She was suffering from night terrors and anxiety. “I felt comfortable addressing such topics in fiction, because I could hide behind smoke and mirrors.”īut the further she travelled, in a metaphorical sense, from her past, the more she felt she needed to revisit it. Previously, she had tackled the subject of overlooked working-class lives in her two novels, 2012’s Tony Hogan Bought Me An Ice Cream Float Before He Stole My Ma, and Thirst in 2014. She tells me why the writing of Lowborn felt to her more and more unavoidable. We meet one May morning in a café in Brixton, south London. Kerry Hudson (Photo: Mark Vessey) Hidden deprivation “Yeah, but there’s nothing special about me,” she states. If Lowborn is the very definition of a misery memoir it’s also an unusually hopeful book about potential, and what can happen to an individual when they find a way to flourish in a society that often looks the other way when it comes to matters of class. It makes you think things are shameful, even if they’re not.” The cost of secrecy, of keeping things hidden, is hard. “I never wanted to write a memoir – too shy and private for that,” she says, smiling, “but I just felt this… compulsion.” Her therapist thought it was a terrible idea, “but it turned out to be the most liberating thing I’ve ever done. It is this sense of unease that she addresses in her new memoir, Lowborn, in which she attempts to reconcile the contented woman she is today with the uncertain girl she was. She marvels at her progress, but is also somewhat discomfited by it. This, says Hudson, is a constant wonder to her – how far she has come. She has food in the fridge, and is able to buy new shoes when her old ones have worn out. “I ran, and I didn’t look back.” Now 39, and living in London, Hudson is a novelist. But, testament perhaps to her remarkable spirit, Hudson did escape.
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