Lessons in Messiness: First Days and Creative Chaos
Intro and then short story
Good morning, and Happy New Year!
Today’s Substack is going to be a little different. The last one was short, structured, and full of clear breaks and recommendations. I followed what other people thought was “on brand.” But do you know what I realised? I was bored. Writing it felt like a chore, and I wasn’t looking forward to the next one.
That’s strange because there’s so much, I want to tell you. I want to share that I read 50 books last year. That I’ve written a book. That I learned so much through the process—about writing, about storytelling, about myself. I want to talk about what I’ve discovered from other books, other writers, and even my own short story experiments. Some of these stories are getting published, and others are just for fun, but all of them have pushed me into new genres and ideas.
I also want to tell you how much time I spent with my family and how much I loved it. I want to tell you about exploring new hobbies, diving into creative rabbit holes, and playing with language in ways that make me feel alive. I don’t want this Substack to be another “buy this audiobook here” space. I want it to be a place where we explore the creative journey together—the good, the bad, and the messy.
So, this Substack is going to be random. It’s another creative space for me to practice, to share, and, frankly, to be a little terrified at putting my work out there. It won’t always be polished or marketable, but it will be real. Once a month, I’ll share my writing—short stories, poems, reflections, or whatever strikes me in the moment.
For 2025, I’ve signed up for The London Magazine’s bi-monthly publication, where I’ll read and write more short stories and poems. Both have already improved my craft, and I can’t wait to continue growing. Here, though, I’ll embrace a lack of structure. I want to have fun, to experiment, to play. If it’s not brandable, that’s fine by me.
So, while you rest and recover from your New Year’s Eve celebrations, here’s a short story about a new beginning inspired by a life I once knew…
First day
Miss Anderson clutched her clipboard as if it might somehow steady her trembling hands. She took a breath—no, several—and peered out at the scene before her. The playground was a whirl of primary colours and tiny, tear-streaked faces. Parents lingered like a reluctant audience, their expressions a blend of scepticism and sorrow. Miss Anderson felt their gazes, each one a quiet accusation. “How could you possibly manage this?” they seemed to say.
Truthfully, she wasn’t sure.
It was her first day as a qualified teacher. First day in a classroom. First day with the little ones who’d barely spent five minutes away from their parents in their lives. Reception class, she’d been told, was where the magic happened. It didn’t feel magical. It felt like impending doom.
“Alright, everyone, let’s line up!” she called, her voice quivering slightly. It was the sort of voice she imagined a sheepdog might use, trying to herd a particularly unruly flock. A few children glanced her way but didn’t move. A boy in a red jumper—Arthur, she recalled—was sitting on the tarmac, staring intently at an ant. She wondered if he’d noticed the ant was squashed.
One by one, they shuffled towards her, propelled more by parental nudging than any willingness of their own. Miss Anderson managed a tight smile. “Lovely. Now, let’s follow me, like a... like a caterpillar!”
Caterpillars, as it turned out, were not known for their straight lines. The procession to the classroom resembled more of a zigzag, punctuated by a girl’s wail when she realised her mother was no longer in sight. Miss Anderson crouched down, her floral dress bunching awkwardly at the knees.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” she murmured, trying to sound soothing. “Mummy will be here at home time. You’ll see. We’re going to have such fun.”
The girl stared at her, unconvinced. She hiccupped and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Miss Anderson stood and led her inside.
The classroom felt both impossibly large and far too small. Brightly coloured posters lined the walls—numbers, letters, an optimistic “We Are All Friends Here!” banner. The tables were arranged in neat clusters, each adorned with a tub of crayons and a stack of pristine paper. For now.
Miss Anderson inhaled. This was it.
She clapped her hands together, the sound sharp and intentional. “Alright, everyone, let’s sit on the carpet, just here in front of the board,” she called, motioning to the large interactive whiteboard that loomed over the tiny space like a benevolent giant.
A few children complied immediately, plopping themselves down cross-legged in a haphazard semicircle. Others needed coaxing. Arthur, as it turned out, was more invested in his imaginary train on the floor and had to be gently steered toward the carpet, where he continued his “choo choo” noises under his breath. Sophie arrived holding a chair upside down, her brow furrowed in what appeared to be a deep contemplation of its mechanics, Mrs Finch, a no-nonsense woman with years of experience, guided Sophie to the carpet and return the chair to the art table with an air of calm efficiency.
Once they were mostly settled—though Henry still seemed incapable of sitting without repeatedly stretching his legs into the air—Miss Anderson crouched to their level, clipboard in hand. “Right, boys and girls, we’re going to take the dinner register now. When I call your name, just tell me if you’re having a packed lunch or school dinner, alright?”
A sea of blank faces stared back at her.
She sighed lightly and tried again, her smile unwavering. “Packed lunch means you’ve brought a lunchbox with you, and school dinner means you’ll get some lovely food from the kitchen.”
This explanation seemed to land. One by one, she worked through the names, deciphering mumbled responses or in some cases a shrug. Arthur informed her he’d be eating “train food,” which Miss Anderson took as school dinner. Sophie whispered something unintelligible while simultaneously inspecting the carpet fibres with intense focus. Henry claimed he’d have “chocolate cake,” though his lunchbox suggested otherwise.
Finally, she set the clipboard aside and straightened. “Now, I’d like to introduce you to go to Mrs Finch. She’s going to show you where to find your peg and your tray. That’s where you’ll put your coats, bags, and anything else you bring to school.”
Mrs Finch stepped forward. “Come along then, little ducks,” she said briskly, gesturing for the children to follow her. They shuffled off in a loosely organised line, leaving Miss Anderson a moment to breathe.
When they returned, Miss Anderson clapped her hands again. “Alright, everyone, let’s talk about what we’re going to do today! Around the room, you’ll find lots of exciting things to play with and explore. Over here,” she pointed to the small world area, where a miniature village had been meticulously arranged, “you can play with the houses, animals, and cars. Maybe you’d like to tell a story with them?”
She moved to the book corner, a cosy nook with beanbags and shelves bursting with colourful covers. “And if you like stories, you can sit here and read or listen to one of our special books.”
Finally, she gestured to the block play area, where large wooden shapes were stacked neatly. “And here, you can build towers, castles, or anything you can imagine. Just remember to work together and share, okay?”
The children’s eyes grew wide with curiosity, some already edging toward the areas she had described. Miss Anderson smiled, her nerves settling for the first time all morning. “You can go and choose where you’d like to play. And remember, if you need any help, Mrs Finch and I are here.”
Within what felt like minutes, Sophie ‘spilled’ a tub of glitter. It spread like a shimmering plague across the table and onto the floor. Miss Anderson froze. “Alright, no worries!” she chirped, a little too high-pitched. “We’ll just... tidy that up later.”
When the morning finally ended, the parents returned to reclaim their offspring. Miss Anderson stood by the door, handing out painted pasta necklaces and lopsided paper crowns. “They’ve been wonderful,” she lied convincingly.
As the last child departed, she sank into one of the tiny chairs, her knees nearly up to her chin. The room was a mess. There was glitter in her hair. She was exhausted.
But she’d survived.
And, despite everything, she thought she might just do it all again tomorrow. Then a thought suddenly hit her. This had only been one morning. Tomorrow they would be in for the entire day!
Thank you for reading. Please remember to share or