I’m staying at my friend’s house, near Frome, for a few nights. We had planned to go to Cornwall for a week, to see my mother-in-law, but just a week or so before leaving, a friend asked if we’d like to kitten-sit on the way back, so we extended the trip.

Sat at her kitchen table, drinking tea from her mug and eating peanut butter toast from her plate, I feel like I have stepped into her life. Boiling up water on the hob, rather than in an electric kettle and grilling bread to toast it. I’m enjoying these things.

My children have run around the lovely big garden, bounced on the trampoline and enjoyed the space. My daughter has devoted herself to the kittens: playing with them, checking the litter trays, feeding them and topping up the water.

I’ve sat in the window seat, reading.

Before the summer holidays, we thought about booking some childcare for our three children so that we could both work but instead, we have spent just over five weeks together, every day. It has felt like we’re on a ship together, out at sea.

Twice a week, I’ve peeled off to run co-writing sessions and I’ve enjoyed the peace of these hours. Catching up with writers in The Collective on Zoom and then muting myself and writing, while they do, alone in whichever house or caravan I’ve been in.

An on-going conversation…

For a while, I couldn’t see how my husband and I would both continue to work, with 13 weeks of school holidays to consider and one of our children attending school part-time. We are often needed in the school week but we don’t know when that will be.

We talked about one of us working, one being with the children. But he isn’t prepared to give up his career, and although I toy with the idea of pausing mine, I never actually do it. I thought about taking a sabbatical but it didn’t happen.

In fact, I set up my writers’ membership with set hours each week because I wanted to create more structure, not less. And this has been the one non-negotiable for all but one of the summer holiday weeks: the co-writing sessions I lead.

In those sessions, I write my own Substack essays (I’m hosting a session right now, writing this while other members are muted and writing their own Substack pieces). So, it has been a neat way to continue writing and earning over the summer.

I have also been running The Creative Way online course through August, publishing a new module each Monday, emailing the women on the course and thoroughly enjoying some back-and-forth when they have questions, or ideas to share.

When I realised that neither my husband nor I would be giving up our work to parent full-time, I suggested that we work together again, as we did on the online course business back in the pandemic times (I wrote about it, at the time, for the Guardian.)

Working together, with a shared focus, means there’s less push/pull. It feels easier to ‘let’ the other person go off and work, because it’s all feeding into the same business. There was real flow, back then. But there was also an intensity to the togetherness.

My husband wasn’t interested. He doesn’t want to work on my business, and it’s less clear how I could contribute to his (as a builder and filmmaker). But, it doesn’t matter now, as his YouTube channel has been bringing a passive income this summer.

Maybe this was my real wish.

Not that we would work together but that he wouldn’t need full days on the building site every day for his work, so that parenting could be more easily shared. Now, he will do a stint on-site, edit the film for YouTube and as the views go up, he is paid.

This was an intentional move, on his part: building a second income stream from work he’s already doing.

And rather than quit my career, or take a break, I’ve also designed it very intentionally to ensure that I’m largely available but also, that when I’m working, I’m doing work I really want to do. If I stop wanting to do it, I stop doing it. There is a lot of freedom.

Back on the boat

When our children have been bickering in the back of the car this summer, or asking too many questions or calling the food we’ve cooked ‘disgusting’, I’ve longed for time alone, or time when I can just be with my husband and talk uninterrupted.

But I have also felt very lucky to have been together during the holidays, on this sometimes rocky and sometimes pleasantly still little boat, in the middle of the ocean, occasionally coming back to the harbour to meet friends and family.

We have one last trip, this weekend. Two nights by the coast with my whole family to celebrate my mum and dad’s 50th wedding anniversary. Half a century, married. That really is something to celebrate. Love. (Patience?). We are all looking forward to this.

And after that, school.

I can already see my children’s moods shifting, as the summer holidays draw to a close. Today, it’s cooler and I can feel autumn lurking around the corner. Once we’re back into the school term, I might embrace autumn but I’m not ready just yet.

I don’t want the summer to end.

Annie x

Ps. I’m opening up three one-to-one coaching spots for September, and there’s an offer on now (three sessions for the price of two). I can help you to design a creative online career, from home, around other responsibilities. Read more and sign up here.

