On owning my singleness (by Emma John)
The column for this week’s newsletter is by award-winning journalist, author and broadcaster Emma John. In her memoir Self-Contained: Scenes from a Single Life, she explores what it is to be single in your forties, from sharing a twin room with someone you've never met on a group holiday (because the couples have all the doubles with ensuite) to coming to the realisation that maybe your singleness isn't a temporary arrangement, that maybe you aren't pre-married at all, and in fact you are self-contained.
She has written this piece, especially for the newsletter, about what is was like to step into her singleness and fully own it. This is a topic that I have thought a lot about myself, having gone from trying to hide my long-term single status to launching this newsletter and shouting it from the rooftops.
I know this is something some of you grapple with. Some members of the Facebook group have messaged to ask me if any of their friends will be able to see they have joined a group for single people, as if it’s something to be ashamed of, while others haven’t wanted to share a particular newsletter they enjoyed on social media. I totally get it because I was in the same headspace just a couple of years ago so this is no criticism. I’ve even had one potential guest writer turn down the opportunity because they hadn’t wanted their ex-boyfriends to know they were “still single”.
It’s safe to say the stigma is real and it lives on. I hope you enjoy reading how Emma came to the point to decide to actually write a book about her experiences.
I’m also really excited to say that I was invited to interview Emma at Tring Book Festival (which is happening virtually) on Monday. You can buy your tickets for that event here. It would be great to get some Supp readers in the audience!
Have a good week,
Nicola
Twitter: @Nicola_Slawson | Instagram: @Nicola_Slawson
On owning my singleness
I didn’t plan to write a book about my singleness.
Previously, I’d written about my obsessions. The first book I wrote was about my teenage crush on the England cricket team of the 1990s, a literal bunch of losers whose perennial failure and misfit adventures were a comfort and solidarity throughout my hopelessly awkward adolescence. My second book recounted my solo travels as I went off on a completely whimsical quest to become a bluegrass fiddler in the Appalachian mountains.
So yes, I’d written about myself before – I’d even enjoyed it. I’ve always liked to spin a yarn, to watch my friends laugh at the silly, crazy situations I’ve got myself into, and to tell a story where I’m, generally, the butt of the joke. Being single at 40, though – how was that funny? I knew from experience that most people preferred to avoid the topic, the one that usually brought instant awkward silence to any small talk, with its shimmering suggestion of sadness and unfulfilment.
After all, even my close friends and family would consider it something of a tragedy that I’d never found a partner. But you’re such a great person, they’d say. You’ve got so much love to give. We just wish we could see you settled and happy.
Maybe this why I wrote the book. Because I couldn’t find any other way to convince them that I am happy. That I am – as far I understand the word – settled.
Originally, I planned to write about single women through history. I didn’t want the focus on me – after all, I told myself, my situation wasn’t that interesting. I hadn’t had a dramatic dating history or a past haunted by relationship trauma, just a couple of boyfriends that didn’t work out. I’d never been desperate to be a mother, and I wasn’t fearfully counting down my remaining years of fertility.
I had loved the endless promise of my 20s, and the self-discovery of my 30s. And since everyone else seemed to have no trouble finding a partner, I was sure that at some stage I would too, and it never occurred to me that I might end up in the ‘spinster’ category. If I considered my state at all, I thought of myself as “pre-married”. I hadn’t spent that much time ruing or even considering my own singleness, so who was I to write about it?
Instead, I went to the British Library, and looked for books about spinsterhood through the ages: there weren’t many. I read a little wider, about marital economics, and global demography, and famous unmarried women like Elizabeth I and Jane Austen and Florence Nightingale. I learned about the European witch trials, and how some historians now think that that maniacal fear and othering of single women stemmed from society’s unspoken guilt that it had nothing to offer them.
It was fascinating seeing the ways that single women had been perceived and treated throughout history, from respectability to vilification to pity. (You wouldn’t believe the graphically ugly things that 18th and 19th century essayists and critics, male of course, used to publish about “old maids” and “superannuated virgins” – Twitter trolls had nothing on them.)
The more I read, the more I realised how many hundreds and thousands of years had contributed to who I am. But there was no easy lesson to draw, no redemptive story arc, no way of encapsulating all those millions of women’s separate experiences into one neat volume.
