Selfie
It's been one of those writing days that doesn't feel like a writing day. A thinking day. I know, I know, I know. Thinking is writing. But we’ve all been conditioned by the montage bits in movies, where the writer smashes away at their typewriter, sweats, rips up a page or two and then concludes by slamming the genius draft down on the editors desk, before sauntering out to get drunk in the whisky bar next door. And that's the bit we see as ‘the work’. At least before the bit in the whisky bar.
Anyway it's been one of those days. Where I have been thinking about present projects and the possible ones on the horizon. And wondering how to be a writer during a moment like this, when the world is so polarised, violent and in pain. And people, so exhausted already, seem resigned or just over run with vague anger.
I want answers and I don't have any.
It also involved a trip to the park where the dog hurt his paw. Reader, he's fine. And also, where I discovered a dropped debit card in the snow. Reader, I took it home, rang their bank and informed said bank, so they could let said person know, before cutting said card into tiny bits. For security. Because ‘in half’ didn't seem quite enough cuts. Bearing in mind that the security of someone else's bank account was momentarily in my hands. In the end, I felt eight pieces was enough security. Let's hope so.
Anyway, after all that excitement, feeling like I had peed the day up the wall, I was making a cup of tea when I found myself listening to novelist, Alan Hollinghurst, being interviewed on the world service. He was asked about a book he had written in 1988 (the swimming pool library) that was set in 1983, just before the aids epidemic hit hard in the UK. He’s a gay man and the epidemic was horrifying by 1988. But he chose to set the story before that moment hits. Even as he was coping, living through the pain and sorrow. Because, he wanted to create a story where the joy and possility of gay life was the focus. He was living in a time where Thatcher’s government was demonising queer people, but his response was to focus on positivity.
I am paraphrasing. But this is what I took away from his words.
And I found myself thinking, that's what I want to do. For this time. In my own way. Not to neglect or erase the very real dangers. But to write the things I care about and love onto pages. As innoculation against despair and if needs be, as pure, disobedient graffiti. To remind myself and anyone else who reads that we are here. We. Are. Here. And even if we don't quite understand how we are going to respond to this moment, yet, we will work it out. Queer people and BIPoC folks and disabled and poor and Neuro spicy and pinkos, and snow flakes and the many waves (who can keep up) of feminists and bleeding heart nature sniffin’ weirdos and middle of the road sock & sandle wearing liberals and even (god bless us all dear, tiny, fucking Tim), old school Tories. All of us. Folks who don't even see each other as allies. Eventually. We will. Shit might have to get really real. But we will. We will work it out. We will come up with a million, beautiful, fabulous, joy filled, anger fueled, nifty, crafty, salty as chips, ways to push back, hold out and pirouette around the far right and their grotesque-doom-shit-hate-filled-cynical-poison, refashioned (once again) as ‘the answer’.
We will.
Because we have to.
Anyway, that's what I have been thinking about today.
I didn't get a chance to think about sketching anything at the park (too much drama going on there) so I ended up sketching my own face as a stop gap.
And that's the news.
#sketchaday #day8/365