We’re sat around the table, me and a family I’m meeting for the first time, because one of my children has joined their child’s class and they’ve kindly invited us for a playdate. The house is beautiful, the people are beautiful, the cheese is beautiful.

It’s the winter and I’m wearing a jumper.

“I’m going to get a tattoo right here, when I’m older” one of their children say. And the dad turns to her. “Over my dead body,” he says, his face stern. I’m waiting for him to laugh, because it’s 2024, not 1950. But he’s not joking.

I didn’t realise people still had this view.

I’ve just moved from Frome, where people are open-minded, creative, liberal. Tattoos are not commented upon. No one cares. Unless they like your tattoo, in which case they’d say it. No one I know would respond angrily to their child talking about tattoos.

So I’m sitting there, slightly blushing perhaps, wondering if he has made the assumption that I don’t have a tattoo, or just hasn’t considered it (more likely). I’m pleased that it’s winter, not summer. Would he have said this if mine were showing?

For the first time ever, I feel uncomfortable about having tattoos. Until now, I’ve enjoyed the artwork on my body. As we move into summer, I’ll be a little tentative about showing my upper arms. But I will. In fact, I’ll start showing them on purpose.

I’ll make friends with fellow open-minded, liberal creatives. I’ll notice people at the school-gates glancing at my arms in a sleeveless dress with a slight look of shock and it will amaze me that people like this live here, in London, in this age.

I’ll think back to how that dad spoke to his child and wonder whether the child will follow orders or disobey.

I tend to believe that strictness and harsh discipline create resistance and rebellion. Or at least, a disconnect. By stamping out an idea before even exploring it, we’re not listening to our children. And so, they stop talking so openly with us.

I’ll wonder what other conversations are closed off, without an exploration. I’ll be glad to have a natural openness and curiosity, with my own kids.

I got my first tattoo when I was 19. By this age, I didn’t have to ask my parents. But I did - legally - have to ask to get my belly pierced when I was 15 and my mum took me to the shop to have it done. Not because she wanted me to but because it was my body.

My choice.

My parents don’t have any tattoos (that I know of). My mum has one earring in each of her ears. I have had 11 piercings, over the years, including the belly ring, two nose rings and eight in my ears. And until a few weeks ago, I had five tattoos.

Now, I have six.

Maybe, because I am pierced and tattooed, my own children will choose not to be. Sometimes, we decide to differentiate ourselves from our parents. Or maybe they’ll feel they would like to. Either way, it’s up to them. I won’t encourage or discourage.

I’m pleased that my parents let me make up my own mind about my body - and my life, in general. They’ve always been there to listen, support and guide - when I’ve asked for guidance - but they have never told me what to do (or not do).

Now, let me tell you about my new tattoo. Which, when I think about it, maybe came about because if you live in an area where people frown upon tattoos, and you’re a quiet rebel, you do the opposite of what’s expected of you.

You get more tattoos.

That, and the sense that as I move into my 40s (I’m 41), I don’t want to follow rules. I want to live, and have new experiences. I want to continue to decorate my body. Plus, I had tattoos for each of my three children and someone had suggested it was my turn.

I actually felt a bit nervous about the pain of getting a tattoo. I couldn’t remember how it felt. My daughter asked me, when she was dropping me off at the tattoo studio with my husband and sons, how I felt. Nervous, I said, but I still want to do it.

Why a pear?

It started in childhood. I don’t know what the book was but I remember reading - or being read - a story that mentioned a pear and chocolate tart. I had never had one and this sounded like the most delicious combination to me. I thought about it, often.

And then, when I was 21, I moved to Brighton to live with my sister. There was a patisserie at the end of our road, in the North Lanes, and one day, my sister came home with a small box and inside it, there was a pear and chocolate tart.

A shiny, perfect fleshy poached pear, halved, and laid on a bed of custardy-chocolate. It was encased in a buttery pastry crust, with a delicate hem.

She sliced it in two and we shared it. It was everything I’d dreamed it would be. The perfect pairing. Pear. Chocolate. Tart. We believe that we have a genetic predisposition to pastry, me and my sister. And my dad. It’s down the paternal line.

From there, I developed even more of an obsession with pear. Not always the fruit itself but just the idea of it. The look and shape. The word. Sometimes I’ve wondered if I’m pear-shaped myself, but I don’t think I am. I’m more like a bobbly carrot.

