Fiona Hutchings is a poet and prose writer living in Sheffield, South Yorkshire
I collect books with great enthusiasm, am unashamedly a huge nerd particularly where sci fi is concerned and I’m obsessed with music of various types. My life is always accompanied by a soundtrack of whatever songs I’m currently rinsing for dopamine. Mixtapes are an art form and I have them for every occasion. Apparently I also own too many books. I disagree.
I am also an obnoxiously northern, working class, bisexual, neurospicy, disabled human being. I collect medical acronyms like they’re Pokémon (including OI, APD, AuDHD and WTAF).
I write to make sense of myself and the world.
You can support my work by buying me a coffee here.
Copyright Ary Hutching 2023
Copyright Ary Hutching 2023
If you are looking for information about my work as a BACP Accredited counsellor/psychotherapist, please click here for my professional directory listings and details of how to contact me. I am also a member of the Association of Neurodivergent Therapists.
Please note : I don’t take therapy enquiries via this website and won’t respond to any enquires sent here.
December 2023
Well the first book is a complicated one.
I am still writing the first first book. I also technically have a book that dropped on Amazon on November 24th 2024 both in the UK and US. It’s also available world wide on a variety of websites. I did it via a vanity press dressed up as a challenge and until I was able to order and hold a copy I wasn’t sure it was even real. I am proud of the words, I think its a good collection. I just wish I’d know then what was around the corner. It is what it was and it got me back into writing poetry…
Which brings us to the main actual event and first properly produced poetry book.
Thirteen years - almost to the day - after my brain exploded and I nearly died on the spot I have a chapbook of poetry being published by Written Off Publishing (formally called Bent Key).
Discovering Wriiten Off has been life changing for me. Not just because they want to publish my work, but because it’s opened up my world to such a rich variety of poems and poets from all walks of life and a publisher in the shape of Rebecca Kenny who has taken her own (very) near death experience and made something amazing. She champions voices who struggle to be heard via the traditional publishing routes and the community forming around Written Off puts on Open Mics and even travels internationally to poetry events as far afield as New York City. (Said in a Laszlo voice. If you know, you know.)
Within a matter of weeks of that first chat Rebecca had convinced me (so gently I barely noticed) to do my first ever open mic. The idea of reading something I’d written to a roomful of people made me nervous but ‘you survived brain surgery ge-oer being a wimp’ as a mantra is very effective. I’d not have believed I’d rapidly be submitting work to various publications and not even the requisite number of rejections would upset me. Nor would I have thought I’d be recording myself reading poems and putting them on the internet but here we are. Apparently I do this sort of thing now.
Uncommon Labels is published 15 February 2024 and the launch event will be at the amazing Juno Books in Sheffield. Details on tickets coming soon.
I was also so honoured to be included in the second Ey Up Anthology (you can order it here) which features a poem I wrote about Sheffield alongside a wealth of other writers celebrating Northerness in all it’s glory. Please get a copy and support intersectional writers at the grassroutes level.
My First Book
Why I Write
I have written for as long as I can remember and devoured books like they were oxygen. In. many ways, growing up in Sheffield during the miners strike and decimation of the cities steel industries, they were vital as an escape to a far more colourful and hopeful world. I was also born with a rare congenital bone disease called Osteogenesis Imperfecta. It meant a lot of broken bones, X rays and hospital visits from early childhood. It also meant a lot of being left out, feeling isolated and bullied. Still all grist to the creative mill I guess…
As a child I often had ideas for stories that I could describe at length but struggled to actually commit to paper. This was in part down to physical challenges writing when your hands are hypermobile plus undiagnosed dyslexia which made reading my own writing a challenge. I was also neurospicy - AuDHD in my case - which wasn’t officially identified until I was in my 40s. So I both really wanted to complete the story to the highest standard possible… and also got distracted easily and fell down procrastination holes.
Poetry was by its nature shorter though AND I realised when I started reading it, you don’t have to spell everything the right way and can write in your own voice. Trouble was my voice was unacceptable to a lot of people around me.
I left home at 14 (#status-complicated) and continued to write poetry up to my early 20’s. Eventually deciding to have children, retrain and study while working meant there was no time left for doodling with words for the hell of it. I’d started a blog about parenting in 2008 which rapidly bored me and was so rebranded as a music blog specialising in top 5’s on random topics and playlists for every occasion. It was named the spiritual home of Championship Vinyl – the record shop in the Nick Hornby book High Fidelity and one of my all-time favourite books – and I started writing for online music magazine Penny Black.
