On the Curae Prize

For the writer-carer. A new, more vigorous approach and a new literary prize

‘I feel so much better. I feel seen.’

Many people who read this piece will be carers. If readers are not one now, they may be later and some of us will always be in this role. A carer (I use the NHS definition) is anyone who looks after a family member, partner or friend who needs help because of their illness, frailty, disability, a mental health problem or an addiction and cannot cope without their support. They are unpaid for this care. 2020 data from Carers’ UK found that there were approximately 7 million unpaid carers in the UK – that is, one in ten of the population; 2023 data shows an increased number of unpaid carers – as many as 11 million and with a significant rise in the 16-24 demographic Around 800,000 young people aged 5-18 are carers, too.

 I do not want to focus on me, but I shall share that I began writing partly in response to the level of stress I was under. I hope I have shown, in the breadth and volume I have produced during the past seven years, that it is possible to carve out time, even if it is unpredictable, and to work with what you have. A carer is organised; you must be that way. I was a carer as a teenager. I know what it is like to feel separate and apart. Then, you must have a great deal of spirit too, because as well as caring you may be fighting for acknowledgement, diagnosis, resources, and money. You also need time for yourself; what is more, 640 people leave paid work every day to become an unpaid carer because of lack of support available and 52% of people who request flexible working have their requests turned down. The data makes for difficult reading.

 In late 2022 I planned and launched a new literary prize, the Curae, specifically for writers and would-be writers who are carers. I conceived it so that it shone a light on the caring role, and had two ideas for the prize; anyone who was a carer could enter (free) and perhaps they would just enjoy crafting a piece of work, being part of something, and the satisfaction of sending it in. However, I also wanted to make sure that the prize could offer proper industry access for those who wanted it; resources, contacts, advice, training: opportunity in an industry that can look terrifically opaque from the outside. I want to say, too, that I believe creative work is not a luxury; it is, instead, core to who we are, a helpful discipline, a reason to carry on, a break and wonderful for our wellbeing.

Let me share something inspiring and comforting. The prize was profiled in The Bookseller and within hours of publication, people came forth from across the industry: I was offered two generous bursaries and a wealth of support and resources were given by, among many others, Andrew Nurnberg Associates Ltd literary agency, The Good Literary Agency, The Liverpool Literary Agency, Renard and Elliot and Thompson presses, North Bank Talent, Penguin, Arvon, Mslexia, Jericho Writers, The Society of Authors and writers and editors with a number of specialisms, such as memoir-writing and self-publishing – plus I had judges Michael Langan, Amy Lord and Elissa Soave, some amazing sifters and helpers, mentoring, one to ones, special support for carers from under-represented groups and much more – book tokens, bibliotherapy, signed books. It meant we were able to offer good things for our honourable mentions, our shortlist and, over a year, for our two winners.

Three hundred people entered the prize, disproportionately women, and often people who were managing mental and physical health challenges or caring for multiple people in exceptionally challenging people. It was all judged blind, but entrants sent me messages and life stories; some told me things about their feelings that they hadn’t told anyone else, and some people wrote just to say thank you for doing it, even though they weren’t entering. I hold in my heart the entrants caring for parents and partners, offering end of life care in many circumstances, looking after children and young people with life-limiting conditions, often doing the work that, from the outside, you would expect a skilled professional to do or in which you would anticipate they had a great deal of support owing to the magnitude of the task. Alas, requently not so because there are not enough resources to go round and sometimes – this is the thing that has been the hardest of all for me personally – there is an absence of will and compassion. But we have each other. Even heartbroken, no-one need be alone with it – and that is what I am most proud of and most hopeful for.

I hope to grow the prize over the coming years so that we include young carers and in order that a greater range of texts can be entered. As part of my planning, I reflected on what had been unhelpful to me as a new writer, which doors were closed – so I can push those barriers away for others. I thought about what I had needed in industry too and realised that now I had more experience and with all the brilliant industry help, we could lay that out for others. I really hope you read the anthology that sprang from it, and all proceeds go to Carers’ Trust and Carers’ UK. You can buy it here: we have already raised several hundred pounds. https://renardpress.com/books/the-curae/

I would like to offer writers and would-be writers more reassurance: do not wait for ideal circumstances; do not compare; a room of one’s own is ideal but not essential and, again and again, work with what you have and with a broken heart if necessary, because writing itself is immensely beneficial to your mental health and the industry can do more to nurture the idea that publishing work should not only be for those without additional challenges – for the privileged and full of energy.

Caring, even while it happens because of love and because we accept responsibility, is isolating. For this reason, affected writers could consider joining the Society of Authors group specifically for carers to blunt that sense of isolation.

https://www.societyofauthors.org/Groups/Carers

That done, your tribe comes into play. The group of people with whom you surround yourself as you write– this may be in person or, as is more practical for carers, online, and you need not be in similar situations but try to build a cohort of people with whom you can discuss challenges and sometimes cry or be rude and sweary about bad practice or vexation. Ask for their encouragement that you may be bold in your decisions: being a carer can be rewarding; it can also be heartbreaking, not just because of what you see a loved one going through, but because of having to find resources, multi-task, contact various agencies and, not infrequently, see it all fail. I have been there and probably will be again. If you are, simultaneously, working with someone in our industry who lacks compassion, misrepresents you, drains precious energy from you, consult your tribe and gird your loins as you plan to let this person, or these people go. I realise this is a difficult and fraught thing, but I also understand the strain you might be under, and I see you. See yourself, too. Nourish your self-belief. One of the best things about launching the ‘Curae’ prize was that writer-carers found each other and formed their own group. You can already see them wondering how they might pay it forward.

          There is genius out there, much founded in intense pain and frustration:  I am on a mission to make sure it is nurtured and seen. As writers and as an industry we can work together to ensure that happens.

With love and with encouragements,

Anna.