When I got married, aged 25, a friend, who I’d lived with in Brighton, bought us a pear tree. It was my favourite gift. I planted it in our garden in Frome. A year later, we moved to London and the pear tree stayed behind. I was so sad (why didn’t I bring it?).

10 years after that, we were living in Frome again. I went to the back of the garden of our old house, as there’s a passage behind it, and I tried to peer in, to see how the pear tree was doing. But I couldn’t see over the fence. I went several times, no luck.

A few weeks ago, when I was thinking about pears, I started drawing them, in black ink. I wanted to draw the perfect pear. I drew several. I then looked up the spiritual meaning of pear and discovered that they represent love, abundance and longevity.

When my friend was getting married, I made her a card with a plump juicy pear on it…

And then, I decided that I wanted a pear tattoo. So, I selected the pear drawing that felt most ‘me’ (see image at the top) and I took it to a woman in Clapton (east London) who does stick-and-poke tattoos. She turned my design into a tattoo:

I’d sent the image ahead of the appointment, as requested, and when I went in, she said: so, you’re an illustrator? Oh, how I blushed. But not like the blush when that man told his kid off for wanting a tattoo. This was a blush of joy. Of creative recognition.

I draw. And I’m comfortable saying that I draw. But not that I’m an artist or an illustrator. I say I’m a writer who draws. But maybe, by getting my own drawing tattooed on my arm, I was saying to myself: your art is good enough for me.

The pear is sat on my upper arm amongst my daughter’s moon, and my son’s leaf, and my other son’s bluejay. My dad said that it looks much better now. He likes it with the pear. Before, it was incomplete. I see the pear as being for my husband, too.

Love. Marriage. Longevity. (The pear tree, immortalised.)

On that note, I need to go and find my husband. We’re in Cornwall and he’s taken the kids off for a few hours so that I could lead a co-writing session and write an essay. Now, I’ll get a boat across the estuary to the local town. A boat. How cute.

Tell me about your tattoos…

Annie x

I’m in a coffee shop in Ilminster, a small Somerset town with lots of antique shops. And this particular coffee shop, No.57, which is maybe my favourite coffee shop in the world, is full of antiques, too.

It’s a house, with a little yard. There’s a small counter with homemade cakes and the most delicious chees…

Read more

We arrived in Somerset late afternoon on a day so hot that even I couldn’t help but mention it. I don’t like talking about the weather. When it’s raining and people say it’s raining, it feels the same as seeing a mug on the table and saying there’s a mug.

Likewise when it’s hot. And of course, it has be…

Read more

We’re in France, sitting around the table at the campsite, and we can hear fire engines in the distance. My sister checks her phone to see how close the wild fires are. Near or far, it’s worrying. People are being evacuated from their homes; nature charred.

Soon after, my phone vibrates. A text from Thames water to announce the hosepipe ban in north Lond…

Read more

Read more

This course has a new module on ‘how to set up a membership’, including everything I’ve learnt from launching mine three mon…

Read more

I return home from a week in France and find a letter.

It looks official and I’m hoping it’s one of those exciting ones, like news of a tax rebate, but it’s one of the bad ones. From a debt collection agency. The landlord who made me pay £20,000 in rent for an uninhabitable flat is still trying to get my attention.

He’s like a villain in a children’s fil…

Read more

I am the kind of person who hand-makes teachers’ cards at the end of the year, to thank them for supporting my children.

I am the kind of person who can’t be bothered to cook dinner so last night, it was scrambled eggs on toast.

I am the kind of person who sticks rigidly to work commitments, routines, deadlines.

I am the kind of person who loves to leave p…

Read more

Sometimes I feel like success, for me, lies in the past. Occasionally, a photo will pop up of when I was signing my first book deal, for The Freelance Mum, in The News Building, with my editor at 4th Estate, high up with an amazing view of London.

I’m wearing pink. My hair looks so blonde and glossy. My skin is clear. It looks like I’m happy - I was - and life is good. That period was before things got hard. It was the motherhood chapter that I’d always dreamed of. Career-wise, I felt like I was flying.

It was when I was pitching for my second book that I realised I wasn’t actually flying. I was on the first rung of the freelance writer ladder. If I wanted to climb up another rung, I’d have to work even harder, because my book wasn’t an instant bestseller.

I worked harder.

