Why you should stop using the word “journey”, and other lessons from a New York Times bestselling author
I’ve been lucky enough to be in the orbit of New York Times bestselling author Helen Brown for a number of years now.
Oddly enough, we were introduced by my late husband (he is dead to me now, kidding!) Through his initiation, Helen became one of my first ever social media marketing clients.
I remember being extra nervous when I met her, not just because I was taking the first wobbly steps out into my own business, but because she was a writer. A real life, hugely successful author sitting across from me.
I soon read her memoir Cleo, the book that catapulted her to the New York Times bestsellers list, and I was awed by her precise, impactful use of language. No words were wasted — a legacy from her background in journalism. Her story broke my heart, and healed it again.
I dared not sully our budding client relationship by sharing my own aspirations to become a writer. Surely every second person she met declared, “I have a novel inside me!”
I focused instead on things like helping her to build up an email list, encouraging her to get onto Instagram, reaching new fans with Facebook ads and sharing insights with her about her audience and what they liked. (Hint: anything about her or her cat Jonah).
Always working with brands and businesses, it was so refreshing to see an online community up close who didn’t need any convincing to connect with Helen. Her engagement statistics were on a scale I had never experienced before as a marketer. These were actual fans.
Helen and I formed a gentle rapport over the next couple of years, but I remained cautious and professional. When she invited me to her daughter’s wedding last year, I realised — we were becoming friends.
After the wedding, I finally admitted to Helen that I was attempting my own novel. Within moments of outlining my vague ideas for the plot, she was scribbling down notes to amp up and condense them into a punchier, more satisfying read. Her eyes were sparkling and it was a side of her I hadn’t seen before.
I walked away with a bold idea forming. Perhaps we could continue working together in a contra arrangement: I would be on hand to offer her digital support in exchange for some guidance for my novel. She agreed!
Mid-year, we met up for a lunch to discuss all of our plans, and Helen wondered out loud if our new arrangement wouldn’t make for a good podcast.
With a clink of Prosecco glasses, our podcast, Novel Therapy, was born.
We agreed on some broad themes and topics: a mix of grief, which was central to both of our stories, but also lighter things like writing sex scenes, and debunking the myth of writer’s block. It had to be fun, and not preachy, we declared. We decided we’d have guests from time to time. Yes!
As creative projects tend to do, Novel Therapy began to take its own shape.
10 episodes in, and calling that Season 1, it’s a joy for me to reflect on what occurred just by sitting down with Helen week after week and turning on our mics.
Don’t be lazy with language.
Helen introduced the idea of a Banned Word list early on. On it: “journey” (clichéd and melodramatic), “amazing” — is it though? — and “lovely”, a pallid, almost meaningless word.
We produced a real-life Journey Jar — a writer’s swear jar, if you will — and penalised each other $1 for every slip up. Through a combination of nerves and habit, I used the word journey so many times in our first episode! But over time I improved, as Helen’s derision for these overused words influenced me not to be lazy with language.
Instead of lovely —things can be stimulating. Or rather than amazing, insightful. Novel Therapy has not been a journey for me, but a transformative experience. See? Much better.
(Other words for consideration on the banned list in 2020 are “awesome” and “excited”, both of which I’m guilty of being an overenthusiastic ambassador for.)
Live more fully.
Another lesson Helen taught me early on was to slow down and experience being alive. Look up at the sky, she told me. Notice things. Eavesdrop in cafés. Tune into the stories, happenings and people all around you.
Also, give yourself space to absorb them. “You need quiet times of peace so you can welcome ideas in, and examine them gently.”
“Every day is such a treasure, and such a gift, that to live that as a fully aware human being — that is high creativity.”
I realise that creativity doesn’t only apply to this one project in my life, but rather, my whole life is my foremost creative project.
We all have pain.
A key theme for our Novel Therapy podcast is grief and loss. Helen lost her son Sam at age 9 when he was hit by a car in Wellington, New Zealand, which is central to her book Cleo. I lost my mother to suicide in 2000 when I was 21 years old, cleaving my life as I knew it in two halves.
At first I was adamant that Mum’s story wouldn’t find its way into my novel. I didn’t want to be “that person”, defined by her death, by grief; forever in the shadow of the shame and pain of her suicide. I was also wary that Mum’s story is not necessarily mine to tell.
But I realised in time, with Helen’s support, that by writing about Mum’s death, by sharing it, I am moving past writing for myself, and hopefully onto writing to help others; writing for healing.
Helen spoke about writing about Sam’s death as a columnist in New Zealand.
“I didn’t know what to do. I thought I should stop writing altogether, or keep pretending nothing’s happened… or I own up to this thing, and just let it go.
“I found out, through writing about it, that I wasn’t alone. There is so much sorrow and grief out there in the world, and we need to demystify that and share it with each other.”
Writing requires life-long learning.
Despite her undisputed success with writing (Cleo has sold over 2 million copies worldwide, which is actually IS amazing), Helen often tells me she doesn’t feel qualified to teach me or anyone how to write.
“Even though I’ve been writing for a living for 45 years, I still don’t consider myself a master. I still keep learning.”
We take great joy in consuming (and recommending) our latest Netflix binges, books and other forms of art and entertainment in the podcast. Helen has taught me to read more like a writer, and I also watch TV now thinking about the writer’s room, and what they might have grappled with.
Don't forget playfulness!
Helen has a fabulous sense of fun and cheekiness. Just take a look at our episode titles — that’s always her! Her word for 2019 was “remarkable”. She said that idea spurred her on to do remarkable things, like our podcast.
She also told me to “have fun with it” when I first confessed my writerly ambitions, which I remember thinking at the time was bizarre. Writing a novel can be fun?
But I have realised, that yes, of course it can be fun, if you don’t take it too seriously. And why should I? Helen has taught me to deny the trope of the silently suffering, reclusive artist and embrace the utterly alive, joyful, fun-seeker brand of creativity instead. Why the hell not?
So. Will I ever finish my novel? Yes. That is a commitment I am making to myself, to our podcast listeners, and to honour Helen and the energy and time she has already invested in me to date.
I am only 10,000 words in, but my character profiles document is well past that as I am determined to work with fully formed characters.
Will it be good? Will it ever get published? I don’t know. But right now, my aim is a finished draft that I am proud of, and I will deal with the next steps after that.
What I can also say is that the draft I am wrangling now has gone far deeper than I ever imagined it would when I first described my ideas to Helen. I really do feel like I am a writing something that I will be proud of, and that’s a great feeling.
Will it be a best-seller? Probably not. Will I be able to earn a living from writing novels in the future? Unlikely.
But if all that comes out of this creative process is a decent draft and a podcast, and more Prosecco clinks with Helen, then I am more than happy with that.