In 2011 with no warning one February night I suffered a subarachnoid brain haemorrhage and nearly died on the spot. Lifesaving brain surgery stabilised me and then I had to rebuild my entire life. I started reading and writing about what had happened very soon after I was allowed home but couldn’t bear to listen to music for months and felt I’d lost a vital part of my identity. Thankfully I did teach myself to be able to tolerate music again and even eventually manage gigs. The degenerative part of the bone disease plus the nerve damage etc was a toxic twosome that meant one then 2 sticks and a wheelchair when needed quickly became necessary to allow me the option to go anywhere without falling over too much. In 2017 a routine check-up showed lightening was striking twice. They didn’t know why I’d formed one brain aneurysm so sure as shit I was not meant to form another one. A second open brain surgery was required as ‘wait and see’ wasn’t a viable option. I don’t mind telling you, having both sides of your skull opened up means scars for days and it never really stops hurting. When I got skin cancer up top a couple of years ago I was not impressed.
Anyway with all of that going on it felt like my need to express myself was getting bigger and bigger and what I did write was a bit of a release but it wasn’t really doing it for me. Till one day on the way home from work a poem about Sheffield, what it’s like and what makes it special started to form in my head. I opened my Notes app to scribble it down and so began a new journey of many MANY fragments in Notes which turned into a self-published book written as a way to procrastinate a much bigger project which lead to an open mic and an amazing indie publisher. Oh and doing an MA…..
It’s called a gennel. It just is.
Copyright @ Ary Hutchings 2023
I’ve been learning to play the ukulele for erm 14 years on and off. My focus on it comes and goes shall we say?
Copyright @ Ary Hutchings 2023
First ever open mic at Crookes Social Club for the launch of It’s Like This by Charlie Parker
Copyright @ Ary Hutchings 2023
Poem & Videos
I recorded the first video of me reading to practice for an open mic and quickly realised reading my work aloud was vital to make sure it flowed the way I wanted it to. Plus one child takes excellent photos and the other is working on making me look much more professional on video. Until those clips are ready though…
The Chip On My Shoulder Is Gluten Free promo
Hope Street
Have The Conversation
One Last Thing
It took several hours after the aneurysm in my brain ruptured for me to realise just how close to death I was. Once the CT scan had confirmed the source of the horrific pain, I had started to float in and out of consciousness. There were morphine injections and drips and an increasing number of machines. There were seemingly endless questions every 15 minutes to check if I was still reasonably alert. Everything was getting confused and hazy.
It wasn't until the nurse introduced me to my brain surgeon and he told me I was having brain surgery, within the next hour, that I started to understand just how serious a situation I was in. I watched his lips as he spelled out how he would open my skull and clip the aneurysm. He asked if I had any questions and I blurted out “but I'm not going to die am I?” I was incredulous. Last night I was joking with my husband about having 'Candy' by Paolo Nutini played at my funeral (I was learning to play it on my ukulele badly). Now he was sat next to my bed white faced while we discussed what I wanted him to do in the event of my death. Suddenly I had no time left and despite the fact I had told him it many times before, that I loved him, that he was a wonderful father and husband, I had to tell him again. I asked him to tell my daughters if I died that I loved them with all my heart, I would always be with them somehow. And then they were wheeling me away.
My mother and brother walked with him beside my bed as they pushed me towards the surgery lift. I tried to hold their hands, they tried to negotiate the tangle of wires and tubes surrounding me. I was out of time. The lift doors opened and I could no longer see them. I shouted “I love you” as the reality of what was happening started to descend. Of all the things I would later say to my mother about our relationship, the only thing that mattered really was that she knew I loved her. That was the only comfort I could offer.
As they began to administer the anaesthetic a nurse asked if I had children. Suddenly total terror took over and I clutched her arm, begging her not to let me die. My daughters were 5 and 3 and the last thing I'd said to them was that if they didn't go to sleep I would be very cross. I couldn't die without telling them I loved them. That needed to be the last thing they remembered, if they could really remember me at all.
The world went dark.
There isn't much I remember much about the week or so after I survived the op. One of the few clear memories is opening my eyes in recovery and thinking 'I'm not dead' before I floated away again.
I didn't see my children for 10 days. They weren't allowed on the High Dependency Unit and we had to wait until I was well enough not to terrify them. I wanted the steel staples out of my skull, I figured the scars, bruises and lack of hair would be enough for them to deal with.