Wrote a book that made more sense, to me, than the first. Shy. I loved writing that book. I was lifting the lid on something that had felt shameful about my past and offering others the chance to reframe their own - or their children’s - shyness.

With that book, I got even better press. I spoke at Cheltenham Literary Festival in a packed out room, hundreds of people in the audience. There were more questions than at any other talk that year. A snaking queue of people wanting a book signed.

But then there was Henley Festival. A (literary) disaster.

Read more

For the past year and a half, I’ve not had a dishwasher.

Some of you might be thinking: so what?

While others might agree that washing up after a family of five every day, three meals a day (I make packed lunches), in this heat, is not as nice as having a dishwasher do it for you. I know, because I’ve almost always had one.

You get used to it, though. It…

Read more

In my last piece about my slow decline on Substack, I promised to share what I do know works, on this platform. Writing about failure is one of them, as my stats are now back on the green - on the up - which feels good. But, there’s something else, too.

As I mentioned, I have three platforms on Substack and I’ve experimented with different pricing and offers across them. Writing is always at the centre of what I’m doing, as it’s what I want to be doing most of, but it needs something sprinkled on top.

In this piece, I will share the stats from my new platform, The Creative Way Collective, a writer’s membership hosted on Substack with a free weekly ‘writers, writing’ email for everyone, a podcast that is also free and Zoom sessions for members.

There are two things I do every week that seem to always lead to a new member joining us. And over on The Creative Way Collective, the paid subscription is £40/month, so one new member a week makes a big difference.

Also, importantly, I have the most free subscribers on The Creative Way Collective and the general readership is continuing to grow. I’m approaching the whole platform quite differently to my personal one and so far, it seems to be paying off.

I’ll then write about We Hyperfocus. There, I share weekly personal essays by neurodivergent creatives and I’ve approached pricing differently. But, I’m gonna shake it up now. I’ll explain what I’ve been doing and why I’m now changing it.

And, I’ll write about how running both of those other platforms has taught me about what matters on my personal Substack, this one. I’m going to be adding in something extra for paid subscribers. I’ll explain what it is, below.

As writers, on Substack, we want to be able to write, freely, in our style and voice. And it is your writing that will draw in new readers. But, we then need to help readers feel that a paid subscription is justified. A great investment of their time and money.

See the stats and learn how to make Substack work

Read more

How nice to have an excuse to draw a bird. I love birds. But, I’m here to tell you that the early-bird offer on my new The Creative Way course, updated with a module on running your own membership, on Substack, ends tonight.

The course itself runs through August, with me there on email for all your questions. But you can access the course materials, onli…

Read more

When you’re running a business, online, and bringing in parts of your personal life, there’s a temptation to only show the glossy bits. The success stories, the book deals, the course launches that bring in £10,000+, the Substack stats on the up.

After all, if part of your business is teaching business, what happens when yours is in decline? How can you teach someone how to launch and grow on Substack when your growth has stunted, plateaued or started to reverse?

Well, I value honesty. This is a personal and business value.

And I think we have a duty to share a fuller version of our work/lives, not just the ‘success’, if we’re going to share anything at all. So today, I’m going to tell you the story of my Substack steadily declining, because I’ve learnt from it (and you can, too).

There’s a caveat here. My personal Substack has been slowly declining - so a failure of sorts, though I still have hundreds of paid subscribers, so not a total failure, more on that towards the end - but, I’ve launched another Substack that is, excitingly, thriving.

In fact, my newest Substack - The Creative Way Collective - is just two months old, and I’m already earning nearly as much, from that one, as I am from my personal Substack, the one you’re reading now, which is over three years old.

(Not to mention the joy of connecting with other writers, over there.)

I have a third Substack, We Hyperfocus, that is pootling along; neither failing nor succeeding, financially. That one is about the mission, but I will also tell you, in time, about what I’m going to start offering over there to try monetising it differently.

Basically, I’ve set up and I run three Substacks, with quite different intentions, and now I can tell you what works, what doesn’t, what to try and how to avoid a slow decline like mine, which I’m now working to correct.

Growth and decline

I’ve been writing on Substack for three years and four months. In the first year, I saw fast growth. It peaked after a year and a half and for the next year and 10 months, it slowly declined. In terms of revenue, it’s now half what it was at its peak.

