Is the biggest problem with Frankly that Nicola Sturgeon does not know herself?

Alongside courage and self-belief (though advisedly never believing your own hype entirely) you’ll need wit, storytelling skills, and authenticity. Writing well is the first task; then comes the often dreaded publicity. It’s a tall order having to shine equally well on both page and stage, but the job’s made easier if you know your subject intimately.

The crucial consideration: am I remotely ready to say this publicly? Last week saw the publication of two Scottish books, both of which have their author as the central theme. The first is, of course, Frankly, the memoir from former First Minister Nicola Sturgeon. Ms Sturgeon had a £300k advance to write her book. That enormous sum perhaps urged her to attempt to ‘tell all’ far before, I’ve concluded, she was ready. Sturgeon’s critics – notably JK Rowling – have written tremendous literary reviews of Frankly I couldn’t possibly emulate. But it’s Sturgeon’s public appearances, rather than her literary abilities, that lead me to believe she should’ve waited longer before publishing so much as a haiku about her time in Scottish politics.

Sturgeon’s task of combining personal ‘reveals’ and political justifications was a tough one, even without the crucial fact she displays no real understanding of herself as a person. Nor does she appear to know why critics opposed her policies. This is most notable in her continued use of 2017 talking points when asked about Isla Bryson, the male transgender ‘individual’ housed briefly in a woman’s prison, who Sturgeon continues to insist shouldn’t be taken to be representative of the entire trans ‘community’ when nobody argues he is. Sturgeon’s inability to ably defend herself; to even display true understanding of her own policy, can also be seen in her apparent belief her problems started only when JK Rowling wore a t-shirt calling her a ‘destroyer of women’s rights’ in 2022, at least eight years after gender-identity ideology mainstreamed rambunctiously, heralding complete and utter chaos.

In a soft-ball interview with BBC Newscast, Sturgeon admitted she feels she’s experiencing a ‘delayed adolescence’ since leaving frontline politics. She certainly seemed to be invoking a snarky Ayrshire teenager at the Edinburgh International Book Festival. In response to a question about former colleague Joanna Cherry’s criticisms she quipped, ‘There are certain people in this world who spend a lot more time thinking about me than I spend thinking about them.’

Cherry was criminally harassed by an SNP member, receiving repeated death threats as an MP. Not once did Sturgeon condemn this, or check on her welfare. This childish ‘isn’t she, like, SO obsessed with me? answer, is something I hope Sturgeon reflects on as her ‘adolescence’ progresses.

Someone who has done a lot of growing up publicly is Darren McGarvey, whose Trauma Industrial Complex was published on the same day as Frankly. Launched as a live performance at The Stand, not at the EIBF, the differences between the two approaches to ‘lived experience’ writing don’t end there.

McGarvey’s is an at times brutally exposing account, a learning-by-doing, outlining the price someone can pay for cultivating a public persona rooted in having disclosed extreme trauma. McGarvey uses his own journey, becoming someone known mainly as a survivor, a successful anti-poverty campaigner, a redemption tale often, when the reality was quite different for him privately than it has been for his audiences; this in discord with the story he’d been attempting to present of himself.

Full disclosure: I’ve watched McGarvey’s journey from talented rapper, activist, and occasional online sparring partner, to Orwell prizewinning author and broadcaster with a mixture of admiration, curiosity, and – I don’t mind admitting – a smidge of professional envy. We’re friendly rather than friends; our circles intersect rather than align (it’s Scotland; the literary/ performing scenes are tiny); we’ve a mutual respect despite political differences.

Before reading his book, I’d therefore no appreciation of the extent of his inner turmoil during his meteoric rise. Alongside his analysis of the wider ‘lived experience community’ where often still-broken people are thrust into the spotlight, he recounts the impact his public disclosures about his troubled, alcoholic mother had on his family; the personal toll on those around him; the guilt and shame of relapse while campaigning as someone presented publicly as fully ‘healed’ of addictive, destructive behaviours, and the pressures – though he cultivated making it look effortless – of being thrust into the limelight.

I’ll make one criticism of McGarvey I couldn’t of Sturgeon: the man is far too hard on himself. At root, the motivation of his exploration of the wider ‘trauma industry,’ is his sense of being guilty of some kind of forgery: ‘This is not authenticity, this is an incomplete story. A story I must now rewrite.’

But the public doesn’t need the whole truth for one’s public story to remain authentic; and nobody provided a ‘How To’ guide for writer/campaigners battling the private and the political in the social media age. McGarvey shows a maturity that belies many writers on similar topics; Trauma Industrial Complex therefore succeeds as far more than memoir.

While McGarvey is a more unique public figure than he gives himself credit for, Sturgeon is more ordinary than she realises. Her frequent references to ‘imposter syndrome’ irritate those who wish she’d listened to them.

Darren McGarvey both knows and understands his subject matter. I’m not certain Nicola Sturgeon, whose subject matter is herself, can say the same.