The nurses agreed to take me to the visitors room. I sat in a sterile room on a plastic chair waiting impatiently and suddenly they were there. Small and warm and smelling of home. I ignored the pain and gathered them to me and told them over and over how much I loved them and how much I had missed them and settled down to answer questions and just listen to them chat away about how Granny was looking after them. After they left I sat a while longer in my wipe clean chair waiting for a nurse to collect me and ferry me back to HDU in a wheelchair. I'd never go another day without telling them I loved them I decided.
It's been more than three years since I survived the rupture, since my old life was ripped up and I got a second chance. Three years since I sat quietly in that room thinking about the life that had stopped in the second it took my brain to explode. It was a life that had increasingly become a blur of work, study, volunteering and writing. Time with my family had been squeezed too thin, sleep was fleeting, anxiety was constant and I had no real time to spend with my friends. God, I thought watching the sun set in the steel grey winter sky, if I'd died, I'd have died miserable. I'd have died still putting off all the things I wanted to do, never having said so many important things to important people. If I'd dropped down dead, for all the wonderful things in my life like my husband, my children and my friends, there would be little for them to take solace in. There would just be a list of things I never got round to. For so long I'd pressured and pushed myself. So many things were put off till tomorrow while I just gritted my teeth and pushed on. It had never occurred to me tomorrow might never come.
Surviving changed all that. Close friends and family where incredibly supportive in the eye of the storm and most remained so. That has made a huge difference to my recovery and I make sure they know that. I don't tell everyone I love them daily but I have taken the opportunity to tell those that matter to me just why they matter, how much I love and value them. There are other relationships I've let go because life is too precious and short to spend it with people who bully, drain and exhaust you. I was ruthless I admit and family members were not exempt as I sorted through my relationships. Maybe that sounds shocking but if people bring nothing but anger and demands in to your life you have a choice to walk away. My counsellor once told me that some relationships are like a game of chess, just because your opponent makes their move you don't have to react by making a move too. I wasn't laying down my king and surrendering either. I was just walking away from the board.
These days I smile at strangers, I say hello to my neighbours, I talk to taxi drivers (I take a lot of taxis now) and I thank people for good service. If someone has helped me out I want them to know it's made a difference. My husband and I have written our wills and I have told him he would have coped without me but he disagrees. It's taken time to come to terms with what happened, the physical and mental scars are healed but will always remain visible to me. I can no longer ignore my body or it's demands, if I try everything simply grinds to a halt. I practice mindfulness meditation now. I notice that I am breathing in and out, I ignore that particular miracle until it so nearly vanished.
Most of all I tell my husband and my children that I love them every day. Regardless of what the day has brought, good and bad, at least once I kiss and cuddle them even if they are asleep.
Am I afraid of death? Yes, a little. I don't know what I believe happens when we die. Coming so close has made me think more about my own beliefs. I don't want a long drawn out death but I don't want to be snatched with no warning either. Still, at least I have the time to make sure however it happens there will be nothing left unsaid.
But now I have no regrets. In the digital age I could see on Facebook and Twitter how people had heard and reacted to the news in real time as it were. I read what people said and thought about me, it was close to reading my own obituary, I saw what came to mind when people thought of me. It was both powerful and comforting. No one was talking about my waist size or mistakes I had made. No one was saying I was a bad mother or a bit stupid. The things I had beaten myself up with for years were not the way others saw me.
I'm less self conscious now because so many of my worries about looks were washed away by the sight in the mirror of my bald, bruised swollen and scarred head and the huge grin on my face. I've made my peace with myself and am enjoying this second shot at life. When the grim reaper finally does lay his bony hand on my shoulder, those I leave behind will know I was happy and I hope that brings them peace too.
This is a piece called One Last Thing that was published by Dying Matters in 2014.
I remain proud of this piece but there is something bitter sweet talking about my broken brain and stapled skull with no idea back then that 3 years later we’d be doing the same thing to the other side.
Buying books & reading pieces
If you’d like to read more of my writing, both poetry and prose around everything from nearly dying to interviewing an indie icon up a Norweigen mountain then click below…
Articles at Penny Black Music Magazine
Now Then - Talking About Death Doesn’t Jinx You and Young Carers, Poets & Postcodes
Ad Libbed Blog - The Spiritual Home of Championship Vinyl
Ey Up Again: An Anthology of Northern Writing