Write On! Features: My Writing Journey by Cath Rathbone

By Cath Rathbone

Escapism. There are very few things in life I enjoy more than this.

Perhaps it’s because I was desperate to get away from the labels of my childhood, or maybe my brain was wired too differently, or perhaps because I lived far, far away in a small country where everything outside school seemed a little enchanted to me. Draped over an armchair, or in the shade of a giant mimosa tree, or high up in the branches of the old pine or swishy eucalyptus, you could often find me there, lost in some adventure.

That is, until I failed my English Language International Baccalaureate exam. Despite having received extra credit and commendations for my research paper on D. H. Lawrence (which was marked in Switzerland,) the bulk of the marks hinged on the oral examination. We lived in Uruguay at the time and were part of a sizeable expat community, so I was bound to somehow know or be known by the IB examiner. He looked about as grumpy as I was nervous and rolled his eyes at me across the table after skimming my research paper, clearly not giving a damn about it. He wouldn’t talk about Jane Eyre, or anything by D.H. Lawrence, or anything else I tried to bring up. “Are you really this lazy? Have you read anything interesting lately? Other than comics or magazines?” I had answers – I loved books, just not the ones he wanted to talk about. I couldn’t escape that room fast enough

That geographical escape didn’t last long. Returning from one of the British Embassy’s functions, my mother cornered me. “How could you do this? You’re so intelligent!” Anger turned to dismay and betrayal as she retold the examiner’s story.

Weren’t these things supposed to be kept secret? What was I supposed to say? I knew this man despised D.H. Lawrence. There was nothing I could have done about that and, as a typical teenager without language to express those frustration emotions, I just shrugged.

I was delighted to be finished with school. Goodbye dreams of being a writer. That day, I swore would have nothing to do with education ever again.

Two years after leaving secondary school, I was invited to become a primary school assistant. “No thank you,” was my instant reply. The Headmistress smiled. “It’s in your blood, your grandfather, your mother. Give it a try, you might like it, and if you don’t, at least you tried.”

She was right! It was in my blood. I went on to become a certified primary school teacher and loved it. It was in Form 4 where I discovered I could tell stories about everything I was teaching, or make up stories for my students. I invited them to make up stories as well, which we shared and loved. We had read-aloud parties, group story think-tanks, lazy word collections, perfect beginnings and sloppy endings. We laughed so hard. Sometimes dressing up for stories, other times using funny voices. We lay on the floor under desks or outside under trees, occasionally blacking out our windows so we could read by torchlight. Every so often, I’d bring my ‘brand new’ VCR recording camera and we’d act them out. My heart was happy.

Somewhere along the line, I learned I was dyslexic. Dyslexic? Clearly that famous parable about seeing the splinter in your neighbour’s eye but not seeing the log in your own had happened to me. How had I never connected the dots? I’d been called all sorts of names: stupid, lazy, carless, inattentive; all because dyslexia was not something yet recognised.

For ten years of piano lessons, I had agonised over the black notes which slid up and back down the music staff almost every time I looked at my sheet music. Numbers would swap places like partners in a tennis match. Chunks of sentences in books would appear in the wrong order. And then, spoonerisms. Ah, a mass of botches, brunday sunch, sand hanitizer, and more; I even spoonerised my own name, Cathbone Ratherine, when I was labelling a stack of copybooks. Just when I thought I had found a way around most of these, in came the American bubble-in multiple choice test sheets.

Somehow, the love of reading and telling stories still superseded all challenges and I soon became a closet writer working in secret, moving almost seamlessly from my little Olivetti  on to one of the very first computers. Stories poured from my fingertips every time I sat there, the printed versions going straight into the bottom right-hand drawer of my desk. Backspace and select-delete became instant friends. I was no longer tearing or wrinkling sheets of paper with my constant rubbing out.

Deep inside, however, I still carried every one of those false beliefs that, because of my poor spelling and grammar, I would never be published, nor would I amount to much. It only took me another three decades to prove them wrong. Three decades!

When my father became a professional proofreader, he said: “Tell the story, Cath. There are plenty of proofreaders around willing and able to help with the technicalities.” Those words held the key which later began unlocking and freeing me of those negative thoughts.

Today, I’m a published author, creative writing facilitator and public speaker. I have a personal podcast, as well as a professional one with my business partner, NC Murphy (another dyslexic.) Together, we run The Write Away Afterparty Podcast (all about the thrills and spills of a writing career) and have just piloted The Write Away Afterparty Open Mic (where creatives can sign up to take part virtually and practise reading their work in public). It appears I’ve almost beaten my negative voice into submission.

Like so many things in life, it takes what it takes to get us to where we want to be. I’ve been my own worst enemy for a long time, but today I work very hard to champion myself and others. As a dear Texan friend once said to me: “Slow by little, Cath, you’ll get it.” This makes me smile and reflect how these two things, ‘slow’ and ‘little,’ are such sensible partners. As a fast, impatient doer, I’m rarely found doing anything at a pace lower than fast. There’s fast, super-fast or fast asleep! However, thanks to Texas, I’ve been allowing myself time to introduce ‘slow’ and ‘little’ into my range of speeds. Once I learned how to slow down, I found the getting there almost enjoyable.

‘Slow by little,’ during the getting there, I set up (and still run) the Intrepid Writers Of The Round Table writing groups, focusing on encouraging anyone who might have a spark of a dream to write. Together, we learn to trust the process, we walk together, grow together, inspire one another and the process allows them space to be brave enough to overcome whatever is holding them back. At the Intrepid Writers Of The Round Table, we learn everyone can tell a story and write a story. Long or short. Funny or serious. Tragic or triumphant. I offer one-on-one sessions with beginner writers, intimate groups of two or three and larger groups. Here, we all write, read aloud and claim our small victories each time. Since Covid, we have remained virtual for most sessions, allowing us to move around geographically and still be a part of the group.

Over time, these sessions have begun to feel like my primary classroom: we play, we have fun, we’re cheeky with words, we can pivot from serious to heartfelt to downright funny in a matter of seconds. Most importantly, there’s never any writer’s block. There is never a moment where we are stuck. How does that work? Trust. It’s all about creating the gentle, safe space for everyone. It’s the trust that always brings me full circle back to escapism, the activity I adore. And isn’t that what story is all about?

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Interested in joining Intrepid Writers Of The Round Table? Visit www.cathrathbone.com for more details and connect with Cath on YouTube, Instagram and Facebook: @cathrathbone

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You can hear great new ideas, creative work and writing tips on Write On! Audio. Find us on all major podcast platforms, including Apple and Google Podcasts and Spotify. Type Pen to Print into your browser and look for our logo, or find us on Podcasters.Spotify.com.

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