My Story

In my experience, the best parties happen in the kitchen.

But the best businesses and creative ventures - start in your sitting room,  in your pants.

But: I’m also getting ahead of myself, so let’s backtrack.

I initially wrote a lengthy and earnest piece to go here.

About my childhood.

About being born in a caravan and growing up in the woods - with no TV, no mod cons, no money - but lavish opulence and abundance in the rivers, trees, waterfalls, fields, hills, caves...

About what that taught me about wealth and resourcefulness and staying connected to what matters.

About how it shaped my wonky and wibbly roots into the big gangly and waywardly-branched tree that I am today - feet in the soil (mud!), but branches always swaying in the wind.

I wrote about not realising that all the hours I spent drawing, making, doodling, writing, playing and building epic dens (with woven rooms! and compartmentalisation! and watertight roofs!) when I was growing up - meant I was being ‘creative’…and that as a result, I never really had a concept of boredom as a child - and still don’t…

I wrote about excelling in essays and exams. But then leaving university before graduating - twice…

I wrote about having to stop myself climbing out of the window at the Social Science/Humanities library - several times…

And I wrote a LOT more besides.

And finally, I concluded that all of this musing might give you some sort of insight into why running an indy creative business perfectly suits this quite feral, quite contrary, but clear-sighted, ideas-fuelled, purpose-driven creature that is me.

But then…

…but then… I went in to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

But there was no party happening in there. So then I came back.

And then I thought, ‘this is all getting a bit intense... I’m being an overly earnest, longwinded wordy type…’

And then I thought,  ‘nobody has time for this… adulting is hard, people want jokes and more jokes and joie de vivre lightness - not deep, philosophical Shakesperean soliloquies or navel-gazing nonsense…’

And so then: I had a mini existential crisis.

And then I thought, ‘this is a business website, be glossy and professional!’

And then I thought, ‘steady on - let’s stay true to me and not aim for the impossible!’

And then: I jumped in the sea.

And now: I’m starting this section afresh.

Maybe it was shyness that forced the word-cull. A feeling of over-exposure to the ‘thinkier’ aspects of me. A fear of pigeon-holing myself too. Certainly it’s all those things, in-part.

But maybe the tree metaphor is also at the root of the ruthless clearcut of this particular tract of word-heavy forest. I mean, nobody needs another tree metaphor to start nesting on the precarious branches of their already over-stretched, brittle life-twigs, right?

Right.

So, let’s cut to the chase:

On The Wing did not start with a business plan. Or a business grant. Or a bank loan. Or a sensible 5-year strategy. It didn’t even start on my kitchen table - like so many brilliant small businesses do.

It started on a very rainy day.

In my two up, two down house.

In my unglamorous sitting room.

In my even less glamorous pants.

And it started as a doodle. In a discarded pile of spare sketchbooks.

And then I shared the doodle online. And suddenly people wanted to buy the doodle. And then they wanted to buy the next one. And the next one. And they didn’t stop wanting to buy the doodles that were tumbling out of me.

And then I thought, ‘Oh my god, this is one big giant accident! '

And then I thought, ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen! There is no masterplan! There HAS to be a masterplan! All businesses and all adults have masterplans!’

And then I thought, ‘I can’t start a business in my pants! Do these people even know I’m sat here, doodling in my pants?! Do they know I’m one big massive imposter?!’

But then a bit later on, when I’d had a biscuit and calmed down I thought, ‘Let’s be realistic: starting a business in my pants, is probably the only way I can start a business right now’

And so I did.

And the only difference between then and now, is that I now wear shoulder pads with my pants…

…and I’ve graduated from my sitting room to a Real Life, Grown Up, Studio.

*

I think the main moral to take from this mildly wayward, under-zealously clearcut story is: never over-state the need for a business plan or a clear, 5yr strategy.

And: never underestimate the level of creative breakthrough that can be reached when loafing about your unglamorous sitting room in your unglamorous pants.

And lastly, but most importantly:

When an 8yr old girl, stood shivering in a school playground on her own, convinced she is a complete and incurable, solitary weirdo - has a sudden flash of deep conviction and blind faith that one day she too, will really and truly be able to fly up and out and away to freedom - just like a real life bird…

…never, ever doubt her.