Jade Angeles Fitton’s Shelf Life

Jade Angeles Fitton is a writer. Her memoir Hermit was published May 2023 by Hutchinson Heinemann. Jade's work has appeared in the likes of the Guardian, Independent, Vogue, Times Literary Supplement, and The Financial Times. Her short stories have been published in The London Magazine and Somesuch Stories, among others. Her poetry has been published in a number of magazines including The Moth. She now lives in rural Devon with David and Ghost Dog.

How and where are you?
Burnt out but operating on just enough sleep and peace to keep my balance. Plus, the cold, crisp weather and frost-bitten stars have put me in good spirits. I’m in rural West Devon in our little outhouse, which was once a bleak and mouldy dumping ground covered in engine oil, weird hooks from the previous residents’ hunting, and home to a curious amount of mosquitos, but is now clean-er, and functions as my office/our guest bedroom. It’s a cold one this morning. A breath-seer. It’s still dark and I have a few candles lit as well as the woodburner — there’s no other heating. Phones are off for the morning, I can hear wood mice in the thatch and I’m looking forward to my dog coming in to see me.

What are you reading right now?
I’m a very slow reader, which means I’m always about 50 books behind where I’d like to be. Now, it’s Orlando. I’ve returned to it after starting it last year but stopping because it was too wonderful to be read in such a busy and neurotic state. The last thing I read by Woolf was years ago — Flush, a slightly fictionalised biography of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s cocker spaniel. Were we all to get a biography as good as that dog’s we could rest in peace. Reading Orlando slowly has been a precious experience.

Another book I just returned to is Niall Griffith’s new book, Of Talons and Teeth, which I’d started before Christmas but couldn’t give it the time it deserved then. It’s about a small pre-industrial mining community in Wales and the effects of capitilisation on the land and its people. The last of the wolves. The dwindling of magic. It’s been good to return to novels again, particularly ones from, or about, the past. I’ve over-engaged with the present of late.

And, of course, watching or listening to, or otherwise consuming?
The Ascent of Man. It’s a 13-part documentary from the ‘70s written and presented by Jacob Bronowski — who wears a leather blazer — about the history of civilisation and the development of society through its understanding of science, and it is pretty far-out. He’s got a brilliant mind and way of explaining scientific theory in human terms — a little like Carlo Rovelli. Last night, I started watching The Tourist, and I’m enjoying it!

Listening? It’s whatever’s on Radio 4, or Radio 6 if I’m going wild, although less so now as I miss Marc Riley. I did a lot of manual labour last year and got into audiobooks while I worked: Joe Gibson’s Seventeen in mid-summer heat, Square Haunting, and I like escapism so a Nancy Mitford audiobook’s always fun—the best in witty social bitchiness. I tend to listen to music while driving: autumn and winter are for Led Zeppelin and Joni Mitchell. I don’t really do podcasts. My husband and his friend have a silly one reviewing different biscuits, but otherwise, I can’t be bothered, really. I’ve only got so many hours in the day and I quite enjoy staring into space and wallowing in emotional turmoil.

What did you read as a child?
Very little. I was exceptionally busy making bonfires, chasing chickens and stroking baby toads. I did love nature books — Dorling Kindersley books about birds of prey, insects and horses. What I did read: Alan Garner’s The Owl Service — full of nature and magic and weirdness. The Hound of the Baskervilles. Greek Myths and Legends. Kit Williams’s Masquerade possibly had the biggest impact on me. I also loved The Whitby Witches, X-Files Magazines, The Pink Fairy Book, and Goosebumps.

Which books and/or writers have inspired and influenced you, and what have you learnt from them?
I think we’re all lost little pickpockets, aren’t we? Rummaging around in other people’s pockets to find the key to our front door. A short story or an essay I can find equally, or perhaps more, inspiring than an entire book. Saul Bellow’s short stories in Mosby’s Memoirs, Alan Garner’s essays in The Voice That Thunders, anything by Joan Didion. Even just a title, Night Sky With Exit Wounds. Poetry generally, even when it’s bad. A news story. A book that inspired me was Billie Holiday’s Lady Sings The Blues — such a big life made so slim, so elegant. Sometimes I cut myself off from things I worry will influence me because I want to be original, and then find I’ve written something totally unoriginal. But still, we have to try.

