This is the second of a three-part newsletter about the European Writers Salon. The first one, available here, was about in-person literary events. Part three will discuss my takeaways from the weekend when it comes to revising my novel.

We all wear different hats. (Mine are mostly flat caps.) Some people seem adept at balancing hat on hat on hat, like the peddler in Esphyr Slobodkina’s seminal 1940s kids’ book, Caps for Sale. Me, I’m a one-hat-at-a-time kind of guy. If I wear too many at once, they all fall off. Then I run around like a hatless chicken, shaking my fist at monkeys.

Dad Hat is a tricorn, made of English fabric but in the French style. It has an air of responsibility to it, like the wearer might be in charge of something, but it’s also got gold trim. No one ever wore gold trim without trying a little too hard. It’s certainly an adventurous choice, but does he really know the waters he’s sailing off into? Might there be dragons?

The Writer’s Hat is comfortable, pleasingly woolly. It’s got an intricate, multicoloured pattern that took years to knit from scratch. Despite this, I’m slightly embarrassed to wear it outside, lest people think I’m – shudder – eccentric. Oh, and it also has blinkers like a horse’s harness. When I’m wearing it, I can only see the story.

You can see how putting on both these things at once might not be all that comfortable.

Hey, You! Writer Dad! Feeling Guilty Enough?!

At the European Writers Salon in Madrid last month, I was a panel member for a workshop entitled “Adapting and Sustaining Creative Practice Through the Rigors of Parenthood: How Do You Do It?”

I wasn’t sure which hat to wear. Could I sticky-tape them together somehow?

It was my first time as an invited speaker on an in-person panel. I’d been recruited after responding to an email call with my relevant qualifications. (They wanted a dad; I was like, hey – that’s me!) I was feeling nervous and excited, but I knew it was going to be an intimate affair – a discussion-based workshop in the middle of a busy day with around ten people signed up. Manageable.

It turned out to be the most meaningful and rewarding hour of the whole weekend. I was on the panel with two extremely talented writer–mothers, Barbara Diggs and Alisha Hillam. We talked logistics: about setting reasonable expectations and remaining flexible in terms of how and when we write. Alisha shared information about an amazing parent-only writing retreat in Hamburg. I talked about how I’ve built in buffers between dad-time and writing-time, because both those hats are quite unwieldy.

Then we started talking about guilt. And, oh, how necessary everything felt from that point on! Writer–parents seem to feel guilty all the time: when we’re writing, we’re not spending time with our kids. After parenting, we’re not using writing time efficiently, instead doing things like – shock horror! – napping. The workshop became a collective exercise in proving ourselves innocent. Hearing other people’s “admissions” was so reassuring. Is anyone here perfect? Nope? Great. Maybe we can all cut ourselves more slack.

There’s Also Guilt About What We Write

For me, fatherhood is a source of inspiration. “Night Kingdom”, which was published last year in Indelible, is about sleep deprivation as a new parent. “I Will Name My Daughter Rage” (published in Free Flash Fiction) is about having kids in the climate crisis. But so far, these stories have all featured babies. Sure, those babies are based on my daughter, but who’s going to recognise themself in someone who can’t walk or talk?

More recently though, my daughter’s personality has crept into my writing. Several workshop attendees had anecdotes about family members responding poorly to perceived unflattering depictions in published stories. Some said they don’t write about their kids at all for this reason.

I have read stories I consider fiction at open mics only to have audience members refer to them as personal essays. They aren’t entirely wrong! I may change settings, or certain elements of character, but the truths I’m exploring at the heart of a father–daughter relationship are directly drawn from my – and her – personal experiences. Navigating those threads in the future, as my daughter becomes more aware of my work, will become increasingly complex.

Luckily, I can draw on other writer–parents for guidance. At the end of the parenting workshop, everyone swapped contact information. There are no magic solutions to juggling writing and parenting; it’s always going to be difficult to tailor a multipurpose hat. But it helped to meet and learn from others who’ve struggled in the same ways I have, whose own hats are flamboyant and jerry-rigged, chewed on by toddlers, dotted with glitter and finger paint.

Any writer–parents out there? How do you cope? Hit reply and let me know.