I wrote a book and it's very average.

A small one. Just a little one. Nothing big, nothing fancy. Just a little bit of poetry wrapped up in some eco-friendly paper and horse-less glue. I’ve been telling myself I’d do it for years and now it’s done. And I’m not sure how I feel. Good and Proud feel like too much of a stretch. I think I’ve made something incredibly average. No grounds are going to break. No minds will blow. No eyes forced open. It just exists. It won't change my life, it’s barely changed my week. It certainly won't change anyone else life.

But that's exactly right. I had it in my head that if somehow one day I made a poetry book, it would be a magnificent success or a disaster. And so far it hasn't been either. It just exists. Both it and I are average. And that was the unexpected antidote I needed. I suddenly feel this massive relief. I did the thing. My world didn't change, I still have my feet on the ground and my dreams where I left them. And now I can do another one.

I don't know what I fear more success or failure. I'm in a weird position where I work in an industry where a handful of friends and lovers are “successful” in a way that means they have some amount of fame. And honestly, I wouldn't wish their lives on anyone. If any of them had done what I have, created a very average poetry book, they would be called out by media and colleagues as pretentious wankers or conceited idiots, or worse their supporters would idolise them, even more, raise that pedestal so that when they fall, they fall that much further. But not me. I can be average and plain brilliantly. I have no following. No crowd of beloved people hiding behind a swarm none de plume. I just fumble and bumble around. Ego neither inflated or deflated by others.

That big fear. That fear of persecution following success chills me. It chills me to my core. To the point, I don't make anything. I don't do anything. I don't create anything. I would very much like to be successful at the age of 93. I think that would be good. I’d love to have made a lifetime's worth of work and art before being ‘discovered’ I’d like my relatives to clear out my house after I pass and feel as though they were entering a great tomb, surrounded by artworks and creations that have never been seen before. Even is they are, yes, smudged, faded, and let's be honest, nothing special.

This week marks the arrival of 'Attempt 1’ my poetry collection. My first try. Me giving it a go, not failing, not succeding. Just making a little thing. The relief of my world not ending after sharing something. It's odd, it’s all in my mind. But that doesn't make it any less powerful. I’m sure I could trace the fear back to something; childhood, or self-preservation, or any array of factors that impact us. I’ve got no interest in doing that though. I’m just going to take the win, fear didn't stop me, and really I had nothing to be afraid of. Now if I can wrap my head around the fact my ex has bought two copies of this book that is so painfully and obviously and bitchy about him…

If you fancy taking a peak at my first of many very public mistakes I would love it if you could take a look at my book on www.kirstynbrook.co.uk

And if you’re in a part of the world I haven't figured out how to post to yet, drop me a message and we can figure it out...