The writers that inspired me are Niall Griffiths and Jenni Fagan. I went on an Arvon Course at Lumbank, Ted Hughes’ old house. I’d been given an almost fully-funded place, the cheapest train ticket was (for some reason) a first class ticket from Devon to Yorkshire, I couldn’t afford the return, was working part-time as a cleaner, and felt like a bit of a fraud. But reading Niall’s and Jenni’s books, and then meeting them, spending time with them, learning a little about their lives and their pasts, it was transformative. They showed me that a great writer could be someone I knew, someone I could relate to.

What’s the worst review you’ve ever received?
I can’t bring myself to read reader reviews any more* — I tried but a day after publication I had a one star review from a couple who hadn’t read the book but had taken umbrage over the fact it was called “Hermit” and listed why I shouldn’t be writing on this subject. I was tempted to respond but decided to just let it fester inside me for eternity instead. Then I got trolled with dozens of very unimaginative one star reviews by… someone. They were my worst reviews — that I’ve seen. And really, with this book, as it contains some of the most personal and painful moments of my life, I don’t feel the need to put myself through reading any more takes on it. My ego’s seen enough over the years so now I’m taking it out to whatever meager pasture I can cultivate.

In regards to magazines and newspapers, I was grateful just to be reviewed and they’ve been fair to good. I was a little disheartened that a couple of critics focused half of their review recounting the trauma of the relationship I was in prior to living alone, when it occupies about two chapters out of twenty, but perhaps I should have expected that. There have also been instances where there were inaccuracies published, which, however small, are frustrating. One critic would have preferred a more simplistic take, in which the book would have just covered my static state of solitude over a couple of years, rather than following how solitude continued to transform my life. Which, although I obviously disagree with, I can appreciate.

Not a review, but at an event, one man was so angry that I had written Hermit on a computer rather than (I assume) etching it into stone, that he stormed out — but had to return because he’d forgotten his wallet.

*My editor did send me a selection of incredibly lovely reader reviews during a Bad Time and they really kept me afloat.

Tell us a little about your creative process.
Obsessive. Frustrating. Ecstatic. Disappointing. Rewarding. Often in that order when writing anything, with the exception of poetry. I hope I’ll write more poetry this year, but there’s no point forcing a poem. Everything else, I find, can be forced. Writing might feel like my purpose, but namely it is my job.

When I’m into a project — be it book or article or whatever — I get up as early as I can, make a coffee, light a fire and get to my desk. I always write at least a page or two in my diary. I find the practice of writing a first line every single day in my diary has helped me write the first line in work, it also clears frustrations, sometimes it elucidates answers, and very occasionally it provides lines that can be pilfered. I do reading on whatever I’m writing about, make an inhibiting amount of notes, then I will begin writing. I write early, usually between 5-6am, before I am fully conscious so that the judgmental part of my brain doesn’t get a look-in. Then I’ll edit the day’s progress and work in whatever research needs to be included. Before bed I try and read through what I’ve written on my phone, it helps me see it differently, more critically. If it’s a book I’ll print it out and edit by hand. 



How has your experience of the publishing industry been?
Illuminating. I’ve aged several hundred years since becoming an author. I realise how naive I was now. But, generally speaking, and in my immediate experience, it has been a gift. I’ve met supportive and inspiring authors. Supportive and knowledgeable booksellers. I have a brilliant agent. My team at Penguin have treated me with the care and attention anyone would hope for. It’s my first experience, so I have nothing to compare it with, but I do know how lucky I have been in this regard. I’ve been surrounded by a team who really believed in this book. It was unlikely to make anyone a fortune, but they believed in it regardless. So I try to do everything I can to ensure that belief was not misplaced.



What’s the best advice you’ve ever been given?
In regards to writing? “It’s what you leave out that takes the time.” My mum has always repeated this to me — I can’t remember who she’s quoting from now. But it’s true. In regards to life? Trust your instincts. That’s from my dad.

What are you working on right now?
I am a superstitious creature. I like to keep things close to my chest. So forgive me if this is somewhat vague, but I’m working on an idea I’ve been toying with over the last fifteen years — it’s a quite a departure from Hermit in many ways, and in many others it’s in the same spirit. It is an odd one, so it has to be spot on. I think I’ve found my way in now but it’s taken a long time. I’m also working on the plot for the rewrite of a novel I started nine years ago. And I’m researching a few article ideas. I always like to have something to turn to for fear that I get lost.

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