I could use a little company

The joy of co-writing

How my Friday afternoons look with my co-writing/creating pals

“I’m not sure if I should be here, but I work for a charity as a marketing copywriter, so I guess I do ‘write’ for a living…”

That was how I answered the dreaded question: “Shall we do some quick intros?” on my first Zoom call with a new community of writing mums back when I was a hollow-eyed parent in the midst of 2020’s lockdown hell.

At that very moment in my life, I had never once called myself a ‘writer’, let alone an ‘author’. I truly felt like an imposter amongst the digital sea of new (yet equally hollow-eyed) faces who’d joined the call from all over the world that Sunday afternoon. Thankfully, though, my paranoia was instantly zapped when the host, the incredible book coach Georgina Green, warmly but firmly stated that if I felt compelled to be there – which I absolutely did – then I was in the right place with the right people. She couldn’t have been more correct.

Four years later, I can hand-on-heart say that my decision to join that call changed the course of my life forever.

I’ve written before about how finding this community, which came to be known as Calliope’s Writers, enabled me to write my first novel (which, by the way, is out on submission with a couple of publishers again after yet another round of edits, hence my recent absence ). But, in this dispatch, I wanted to share more about the act of co-writing itself, which was the key to unleashing my inner writer back in 2020.

Up until becoming a mum, writing for me had never been a problem, and never once had I experienced writers’ block. Thinking about it, though, I’d always written in irregular snatches of time – even before having children; a journal entry here, a random article there. Looking back at my writing output pre-kids, a common theme emerges: multiple, abandoned blog-based projects that excited me for a while, but inevitably died a death when work got overwhelming or a shinier idea came along. My lightbulb moments always appeared out of the blue in bursts, and I had to grab them when they arrived, never once dedicating any lengthy amount of time to one specific idea.

Of course, having children meant that those rare glimmers of creative energy were entirely absorbed by keeping small humans alive, and – with the exception of one or two sanity-saving essays about motherhood a year – my writing output dwindled to practically nothing.

Discovering co-writing changed all of that.

But, what exactly is co-writing? Put simply, it’s the act of writing in real-time with a group of others, either in person or – more commonly, these days – via video call. You might write for an hour, two hours or maybe an entire morning or day, with optional check-in points along the way. Much like the effectiveness of body-doubling for many neurodivergent folk, writing with others somehow has a magical effect on focus and output.

Initially, the lockdown co-writing group and I would meet weekly on Sunday evenings for an hour once our children were in bed. Some of us would also meet midweek for an hour or two when we could, hosted either by Georgina or the equally brilliant Lucy Beckley. I joined separate day-long virtual writing retreats, as well as the London Writing Salon’s Writers’ Hour sessions when I could. And, over the course of a year – and largely while co-writing – I managed to write and edit an entire book.

For the first time in my life, I was able to focus on one spark of an idea and dive deeper into the page than I’d ever done before. More significantly, though, I was able to share my delight, successes and frustrations with others along the way, while learning from their own delight, successes and frustrations.

Co-writing taught me that what I’d been lacking from my creative life until then was the necessity of creative exchange.

Every single one of my writing endeavours before 2020 had been solo projects. Just me and my brain, trying to untangle an idea or pour out a worry that was eating me up and mold it into something comprehensible so I could move onto something else (likely, another worry).

But, when I started writing my novel – and sharing my progress along the way – I felt continuously energised, inspired and compelled to keep going. This project wasn’t about untangling thoughts or molding my worries. It was about nothing more than joy, and sharing that joy with others. Of course, there were frustrating elements of the project over time, but by working alongside others, I’d been able to develop a deeply pleasurable and rewarding creative routine.

It feels bittersweet to share just how much co-writing means to me given that, earlier this year, the community I joined back in 2020 was brought to a gentle, natural close. In our final Sunday evening session, we reflected back on those early days, when all of us were in the throes of collective trauma, and had gravitated towards this new, weekly ritual to provide us with a rare slice of creative comfort during that massively tumultuous time. Over the course of four years, we’d supported and nurtured each other and, as our children grew, so did our writing and creative ambitions.

The community began with a group of mothers who happened to enjoy writing, and it ended with a group of writers who happen to be mothers. And we were all ready for the next chapter.

Over to you…

I’d love to hear your own experiences of co-writing / body-doubling / virtual writing retreats.

Have you thought about co-writing but have felt like too much of an imposter to give it a go?

Share your own experiences / co-writing tips / online writing communities in the comments (you can click through to read this post online if you’re not already doing so), and let’s spread the word about how the simple act of human connection can help unlock ideas and give them the nourishment they need to come to life.