Whose Voice

Pulling apart the threads in my throat.

Hello Wildlings,

I have been thinking a lot about voice and a lot about my writing here on Substack and I want to share a secret ……

I feel I am not being real.

As I sit here writing this, I have a lump of discomfort in my throat, like tight-tangled threads. I am not sure what they all are; fear, shame, sorrow, anger. Perhaps a mixture of all of them.

Fear because am scared you will think I am moaning or complaining too much and thus not ‘like’ me or my writing anymore.

Shame because I am still not financially independent. Still, still, still at the fucking age of 61.

Sorrow because I feel I worked hard and was good, and yet I still have no money.

Anger because I am furious.

I know there are more threads to untangle but let’s just keep to those for now.

Before I even start writing here, I know I am not the only woman in this situation. I have astoundingly talented friends who are really struggling. Women who have no pensions, no savings, no investment in the form of a house. Women who have worked all their lives. Women who are perceived on one level to be aspirational, yet they are so scared of what their future holds. Some of them like me, had children and ‘followed the lead’ of their partners work, often sacrificing their own needs for the needs of their children and marriage - only to end up screwed over by a system that still works against us. (My first husband ended up with 442K from the sale of our joint house, I ended up with 100K - much of which went towards covering the debts I had accumulated when I left him and 50K which went towards the house I now live in here in Sweden.) How the hell did we end up like this and

WTF?

So, within me is that thread of a voice that is so furious and angry and perhaps even bitter at the world.

Bitter at the inequality. 
Bitter at the cost of poverty.
Bitter at the shitty system
Bitter at the lack of wisdom
Bitter at the gap that's growing
Bitter at the privilege showing
Here
On
Substack.

But this fury, this bitterness, this anger - it is ugly and surely people do not want to hear that voice in my writing …… or do they?

My most successful post here on Substack, is the one that uses that voice. You can find it here. I write about the poverty I experienced as a child and teenager and compare how I felt at school, to how I feel here on Substack - peripheral and not part of the gang of ‘cool kids.’

And yet, part of me really wants to be in that gang - I hate them and want to be them in equal measure.

It is an impossible situation, that does not benefit me or anybody else. I liken it to body envy, something many of us may have felt in our lives. Where you have always been the ‘fatter’ one and no matter how much you have tried or all that you have done, you just cannot change from a 4’ 11’’ woman who weighs 10 stone into a 5’ 10’’ woman who weighs 8 stone 7. And being pissed at all your friends for being beautiful is not an option because they are your friends and you actually love them and admire them and respect them.

Life is messy and shitty and beautiful.

Yet, even though that was my most successful post, I have realised that in many of my other posts, this angry, authentic voice -

This thread of me that is wiry and lumpy,

This thread that has not been spun smooth or silky,

Is often absent.

Yet this thread is the actual warp and weft of my identity - every other thread is stitched and embroidered on top of this itchy, bumpy, uncomfortable fabric that I have woven my life and identity from. I think of it as the rough linen I use for my embroidery. Each section is a month and each motif a day - I stitch my incredibly beautiful and often painful life, onto a rough, harsh, linen.

Embroidery on linen that still has splinters in it.

Some people call this ‘slow stitching,’ I just call it embroidery, which it is - I resist this urge to rename everything -

Wild/cold water swimming is swimming.

Up-cycling is fixing stuff.

Visible mending - FFS.

For me, this is the gentrification of language. My mom pickled a lot of stuff, made jams and chutneys etc and so did my gran, but they would never have thought themselves experts in ‘fermentation techniques’ or of having a ‘zero-waste kitchen.’ My dad caught wood pigeon for food when he was young and his mom baked hedgehog to eat - my dad hated this poverty. He did not consider himself a ‘bush-craft’ expert - but nowadays, a life-style influencer kitted out in Fjäll Räven gear and a Patreon account would be and suffer none of the bigotry and prejudice directed at my dad and his Irish mom. Many of the practices now rebranded as “slow” or “intentional” were once just necessary and rooted in need. Mending clothes, growing vegetables, preserving food, or making do with what you had — these were not lifestyle choices, they were necessary, especially for working-class families. When these same acts are reframed as movements (like "slow living" or "foraging") without acknowledging their origins, the original knowledge holders — often older generations, women, rural, or working-class communities — are left out of the story.

It’s like reclaiming a worn armchair from the tip, reupholstering it, and selling it as "vintage" — but never mentioning who used to sit and fart in it, or why it ended up there in the first place.

Language is so powerful. Words are so powerful and I have been guilty of using the ‘cool’ ones in order to be seen as ‘part of the group.’ God, it makes me feel sick. I am not honouring my mom, aunties, grans, grandads by doing this - I am actually dishonouring them. They were and still are part of my rough linen and I now realise that I am often guilty of only offering you my embroidered words, those that use the silken threads, rather than showing you my roughness.

I am sorry for this. I want to apologise to you and more importantly I want to apologise to myself.

I am not saying that I only want to offer that rough, splintered linen - for that would be doing a disservice to who I am, the life I have lived and the wisdom I have gained - all those beautiful coloured threads. The lovely

Kerri ní Dochartaigh

called my writing ‘gritty.’ (All of my family and bonus kids put money together for my 60th birthday to pay for some sessions with her - it was totally worth it. She is totally worth it.) I think she was right - she told me that I could be more gritty. Perhaps I will be.

I know there are ‘rules’ for writing, though I am not sure of what they are. I have an English ‘A’ level but have never been to University or on a writing course etc - apart from Kerri. (Not out of choice but because I had and still have, no money for this.) However, I feel that this might be a super-power.

I remember a time after a storytelling performance, when a woman came up and told me the show was very ‘Homeric,’ because of my use of language. ( I have never studied Homer, though I do know many of the Greek Myths.)

I remember a time when a man told me I had used techniques used by hypnotists and NLP experts in my performance. (I have never studied these.)

I remember a time a drama specialist came up after a show and told me that my use of eye line (I had thought she meant eyeliner,) was really incredible. (I now know it is when you gaze to look at something in the story as though it is really there in the theatre/space.)

So, I became an incredible storyteller even though I had absolutely no training. I developed my own style, a style which is powerful and lyrical and very much in my body and movements. (I am avoiding the word ‘embodied’ here.)

Perhaps it can be the same for my writing …?

Last week, I looked at a link to something called ‘braided writing.’ (Yes, another name.) Braided writing is writing that weaves two or more distinct “threads” into a single essay. Like how I write about frost and fractals and link them into how communities might function. However, in the Frost and Fractals post I had only woven two threads - it is an embroidered post and my linen was missing. I regret that and I have decided to always include it - as much as I can - in my future posts.

I wonder if any of you ‘pretend’ here on Substack.

How many of you ‘curate’ your images? (Make them look like many other images on here.)

How many of use do not use swear words, even though in real life you do not give a fuck?

How many of you use Chat GPT, believing it can be more you than you?

What threads are you leaving out of this beautiful tapestry of your writing? Of your life?

I would love to hear your responses - show me your dirty linen now!'

In hope and trust

Kx

---

A couple of final things - the amazing

Kit de Waal

is now here on Substack - please welcome her with open arms as she is totally worth it. Plus,

Caro Clarke

is also incredible. Both of these people are helping people like me, feel that we have a place here. It means so much.

If you are interested in seeing me perform my new show, Mythcelium - I will be in the UK in September and it will be live streamed - details here

And finally - are there any writers here who have never attended University and are completely self-taught? ( I am avoiding the word autodidact, though I really like it, as it is kind of ironic.) I wonder whether we can set up some type of support group….?

Picture of my dog Sarvve, waiting for your answers.