About Me — Rebecca Taylor McKay

It’s me!

Hello! I’m Rebecca and I was named after a Daphne du Maurier novel.

I’m the kind of person who says ‘sorry’ when someone else stands on my foot, and then apologises for saying it. What I lack in assertiveness and social grace, I make up for with sparkling wit. Or something.

My dad was an alcoholic who died at the age of 49 so in lots of ways, I’m a poster child for dADdy iSsuEs and yet, also very much not. Sure, my self-esteem could be better, and I’d rather gouge my own eyes out with a spoon than ask for help…BUT I’m pretty sensible, never really went off the rails (watch this space???) and think — or at the very least hope — that my chaotic childhood was only one chapter in a very long, interesting book, which I’ll admit, I’m yet to work out the theme for.

Sure, I’ve been through some stuff but who hasn’t? I think I’m pretty resilient, but I also know that I’m incredibly lucky that at the times in my life when I’ve been at my most vulnerable, the people surrounding me have held shields rather than swords.

As a kid, to get to sleep, I used to listen to cassettes through the spongey-foam headphones of my walkman (yeah, I’m that old) but after what I can only assume was a particularly over-zealous fire-safety talk at school, I quit immediately, convinced that if my house caught fire my music would drown-out the smoke alarm, and without my diligence, my entire family would surely be burnt to a crisp. (I told you I had issues.)

These days, I’m a good sleeper. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I’m gone. But if something wakes me up during the night (usually a dog), that’s it, game over. The only thing I’ve found that really helps my insomnia is listening to French podcasts. It was an accidental discovery. I really just wanted someone to talk to me until I fell asleep but basic human decency forbids waking your fiancé up at 3 am to engage them in conversation you don’t even intend to follow. Besides, I didn’t want to listen to anything too engaging in case it had the opposite effect.

I remembered the years I spent living in a bustling, multicultural city where other languages would wash over me every time I stepped out my front door and I’d catch the odd word here and there and smile. I figured maybe that was what I needed in the dead of night and it turns out, I was right.

I know just enough French to understand about a third of what’s being said, but equally, enough of it passes me by that after ten minutes, I can zone out and eventually drift off. It’s been a game-changer but sometimes I miss those spongey over-ear headphones of my childhood and the hand-written sleeves of my cassette tapes.

I studied languages both at school and at college. The ‘careers advisor’ (where do those people come from?) who visited my comprehensive secondary in the North of England suggested I become a translator in business or a travel rep. Reader, I didn’t.

I still love languages though, and French always makes me smile. They manage to make even the most mundane of phrases sound like an amorous overture. Like “Je n’aime pas les pâtes.” Rolling it over your tongue, you’d never believe that meant, “I don’t like pasta.” It’s so satisfying to say, and it’s not even true. I like pasta more than is good for me.

I also love reading. Growing up, I always had my head in a book, and as an adult, I worked in public library services for five years, which in many ways was a bookworm’s dream come true, and in other ways…not so much.

A lot of my blogs are about reading or books, like this one about reading slumps and how to get out of them.

I also, occasionally, write about writing, though I don’t profess to be any kind of expert. Like most people, I’m making it up as I go along. Literally.

When I was six, my ambitions in life were to be a nurse, a writer, and a mum. (Possibly not very feminist of me, I know, but I grew up with a little sister and much younger cousins, and so was baby-mad from a young age.)

I’m a trained nurse with two kids who makes her living as a writer. So I guess I’m done, and I can kick back and relax now…right?

(Lol).

When I think about my future ambitions these days, it’s mostly the quiet, underrated stuff. I want to write things I’m passionate about and support my family doing it and I want to see my kids grow up and marvel at what they choose to do with their wild and precious lives. At some point, I’d love a place of my own by the sea. I’ll paint the front door yellow and when I close it, I’ll still be able to hear the murmur of the waves on the other side, like when I held a shell to my ear as a little girl. Listening. Hoping. Dreaming.

For a brief spell in my childhood we had hens, and when I see myself at fifty, there they are again, clucking about my ankles. I keep a list of ‘possible chicken names’ in the notes app of my phone in much the same way broody couples might keep track of potential baby names.

I have blogged on and off for most of my adult life, though that’s taken various forms across the years as I’ve switched platforms and topics through the different phases of my life.

A long time ago, I was a mummy blogger before that was even really a thing. There were no glossy Instagram shoots, paid partnerships or six-figure influencers back then. Just me and a Blogspot login, writing my way out of postnatal depression after the birth of my second baby. It was mostly the foggy thoughts of a neurotic woman under far too much pressure (largely self inflicted) with far too little sleep. The blog itself no longer exists, but those sleep-deprived ramblings served their purpose - reminding me not so much that I loved to write, but that I needed to write in order to live.

So, here I am.

If anyone has made it to the end of this ramble, congratulations and well done! I genuinely can’t thank you enough for being here and for caring! I always love to connect with other readers and writers, so feel free to say hello, follow me on social media, and all the usual types of things!