In that time, I’ve written a lot of personal essays, plus some self-development pieces and business tips. I’ve used it like a creative playground, experimenting with writing styles and I’ve also invited readers to join my ‘The Creative Way’ online courses.

At points, I’ve being quite stubborn about writing whatever I fancy, as this is the creative way. But, we can take a creative approach while also giving readers what they are asking for. After all, we are here, on Substack, to earn a living as writers.

(And, there’s a way to honour your creative freedom and integrity, while also popping on your business hat. To be both artist and entrepreneur. Creative and teacher. More on that later.)

I thought about giving up

Since the dip began, I’ve considered giving it all up so many times. Subscription models feel amazing when they’re on the up but when people leave, it’s a little kick every time. An ego kick. A financial kick. A kick to your creative energy.

Especially as my home-life has been very challenging, these past few years.

However, I know that the only Substack writers who will succeed are those who persevere. And I want to be one of them. I want to succeed. I want to work towards not just getting back to where I was but surpassing it.

I’m actively returning to my goal of 1000+ paid subscribers.

And I want to bring you along for the ride because this is the crunchy middle. The bit we can all bite into. The exciting moment where you decide that in spite of the decline - and failure - you’re going to keep going. And go harder. Properly challenge yourself.

I want in

I’m now going to share a graph of my entire three and half years on Substack, including revenue, free subscribers and paid subscribers. I’ll explain the high points and the drops - and share my new plan-of-action.

Next week, I’ll write more about my other two platforms: The Creative Way Collective and We Hyperfocus. What I’m doing on those two, what I’ll try next and how much I’m earning from them. Plus, what they’ve taught me about how to approach this one.

Here’s my new bio for this Substack:

Work/life essays that will help you to grow a freelance career, move through failure, reach for success and remain hopeful. Hope is the golden thread. From Annie Ridout (author, journalist, poet, coach, mother and entrepreneur)

The actual numbers and graphs

Read more

It didn’t occur to me to go freelance straight out of university. Instead, I applied for internships with film companies, jobs on local newspapers and a few wild cards, like a sales position at Vogue House that I hoped would be my key through to editorial.

Several times, over the next few years, I’d break down into tears of frustration. I’m not a big crier. I cry (when not grieving) about two or three times a year. But I really wanted to work, and I just couldn’t seem to get a job.

I did book-keeping for my dad’s business while applying for jobs. During one stint, I wrote a novel from the kitchen table between applications. I did try freelancing, at this point, but other than a job writing a press release, nothing came through.

So when, eventually, someone I knew posted about a copywriting job on Facebook, and I said I was going to apply, and she said I’d be perfect for it, and I went for the interview and got the job, I thought I’d made it. Good money, an office, a future.

Except, in that 90% male tech business, they didn’t care to support women through maternity leave. So, I lost my job when I said I was pregnant. So did my boss. And it was rubbish but also, the best thing that could have happened.

I don’t want to gloss over the hard bits here, because I definitely spent the early months of ‘maternity leave’ flitting between doting on my most beautiful baby daughter and trying to work out what the fuck I was going to do for work.

Back then, transcription was a job, would you believe. I thought about doing that. I did bits of journalism. Got a part-time job on a digital magazine and then, when that looked like it was about to fold (soon after, it did), I launched my own platform.

Me, my laptop, the kitchen table and a baby who napped for about five or six hours a day. (I lucked out. My second baby did not do this.) I spent those hours writing and editing articles, uploading them to the digital magazine and promoting them.

I went to networking events. Not many, because I hate them but some, because I thought that was what you were meant to do. I did all the things you were meant to do and it wasn’t exactly easy or linear, but I did end up with a book deal to write…

The Freelance Mum. A book about how I’d just about made it work as a freelance writer, running a business from home, with a toddler and, now, a newborn baby. After that book was published, I launched an online course and my career came together.

The internet made all of this possible. I created an entire career, from home, using my laptop and the internet. It’s wild. At points, I was making £10-20,000 a month using my brain and the internet and my computer and phone.

So, when people talk about going offline and the internet being evil and whatever else, I stay a bit quiet. Yes, time in nature is wonderful and we need real people in our lives and love and touch and connection. But, the internet opens doors for people like me.

People who hate in-person networking. Who are shy and/or neurodivergent. People who feel safer making contact online, first. I wrote a whole chapter about this in my second book, Shy. About how the online world is a shy person’s friend.