Yes, the single positivity movement exists; yes, Emma Watson gave us the term self-partnered. Yes, Bridget Jones and Carrie Bradshaw and Lena Dunham’s Girls manifested a rapid evolution in the way unpartnered women think and behave and live our lives. So why do I still feel that I live in a world that still considers me a leftover woman – and frequently convinces me that I am one?
It was this question that led me to reflect on my own story – a fairly unspectacular one, perhaps, but one that has mingled frequent happiness with the common anxieties of our age, as well as the occasional deep sadness. A story full of epic friendship and intimate companionship and some damn fine adventures, and one that doesn’t end in walking down the aisle.
And I knew that the only reason I’d been reticent to share it was that I’d have to own my singleness. That I’d have to confront the very stigma and shame that I know I shouldn’t feel. And that as soon as the book was published, I’d be that-woman-who’s-still-single-at-40.
I wrote it anyway. I wrote it because I’m still trying to interpret and navigate my way through this brief existence, and I wrote it because I knew that a lot of it would make my friends laugh. I wrote it because lockdown sucked, and I wrote it because the past year taught me things about myself that I’d never known without it. I wrote because I knew that there were other people who had experienced some of the same things as me – and I because I hoped that when they read it, they’d feel less alone.
Emma is an author, journalist and podcast presenter. She was the first woman to win a Sports Journalism Award in the UK, though she is also known for her writing on music, theatre, film, books and travel. She is a regular on national radio, appearing on documentaries and comedy shows as well as providing sports analysis. She is in her 40s; she is neither married, nor partnered, with child or planning to be. Self-Contained: Scenes from a Single Life is out now and you can buy it here.
What made me think
As a single woman, I’ve noticed an enormous gap in our rituals
This echoes the video I shared from Sex and the City last week but it focuses on rituals. I too would miss my single life if I were to get into a relationship but we are not meant to think like that. The writer says: “We rarely honour the solo life as its own, standalone stage – not the “time before meeting The One” but a special, formative, wonderful time every bit as important as time spent in a romantic relationship. If I ever get into a long-term partnership, I never want people to look at this single decade with my own faux-fireplace and my own dinners as the lead-up before my real life begins. This is my real life, and I would miss it terribly if I met someone delightful with whom I had to share a fireplace and dinners. I’d want to find a way to mark the end of a season of beautiful solo living before entering into a season of life with a partner.”
Things you should check out
If you’re a subscriber, this week’s agony aunt column went out yesterday. In it, a reader asked if there was a way to make peace with the added financial stress that can comes with being single. The advice I gave is basically what I needed to hear myself. Subscribe, if you don’t already, so you can give it a read:
I’m 40, single, don’t have children – and I’m happy. Why is that still controversial? – Here’s an article by Emma if you want to read more by her.
Don’t forget to grab a ticket to our conversation tomorrow night!
Women Who Said No to Motherhood – Although I do want kids, this made for an interesting reading.
Pondering a Future Alone – The writer asks what if being alone for the rest of her life was the best thing that could happen to her.
Single in a Pandemic: 18 Reflections at the 1-Year Mark – Love this! Maybe I should do something similar with readers of The Supp!
How To Actually Stop Caring What Other People Think Of You – I think I read this was the most clicked on article on HuffPost’s Life section this week which goes to show we still all care what others think of us!
'I feel like the pandemic is costing me time to find a partner and have a baby' – there is some useful advice from therapists at the end of this personal essay.
Memory, mindset and the self: Taking your life writing to the next level – one for the writers who are reading this! Next class is tomorrow!
Don’t forget to follow me on Instagram if you don’t already!
After my newsletter all about solo travel, it was great to see this tweet by a writer I admire (and whose book Raceless is really good):
Words I love
As soon as I realised that I could actually live and breathe, and eat and sleep, and walk and talk, without having a boyfriend, something clicked in me. Becoming single was one of the things that made me feel strong and powerful. The fact that I am a young woman who doesn’t need a man for money. I don’t need a man for a job. I’ve never had to fuck for beats. I’ve never had to fuck for a record deal. I don’t have those pressures. I get up when I want, shop when I want.
– Nicki Minaj
About me
For those who don’t know, I’m Nicola Slawson, a freelance journalist who lives in Shropshire, UK. If you would like to support what I do, please consider subscribing to be a paid supporter of The Single Supplement. If you would prefer to make a one-off contribution, you can also buy me a coffee, here’s the link to my Ko-Fi page. Follow me on Instagram and Twitter.
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