With a little help from my friends

 The picture above shows my friend Gavin Hills reporting on the elections in El Salvador in 1994. I was editor of the magazine he was working for, at the time. He was an award-winning journalist, a terrible dancer, a clumsy skateboarder, an avid football fan. A man who was always kind, funny and inspiring.  

Three years after this picture was taken, he was dead. He went to some of the world’s most dangerous places as a reporter, writing about war and famine, street gangs and child soldiers. Yet he died in a mundane accident on the English coast, slipping off a rock while out fishing with friends, and drowning in the sea. 

Since then I’ve got older, but he remains forever 31 years old, a cheeky grin on his face and an audacious new idea to share. He was a brilliant writer and a brilliant human being, and I still miss him. And we talk a lot, because I still value his opinions. 

I hesitated to write about this here.

It felt a bit weird. But what’s the point of having a blog, if I can’t be weird?

So here’s the thing. I have a committee. A panel of experts, if you like. A board of directors. A group of people – dead and alive, real and fictional ­– who I call on for advice when I need it.

Gavin is a key member, and nearly always at the table when I convene a meeting. He’ll tell me to do the risky thing, the stupid thing, the fun thing. He reminds me that we should always grab happiness with both hands, spread it and share it, because life is short – and we never know when it might end.

It’s important to champion the underdog, he says, to tell stories that need to be heard, and to try to make some difference in the world with our one wild and precious life. 

Then there’s Ray.

Another good friend who died far too young, Ray found beauty in everything. He could make an unremarkable jacket look extraordinary, by wearing it inside out. He made spaces magical, just by being in them. And he made people feel special and seen, simply by giving them his full attention. 

When I moved into my first, tiny third-floor flat in London, he threw open the kitchen window and climbed out onto the wide, recessed ledge, joyfully declaring, ‘And you’ve got a balcony!’ Whenever he came to visit, that would be his spot, sitting outside the open window chatting to me while I cooked, but also greeting strangers on the street below. 

In committee meetings, Ray often tells me to slow down and relax, to smile and enjoy whatever I’m doing. To find the beauty in a situation and make the most of it. Even if it means using my imagination and turning everything inside-out. 

Anne was my maternal grandmother.

We always called her Nan. She doesn’t speak much in meetings but she’s always there, smiling and wearing sensible shoes.

As a child, when I said I wanted to be a writer, everyone thought I was being ridiculous. Girls like me worked in shops, and factories. If we were super-smart and worked really hard, we became secretaries, or nurses. Not writers. Which wasn’t even a proper job. 

While my teachers and the rest of my family dismissed me as a dreamer, she whispered in my ear, ‘Yes you can. Why not?’ And she still does.

I’ve earned a living from my writing all of my working life. And long after she left the real world, Nan has remained in my heart, believing in me, telling me that I can. 

Madonna is also on my committee. 

Not the current version of Madonna, but her character in the 1985 rom-com Desperately Seeking Susan, forever urging me to be braver and not worry about what people will think.

Virginia Woolf often turns up. In my imagination she’s a bit judgemental and snooty, but also absolutely thrilled I have a room of my own to work in. She helps me set boundaries to protect it.

There are a host of other regulars that turn up, depending on the issue I’m considering. Singers and poets, artists and authors – even a couple of cartoon characters. 

There are other, less welcome members.

There’s my harping inner critic, who still speaks in the voice of a teacher I haven’t seen since my teens, telling me I need to be more organised, less difficult, less weird. (She thought publishing this post was a terrible idea, for instance).

Sometimes she’s worth listening to, sounding a sensible note of caution. Mainly, I’ve learned to hear her out, thank her for worrying about me, then move on. 

There’s also a spoilt toddler I call Violet Bott.

She’s named after a character in Just William, a series of dated children’s stories that I’ve never even read. What can I say? My imagination is a mess, a realm free of logic or reason.

Violet is prone to tantrums and lying on the floor screaming ‘I don’t want to!’ when faced with something difficult, boring, or exercise-related. I’m ashamed to admit that she still gets her way too often. 

Though lately she has been countered by Jen Yu, the agile warrior princess from Ang Lee’s beautifully choreographed film, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. She appeared a few years back, and encourages me to get on with what needs to be done gracefully, with as much speed and flexibility as I can muster.

Jen Yu likes to keep things simple and work with what’s there, instead of constantly pushing against the flow and wishing things were different. 

By now, perhaps you think I’m nuts. 

Or perhaps you have your own committee, in some form or other. People you’ve loved, people you’ve lost, people you’ve never met and others who never existed, except in your imagination. 

I like to visualise them all, sitting round a table, mulling over a challenge or a decision I need to make, each weighing in with their own perspectives and ideas. It helps me see things in fresh ways. And it counters my tendency towards complicating everything, needlessly making things difficult. 

You might not be so structured.

Your advisors might just rattle round your head, making random comments as you go about your life. If so, it might help to journal sometimes, examining problems from their different viewpoints. Or to just sit quietly with your eyes closed and imagine them speaking, one by one. Remember too that you can replace characters whenever you like. Or introduce new, more useful ones whenever you like. 

I called on my committee a couple of weeks ago, when lockdown was getting me down and I was feeling a little sorry for myself. I’d been starting a lot of things, and finishing none. I was feeling tired, foggy-headed and low. And playing a lot of mindless computer games, which is always a warning sign of overwhelm for me. 

So I asked for advice. 

Gavin thought I should take some time off, have a laugh with a friend, then find a short project I really cared about, and see it through. Ray thought I should tidy up a bit, make my home nicer to be in, then go sit in the sun, read and nap for a while. When I did choose a project, he added, make it one I could do with a great playlist, on loud. 

Nan pointed out I’d been through a lot in life already, that spending a few more weeks in isolation with my husband and son in our big house with a garden was barely a hardship. My inner critic berated me for all I hadn’t achieved during lockdown, and Violet Bott had a tantrum because she knew that my annual accounts would be high on that project list – and Violet really doesn’t enjoy doing admin.

Jen Yu won the argument.

My inner zen warrior knew I’d get it done faster now, than if I left it to the end of the year when more receipts had mounted up and my memory of them wasn’t as fresh.

So I put some good music on, tidied up, went for a good long walk and had a day in the garden, reading. Then I did my accounts, because it’s good to eat the frog and do the hardest thing first. I also knew it would be a massive relief when it was done. (It was.)

My next project was one I’d been avoiding for a couple of years, because it involved Gavin. After he died, I edited a collection of his writing for Penguin books. Bliss To Be Alive is long out of print and now sells on Amazon for £100 or more. 

I’d often thought about making it available digitally, for an affordable price. But it had become another perennial on the to-do list, another task to feel guilty about.

Yet once I started, it wasn’t hard.

I read indie author Joanna Penn’s clear and concise guide, Successful Self-Publishing. (There are also lots of free resources on her excellent website, The Creative Penn.) I got permission from the Hills family, commissioned a new cover, and set about formatting the material using Vellum software – which was surprisingly easy and fun to use. And the new edition of Bliss To Be Alive went on sale on May 17, which would have been Gavin’s 54^th birthday.  

The point of this post isn’t the book, though. It’s the committee. And the importance of asking for help when you’re feeling stuck, taking a break – and then taking action, to get moving again.

Having done two really big things on my list, I know the next task will be easier. Sometimes, when we’re stuck, all we need is a little help from our friends.