Coming soon: Skint Estate
April 2018: With no money in the bank, 2 weeks from eviction and in the numb aftermath of a suicide attempt - I wrote a proposal for a book about my desperate little life as a working class single mum living below the poverty line in modern Britain. I submitted it along with a couple of sample chapters to Penguin Random House with low expectations and nothing left to lose as my young daughter and I awaited our imminent cleansing from the London.
We did get evicted.
And we did get cleansed.
And we were living in a homeless hostel in a TERRIBLE town when I got the call two months later from Sara Cynwinski at Ebury offering me a book deal. An actual book deal. And with it the feeling of hope that only visits the truly desperate - not just a book deal but a glimmer of a shot at giving my daughter a safe and stable future.
Fast forward 1 whole year and I’m holding an uncorrected proof of my book in my hands, awaiting judgement from journalists and authors and tastemakers. My book Skint Estate. Written on a food bank diet during the most surreal, depressive and isolated 6 months of my life.
There is no pressure for me to be a success: Skint Estate is not an eagerly anticipated book in the world of publishing. My advance was low. And as neither a name of note nor an influencer with an ad pitch there are zero sales based expectations placed upon me. I am the underdog. A wild card. A future tax write off, perhaps? However, I can’t help but feel this is either the moment my life turns around and provides us with the opportunity to finally get out of poverty or it gets well and truly fucked for good. Totally- beyond- fucked. Body dismembered and chucked in a skip fucked- because there is no safety net in view and there is NO way anyone will ever give me a ‘proper’ job after all the filthy things I’ve written about myself. But. There is nothing I can do about it now. And I guess I was already out of choices anyway. Here goes…