The Berlin Files: the call came in at 10pm
How I got here
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This is Alexanderplatz:
I forgot all about Alexanderplatz - that is to say, I forgot how significant it was to me until I saw it through the windows of the S-Bahn on a Thursday morning. I had flown alone from London to Berlin, and my partner came to meet me at the airport. We sat with my two suitcases jammed between our knees and weak sun filtering through the window as he pointed out parts of the city he was familiar with. As soon as I saw the panelled archway of Alexanderplatz the memory of what happened there six years ago came galloping back. This place was special - this city means something - and even though I already knew that, it seemed to truly click into place in that moment. I can only chalk it down to the fact that I’m an annoyingly sentimental person. I gasped theatrically and declared: “This was where it all began.”
My partner had been there too - the only witness. We were 23, newly together, still giddy and cautious around each other. Apart from that day that changed my life, the other things that stand out from the trip was the hay fever (it was colossally bad, like, sneeze-until-your-ribs-hurt bad) and the fact that we had our first fight. I don’t even remember what it was about, but I remember the frisson of breaking new ground in the foundations of our relationship, the knowledge that we’d both given each other a glimpse of who we were at our most petulant.
By this, I mean the phone call that told me I had won the MerkyBooks New Writers’ Prize. The call came in at 10pm as we waited for a train (obviously). It had been a great day. I’d spotted a tortoise in the wild, chilling in a patch of grass as though he was meant to be there. We’d walked along the Berlin wall and seen the famous presidential kiss between Leonid Brezhnev and Erich Honecker. Most of the day was spent at Berlin Zoo - this is politically incorrect, I know, but I love zoos. I fucking love them. They’re problematic and morally ambiguous, but they’re also a place where I feel like an overly-excited kid running around to find the giraffes and rhinos and most importantly, elephants. So yes, it had been a really great day. Our feet hurt from walking. It was June, perfect and hot, and we were on the cusp of finishing our masters degrees and searching for graduate jobs. Nothing was set in stone so it was all up for grabs - from where we worked to how we lived to who we were. I’m sure at the time I would have found that stressful, but now I can only remember it as glorious.
Alexanderplatz was mostly empty. It’s a big station, high ceilings, multiple levels. I remember it being quiet. As we stood there, I felt my bag (crochet before it was cool, I’ll have you know) vibrate. By the time I’d fished it out, I’d missed the call - but the caller ID came up as ‘unknown number’ anyway. I probably wouldn’t have answered it, if it hadn’t run again.
When I heard the slightly flustered voice on the other end introduce himself as Tom, from MerkyBooks, I started shaking. I looked at my partner and tried to tell him with my eyes. My body knew before my brain did.
Every writer says they’ve always wanted to write, don’t they? I’m no exception - I have always wanted to write. I used to tell people at 4 or 5 that I was going to be a writer one day, and I believed it whole-heartedly, until I didn’t. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when, but probably around 17 when I started working on university applications. For lots of complicated, slightly boring reasons, I made the last minute choice to switch my choice of degree from English to Politics. I absorbed the message from (well-meaning, but wrong) adults I trusted that whilst my dream was nice, it probably wasn’t the smartest idea - how would I earn an income as a writer? Why not save the book writing for when I’m older and financial stable, maybe in my forties or fifties? I believed them becuase I trusted them more than I trusted myself, and I packed away that childish certainty and told myself I’d come back to it one day. For now, writing books was not my dream to indulge in. If I hadn’t been shaken out of that belief just five years later, I probably would have sleepwalked through a career I liked but was ultimately unfulfilled by. We’ll never know, but I suspect that is what would have happened for a decade or so, before I found my way back.
All this to say, when I got the news that I was about to become a published writer - before any sort of other career milestone - it was like the lights came on at last. I stood there, listening as Tom apologised for calling so late, explaining that they had been unable to choose between two of us, so had instead chosen both of us, and I felt euphoric. Not because I had won - it would take a few days to actually believe that - but because I suddenly realised, or maybe remembered, that I was a writer. That was who I was, that was what I had to do, and how had I let myself forget?
The day after I got the news, I sat in our hotel room and waited nervously for the follow-up call the Merky team had requested. I had convinced myself they were going to tell me it was a mistake, they were so sorry but they actually decided to go with one winner, not two, and I hadn’t made the cut. I prepared myself for it by doodling anxiously on the little pad of paper hotels always leave by phones, underlining the questions I would launch into the second the call started. Questions like, so when are you telling the world? Who can *I* tell - actually, I’ve already told my family, is that ok? My plan was to distract, to dissuade, to block any opportunity for them to reveal the truth. I was so terrified that this new life would be taken away from me.
Obviously, everyone involved was far too competent for that, and also kind enough to let me panic my way through the call whilst they let me know that Stormzy and Malorie Blackman were announcing the results of the prize live at the London Palladium in two nights, in front of a few thousand attendees, and could I please arrive for 4pm?
The next day, I had what we thought was an allergic reaction to hay fever medication (it was in fact, the start of many years of chronic atypical migraines 🤩) and spent the night in agony, fighting down nausea so severe every time I walked I had to repress rising vomit. My partner had to navigate us back to the airport, carry our bags, hold me hand as I sat on the airport bus with my eyes shut tight. That night, at my parent’s house, he held both the bowl and my hair as I threw up over and over again. The only thing I cared about in that moment was making it to the London Palladium. If I didn’t show up, it wouldn’t be real. If I didn’t show up, people might change their minds. Of course I turned up at 4pm after three hours of sleep, unable to keep any food down. I was pale and exhausted, but I was there.
And now, I am here. Back in the city where this began for me, now writing full time with two published works under my belt, a third on the way. I’m in Berlin because of a mixture of serendipity and deliberate choice, but also becuase it felt like the place I had to return to, should the chance ever present itself. It carries so much hope.
You could argue that where I was when I got that call is meaningless and irrelevant, sure. It isn't to me though. Here is where I was shoved back to my childhood dream, one I now grip tightly (maybe a little too tightly) and so here is where I should be, at least for a while. I have lots of stories to tell - and for the first time, the luxury of time. 5 year old me would be deeply unsurprised. This was always her plan. 17 year old me would be incandescent. 23 year old me would be awed. 29 year old me is, as usual, deeply anxious - but I’ll look back in a few years and I won’t remember that part. All that’s left to do now is write.
See you the Wednesday after next for a post about witches, smoke bombs and synchronised chanting.
A quick favour. I love writing these posts, and I intend to do them for free for as long as I can. If you enjoyed reading this, forward it to a friend (or three) who you think might like it too. It helps massively, because validation from strangers is truly the only thing that makes the horrors bearable for me.