And I continue to work almost entirely online. The Creative Way. And to teach others how to grow a creative online career, from home, using just their laptop and the internet. In fact, I’m running a course on exactly that, through August.

Read all about it

Roblox, gaming and connection

Read more

I’ve been setting up this lovely, creative career for myself, feeling ever-so-grateful because the work makes my soul sing - writing, creating a community of writers, teaching, coaching, mentoring - and sinking into it like a cold plunge on a hot day.

And now, it’s set up.

And I’m still refreshed and delighted and I also have some space in my days and mi…

Read more

Once upon a time when I was running a digital magazine, PRs started sending me things so that I’d do a write-up or mention them on Instagram, or something. But they quickly realised I’m a rubbish influencer and stopped sending things.

Or, I stopped giving out my address.

I never wanted to talk about products I’d been se…

Read more

Last year, I turned 40 without much fanfare. I wrote about that here. It was a tricky time at home and I felt neither celebratory nor sociable. My confidence had been shrunk by stress and I wanted to just hide. But this year, I feel different.

Not because home is all hunky-dory and I have nothing to worry about. We all have something we feel we need to w…

Read more

Last week, I was invited to a Substack talk about launching a podcast on Substack. I went along (online), listened to what they had to say, decided there was no way I’m doing a podcast as I’m too busy and then promptly launched a podcast the next day.

I’ve launched it over on The Creative Way Collective, because it’s going to be all about how to be a writer, online. The episodes are currently free for everyone to listen to. And when I say episodes, I mean episode because so far, there’s only one.

In it, I spoke about how my online writing career started with blogging.

For a long time, I was embarrassed about this, it didn’t feel ‘proper’ but now I feel proud of my blogging. It takes guts to self-publish. To decide that your writing deserves to published, online, even if you’ve been rejected by traditional publications.

Many of the women who were blogging alongside me, about 10 years ago, writing about motherhood, went on to become hugely successful writers.

Katie Kirby went on to write the incredibly popular Lottie Brooks series, Sarah Turner (aka The Unmumsy Mum) is a 4x Sunday Times bestseller for her novels. There are many more examples like this. And it all started with blogging.

That’s one side of blogging. Writing online and growing a community of readers, often on social media. And the other is using blogging for your business by drawing people from Google to your website (blog) using SEO (search engine optimisation).

Back when I launched my first digital platform, in 2015, SEO was a big deal.

I wanted to attract parents of young children to my website, so I’d create articles with headers like ‘How to get my baby to sleep through the night’ and standfirst copy with key words that Google would pick up. Then, my website would move up the ranks.

I obsessed over it. And I got the traffic. But I never properly monetised it.

When I launched my online courses website, I really started seeing the benefits of SEO. I’d launch a course called ‘How to launch an online course’ and soon, anyone who typed that into Google would come across my course. Some would sign up.

But now, what with Google AI dominating that top section of Google searches rather than our websites, and with the rise of Substack as a kind of ‘blogging platform’ - do we still need blogs on our website to build community and/or drive traffic and sales?

Read more

So, for loyal subscribers over here (‘Annie Ridout’ Substack), I’d like to extend the invitation for the co-writing sessions to you, as well. We meet Tuesday evening at 7pm, UK-time, and Friday morning at 10am, UK-time.

How it works is that I send you a Zoom link and you log in at those times (either, or both, and you can decide on the day). You can say a quick hello, if you’d like, or stay muted, camera on or off, and we spend an hour, together (online), writing, in silence.

It’s a really powerful way to commit to your practice, and feel there’s some accountability, as we’re all writing at the same time. Some people journal, others work on Substack essays, non-fiction book proposals, poetry. It’s your time, you decide.

I’ve been exploring the ‘soul’ of my work through a beautiful programme run by Gemma Brady at Sister Stories called Medicine. It started yesterday and what landed is that I’m here to write, and to encourage others to write more, too.

So, this is another step towards that.

Members of The Collective also get access to a monthly writing workshop and a monthly writers’ circle, which includes writing prompts and discussion about our practice. The next workshop is on ‘creative writing for social media’.

If you’d like to go all in with the membership, you can read more and subscribe here.

If you’d just like to join the co-writing sessions, starting this evening, at 7pm, here’s the link:

Read more