and so much emotion (not a dirty word) tied up with the events of recent months. It’s hard to know what approach to take. I've tried levity but it turns into something far more heartfelt and serious. Oh, I wish I could joke about this stuff but it’s just not that fucking funny.

I’ve been a woman, or at least female, for all of my natural life. Without question, some of the most negative experiences of my life have been because I am female. Let’s just say that I am all too familiar with the orange hate-peddler’s particular brand of malignant narcissism. He invades too many of my screens -  a constant reminder of past trauma, and how dysfunctional western civilisation (such as it is) has become that such an obvious charlatan should get into the White House. I’m sure I’m not the only woman who shudders with recognition, or who feels physically sick at the injustice of rewarding a bigoted, misogynistic serial abuser with the highest office in the western world. We don’t just fail to punish the toxic male in our society. All too often we roll out the red carpet and invite them to cause even more destruction.

And I was lucky enough to be born in a country which is relatively progressive on such matters. I’m not forced to conceal my body and face with a swathe of fabric, and I was not married off to an ancient cousin and forced to have numerous babies before I even reached proper adulthood. Believe me, I am grateful for these far-from-small mercies. And when I marched on Saturday, I marched for all women everywhere. We have to spearhead the movement because our sisters in countries like Afghanistan and Saudi Arabia and Somalia are simply trying to survive. Just as the vote for women came first in countries like ours, it gradually followed in the developing world. Sadly, that’s just how it works, and if we can’t get it right here, it’s unlikely to happen in the countries where serious human rights abuses happen every day as a matter of course.

Back in November, Trump’s election to the leader of the free world (how hollow those words sound now ) felt like a personal affront to me and all the women I care about who have in their various ways put up with so much shit. It felt personal, and so to march was a personal undertaking - a way to take back some of the power we so desperately need and deserve, and which is chipped away, little by little, often not with the obviously terrible stuff but the things that grind us down and exhaust us. Things like being shouted at in the street, being trolled online, doing a disproportionate amount of the unpaid domestic work, seeing next to no realistic female bodies on any billboard anywhere etc etc, ad nauseum. It’s tiring and it’s boring. Too many women are tired of not being listened to, of not being taken seriously when we say, really, this is just too much now. When misogynistic parliament troll and Conservative MP Philip Davies can filibuster anything that has the faintest whiff of doing something good for women, and domestic abuser Floyd Mayweather gets to speak at the Marriott in Bristol for anything up to £1000 per ticket on International Women’s Day (ffs) we know we’ve still got a long way to go.

Let’s face it, marchers for causes everywhere come off rather well in the history books.

The Suffragettes, the Civil Rights Movement in America, the protests against the Vietnam War, and more recently the women in Poland who protested againstpunitive abortion laws and forced their government to back down - they are all essential to creating a decent, free and liveable society. So called ‘alpha male’ types like Hitler, Churchill, Stalin, Trump? Not so much.

So on that Saturday in January 2017, when myself and several friends and a puppy took part in what was reportedly the biggest and most peaceful mass demonstration ever, we helped make a little bit of history. Not just women’s history but all of humanity’s history. There aren’t adequate words to express my admiration for those women who pulled together this massive feat of unity against our common foes of darkness, ignorance, bigotry and division, not least our very own Carly who organised the march in Bristol in only three days. I’ve since had a chance to meet Carly properly and thank her for her efforts. She is a genuinely warm and inclusive person with a determination to change things for the better. The world needs more heroes like her. If Saturday’s marches and the subsequent demonstrations are anything to go by, there are plenty of heroes out there, of all genders and races.

On a final note, there was real love and a sense of possibility and hope in our procession from Queens Square to Cathedral Green. I want to live in the world where these are the voices I hear, where women as well as men are allowed to have a voice, where our needs are taken into consideration instead of dismissed as a fringe concern or ‘minority’, where women are not hit twice as hard by austerity cuts as men, and where women are considered to be truly, fully human. 

Together we are stronger and we must not forget that, no matter how many frightened little men and women try to tell us otherwise. We have a long way to go before we see true equality for all and we cannot let this man and others like him win. 

We are powerful together. And we will march again.