When Writers Have to Subvert the Rules (if any) of Writing

No need for a beginning, middle and end, when the world around us has been turned upside down

As we emerge, Covid-scarred and vaccine-driven, from a year-long crisis, the immediate question on our minds might be: how do we make sense of that? We know that that happened. But how do we even begin to rationalise it?

For some the first instinct will be to push the last twelve months to one side. That’s how painful they may have been. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone bearing coronavirus-related news is greeted nowadays with a slap across the face instead of a clap for carers.

Part of me thinks, however, that this approach would be wrong. Not only wrong, but also deceitful. We’d be trying to con ourselves out of a narrative that has, for better or worse, shaped us in the last year.

My approach would be to see the times we live as an opportunity to grieve. Grief is both a human reaction and a spur to an artist, and as creators, we belong to that category, too. There’s no shortage of themes to write about. Just to put this idea in context: we’re not only grieving human loss, but also the slow death of our planet and the collapse of our socioeconomic, political system (at least here, in the west).

Grief’s individual nature acts against a one-size-fits-all solution. Even if we were to apply Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ famous five stages of grief, we would still have to adjust them to each individual. We don’t always bargain, sometimes we remain in perpetual anger mode and very often we’re reluctant to admit we’re depressed.

However, the key point stands: we need to start somewhere. And that somewhere won’t necessarily be the beginning. Remember that the past year has thrown some of us together whilst isolating us from others. The average human experience is one of closeness and distance. In the last twelve months we’ve either been too close to some people or too distant. That’s surely had a disorientating effect on our innate compass. Where’s north now?

Ah, look at all the lonely people

Start where you are now. In the lounge, sitting in your favourite couch. In the park, going for a walk, Jill Scott-style. On the towpath, cycling. In the kitchen, cooking, or ordering a takeaway. Wherever you are, start there.

Very often grief conveys tranquillity, both in the acceptance and awareness of it. But, what if your grief decides to come out in an ear-piercing scream? Keep your notepad and pen nearby. Or your iPad. Whatever you decide to write on, this is the moment you’re waiting for.

Time never heals. I’ve never agreed with the saying that tells us it does. What time does do is it provides an opportunity for change. Grief transforms us. Sudden grief can act as a catalyst. The opportunity time gives us can be used to look at what’s hidden inside us. What we have refused to see so far or are unaware it exists. Either way, self-exploration is part of the grieving process.

This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife

When I think of what subject to cover in my columns, I always ask myself a question. For this one the question was: how does it feel not to be the leading character in someone’s life?

The question refers to those pre-Covid moments when we met friends in public. When we chewed the fat, switching roles as we went along. One minute it was someone’s turn to tell us about their new job, the next minute somebody else held the floor and told us about the flat they were hoping to buy. Without realising it, we were all leading characters in someone’s life. Including ours.

The tools we used back then became obsolete pretty early during the pandemic. Out went physical touch. No more back-slapping and bear-hugging. Quality time with friends and family moved to Zoom or WhatsApp. Our (relatively) beautiful life had come to an abrupt end.

Most of us are ill-suited for bereavement. Even when we know that life is finite, we cling onto the idea (subconsciously) that we won’t be touched by loss. Yet, that’s precisely what’s happened in the last year. We have lost. We have lost lives, we have lost our way of being and we have lost our direction.

But rudderless though we are, we still have a powerful weapon: the blank page. This is no sappy, schmaltzy, Panglossian drivel I’m spilling here, but rather a call to arms. We need to make sense of this time. To reason it out. That happened. Start where you are now, writer. The rules (if any) have been subverted. There’s no longer a beginning, middle and end. There’s just this point in time.

Meet you at the juncture.