On being cool

Photo by Collin on Unsplash

I have never been cool. I was a clumsy, loud kid who was unashamedly geeky, and when I got excited about something I could never hide it (though I learned to mask my sadness pretty well). My outsides were noticeably uncool too; my clothes were from jumble sales or made by my mum - therefore chosen for their practicality or price, not for aesthetics - and it was the same with my hair; I had a short bowl cut for the longest time and was frequently mistaken for a boy, much to my horror.

There is a scene in The List of Suspicious Things where 12-year-old Miv makes a wish at Mother Shipton’s Well in Knaresborough, North Yorkshire, that kicks the whole story off. It is based on my own school trip to that same historic well, though my wish was a little less aspirational. At 9 years old my only desire was for long blonde hair, in the hope that this would somehow transform me into a cooler, more acceptable version of a little girl.

I was a big reader (surprise!) and a huge fan of the Famous Five, so I longed to be sweet, pretty Anne, knowing in reality I was more akin to tomboy George. At some point in my reading, I came across the word ‘demure’ and realised that was what I wanted to be when I grew up. In fact, I made it my goal. Aged 10 or 11, I was given a 5-year diary for my birthday (one of those lockable ones with a key on a ribbon) and diligently went through it, identifying days where I could effectively start again, and be the girl I wanted to be - pretty, quiet, demure and cool. On those days I wouldn’t spill anything, or be noisy, or hiccup when I laughed. I called them my ‘new days’ and wrote down that title in swirly capitals at the top of each of the pages. I didn’t see the obvious truth that I clearly knew that this new version of me was never going to stick or else why would I need more than one?!

I look back now and realise my life became a whole series of ‘new days’ as even in adulthood I tried tremendously hard to become a version of myself that gave the impression of effortless cool, but every time I thought I had got my awkward self under control, my personality would keep jumping out like a jack-in-the-box. I remember my boss in my ‘proper’ corporate job telling me to sit on my hands in meetings, as I was ‘too expressive’. The same boss also once told me off for ‘drinking water too loudly.’ I am reminded of the saying ‘wherever you go, there you will be’.

As a writer this self-consciousness has taken a different form. I have never felt more uncool than I do in my new profession. At my first lunch with my agent and editor (both of whom just happen to be the epitome of cool) I only ate a mouthful for fear of spilling anything on my dress and spoke in mono-syllables. I cried before my first official author dinner because I just didn’t know how to be around a group of very successful, established authors and be myself.

I longed to be the sort of person who has moody black and white author photos; who says deeply philosophical things at events and talks about ‘the work’ and doesn’t try to make everyone laugh. Who doesn’t practically wet their pants with excitement when someone famous reads their book and likes it (and even worse when it’s a writer I admire). Who doesn’t then have to tell everyone because they are so beside themselves. Who isn’t on social media unable to hide their joy when things they never believed possible happen or sharing the vulnerable and embarrassing things that also frequently do. I WISH I could be cool and aloof, taking everything in my stride.

The difference is that this time there are no ‘new days’ planned. Don’t get me wrong, I would still LOVE to be cool, I really would, but I’m not, and I’m finally accepting that I’m never going to be. I am noisy and colourful and emotional and my favourite thing is to laugh (and I seem to have developed a snort to go along with it, to add to the uncool-ness). So instead, I’ve chosen to lean into my lack of cool. To be as fully excited as I really am. To be wholly myself, even though that is the opposite of cool, demure or sophisticated. Last week at Harrogate Festival another author (someone I admire hugely) asked me how it was going, and I paused for a moment ‘I’m having the time of my life’ I said, Iaughing (and snorting). And I truly am, cool or not.