Yesterday morning I received a package from Italy. Inside, a bound copy of a doctoral thesis from an Italian student with whom I've been in contact for several years. The title of the thesis 'Jacqui Lofthouse - Autobiografia o Romanzo?' (Autobiography or Fiction?) I knew the thesis was being written, but something about holding it in my hands, seeing my words quoted throughout this 100 page document, to know that my work has been the subject of such intricate attention was quite astonishing and oddly humbling. It came at a good time, I guess, reminding me of the validity of my work.
I don't often feel important as a writer. Last night was a great case in point. I attended a literary 'salon' (yes, believe it or not, they still exist), for women writers, whose guests included Andrea Levy, Joanne Harris and Esther Freud amongst others. Most importantly, my close friend the writer Louise Doughty (Author of the wonderful 'Fires in the Dark'). Last time I attended, a year ago, Frieda Hughes and Kathy Lette were my dinner companions, though my 8 year old son was more impressed at my meeting with Francesca Simon, author of the Horrid Henry books. There were around 20 women at the table. Most interesting conversation was with Joan Smith (author of 'Misogynies') who spoke at length about her work campaigning against the trafficking of prostitutes. I had huge admiration for Joan. It was wonderful to see Louise. And I had a ball driving Rebecca Abrams home. But I can't say I'm at all at ease on these occasions. I don't have any problem 'doing' parties like these. Simply I'm not sure the literary scene is my favourite place to be.
Recently, at a similar party, I met a writer who was particularly skilled in the art of the monologue. It made me reflect on why coaching is important to me. A core coaching skill is asking questions, another is listening. It's about losing one's own ego, being present for another. Whilst I like to coach 'on the edge' and am not of the school that believes one should never 'advise', still I love the emphasis on curiosity, on finding the perfect question. When an esteemed writer fails to ask her dinner companion a single question, it does make one wonder whether the writer has lost touch with that essential curiosity that must once have made her the writer she is. Ego and fame are strange quantities.
I spent today reading Chinua Achebe 'Things Fall Apart'. I should have been writing, but tonight is book club and I didn't want to miss it. It's odd holing up with a book all day; even though I'm a writer, it seems so indulgent. More on Achebe tomorrow...
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