Jay Whittaker has lived and worked in Edinburgh since 1995 and Scotland is very much home, though she grew up much further south in Devon and Nottingham.
After taking a degree in English Language and Literature at Leeds University, I became a librarian, and have worked in the British Library, National Museums Scotland, and the University of Edinburgh. I changed direction in 2009 and now my day job has nothing to do with books. I don’t think having a day job is a bad thing at all for a writer (and for most of us it’s a necessity), though it makes for a constant balancing act.
I’ve written poems for most of my adult life, but have taken my writing much more seriously in the last 4 years. This is the unexpected outcome of my personal annus horribilis, during which my partner died and I started cancer treatment. Who would have thought the shitstorm would re-energise my efforts to get my poems out there? It’s not just all the extra material. If not now, when?
When I’m not writing or working at the day job, I’m usually to be found walking my dog on Edinburgh’s hills or the beaches of East Lothian – or enjoying the many distractions my adopted home town has to offer.
1. Why, if there was a reason, did you write this poem/these poems?
My collection Wristwatch contains a sequence of poems arising from the early death of my partner Morag, and a second sequence about my own cancer treatment in the year that followed. I’m a compulsive journaller as well as a poet and I couldn’t help but write my way through it. The poems are the more public, edited version of that writing.
2. Why, upon writing this poem/these poems, did you perform them?
I wrote the poems to communicate, and performance is the most immediate way of getting feedback. The audience reaction can be seen and heard, right in front of you. It’s always wonderful to hear that my writing has touched someone, has resonance for them.
3. How does performing this piece change how you look at what happened to you?
Performing the poems somehow ritualises, distances and legitimises the experiences: yes, this happened to me, but here I am, trying to make meaning from it all. I suppose it gives me the illusion of control.
The poems were written / edited looking back at particular points in time – as time passes, my reaction to the events has changed, and my feelings about the poems has changed as well.
4. How do you separate artistic performance from lived personal experience?
My performance persona is a protective shell, a public cover version I developed when I was working out who I was after the shit-fest.
Also, these poems are lightly fictionalised, rather than strict truth. My dog was a lurcher, not a greyhound, but everyone knows how a greyhound runs, so Wristwatch turned him into a greyhound. When editing I have no compunction in changing minor details to make a better poem. That’s another form of detachment, I suppose.
5. Do you find yourself affected negatively by performing this piece? If so, how do you look after yourself?
There are some poems from the sequence I choose not to perform – they are in the book, but voicing them is too hard. I did read the whole “Risky breasts” sequence in its entirety at the Edinburgh Maggie’s Centre, where it felt safe, reading to people affected by cancer and their support workers.
6. Do you practice any aftercare after performing this piece (either for yourself or audiences)? (E.g., talking to audience members who are upset, taking some time out after your performance to ground yourself, ensuring you perform in places where you feel safe etc.)
I talk to audience members if it seems appropriate or if they approach me. In terms of self-care, I don’t drink too much booze – usually the adrenaline carries me home. I notice it’s hard to sleep after performing these poems – so I plan accordingly, aiming not to over-commit myself in the week I’m performing. I need space to decompress either side.
7. Do you do any content warnings for this piece? Why?
I usually build content warnings into my patter – it’s part of putting the set together. I try to create a set with a narrative arc that eases people into the tough stuff, and then eases them out again – I always try to bring the energy up towards the end with humour, and more life-affirming material.
8. Does the artist owe any kind of protection or safeguarding to their audience?
We should make it clear it’s fine for people to remove themselves or stuff fingers in their ears. Lloyd (Robinson) and Matt (McDonald) set the bar at The God Damn Debut Slam – I love how they make the space safe, giving permission for people to just leave if they need.
This is making me think about the impact of my poems on unsuspecting audience members – I’m sorry for any anguish I’ve caused.
9. Do you believe writing about areas such as grief, loss or trauma is a form of healthy catharsis or memorialisation?
There are studies which bear this out – Pennebaker’s research is a good place to start. Readers turn to poetry when the shit hits the fan, and maybe poets are taking this to the next level.
10. What kind of warnings signs would you point out to someone new to poetry or performance who was performing about their traumas?
When you practice performing a poem, which words or lines make you stumble or your heart lurch? Pay attention to that. Practice those sections. I sometimes sing them, which makes them ridiculous, and less personal. I sometimes feel sorry for my downstairs neighbour! Accept some days it will just be too hard to perform some poems, so have a back-up “safe” poem in a short set / open mic. In a feature set I’ve sometimes just left out a poem (or poems) because either I or the audience are clearly not in the right place. You need a plan for that.
If you can get to training by a master such as Jenny Lindsay, do – you’ll pick up loads of useful strategies which apply to performance generally, never mind the traumatic stuff.
I would also suggest you let poems compost before performing them – I’m certainly more at ease when I do that, and glaring edits are usually easier to spot with a bit of space!
Trust your guts. There’s a difference between the adrenaline needed to perform an artistic version of events and the horror of reliving the experience. If I’m in danger of reliving rather than performing, I switch to another poem.
Hope this helps!
Jay’s website: https://jaywhittaker.uk
Psychology Today article about the Pennebaker approach to writing about trauma: https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/write-yourself-well/201208/expressive-writing
POETRY AS FUCK 