Writing Is A Power Tool

I once met Tony Benn and he asked me what I do.  

I could hardly speak. I mean I was talking to Tony Benn! I managed to say, ‘I’m a writer’. 

His face lit up, ‘And what do you write?’  

I suddenly felt like a proud kid.  I managed to look him in the eye and reply ‘I write plays’.  

His face dropped, 

‘Oh... Not something useful?’

Never meet your heroes, kids*.

In the past I have often described my writing process in ways that conjure pain and hardship. I’ve talked about being a stubborn, grafter. Partly, I think, because I’m dyslexic so writing isn’t always easy. But also, I’ve had a secret fear that writing might not be a really useful way of spending a life. So contextualising the process as a ‘struggle’ has perhaps been my way of making writing feel ‘worthy’?

Yesterday was a washout as a writing day.  I got stuck, clicked onto the internet looking for some distraction and before I knew it I got lost reading reports about the numb, normalised horrors that are unfolding in the world.  I felt helpless and shit and scared. I didn’t write much and what I did write wasn’t very good. 

Even so, I think somehow this washout day was the beginning of something profound for me.

When I woke up I was fearful that the hopelessness that had dogged me yesterday would get to me again today. But something has clicked over.  I feel lighter and clear headed. I feel ready.

Because I remembered, even in good times, writing is an act of hope.  

But now we are in very dark times?

As children are being caged in the USA 

And Italian politicians are ordering a census of the Roma 

And European politicians turn away from the humanitarian crisis in the Mediterranean

As the UK govt survives the scandals of Yarlswood and Windrush as if indefinite incarceration and/or the forced removal of our own citizens is a normal thing? 

Like I was saying 

Now we are in dark times. Actually in them. Not moving toward them. But in dark times.  

As the churn of horror upon horror, becomes normalised.

And soon, perhaps, becomes just normal?

And soon, after that, maybe not even worthy of being in the churn of news at all?  

As all of this goes on and I leave it behind and turn to my play, I’m not feeling anxious about whether this is 'the right way' to spend my day.  I’m clear. I’ve remembered that the act of writing while self focused and channelling a need that is personal it is still, non the less, an act of generosity. 

I’ve remembered that writing is a power tool.

So today, it is my honour to sit down and write a play that celebrates the possibility of curiosity over fear, that explores unexpected human connection, difference, love and holding a space for the difficulty of it all. Because life is difficult. Life is complex. Life is not fair. Life is not clean. Life is not how I / you / they want it. My play is about sucking it up and still finding a way to love life and love each other.

It is my honour to write about this stuff and so keep the possibility of it alive in the world.

In a small way.

In a small way.

But in a real way.

So bring this day of writing.

Bring. It.

Because writing is hope. 

It is wonderful, playful, disrespectful, not giving in, never giving in, fuck the darkness hope. 

And I need that. And I have a feeling that if you are feeling fearful of the dark times we find ourselves in that you need it too. 

All of us need to make hope and meaning for each other. In all the ways that we can. All the ways matter.  All the hope matters. Because this fight is on.  And its not going away soon.

My way is writing.

Wish me luck.  I'm going in. 

*Still love Tony. Always will. So much to love. Even if he turned out not to be a super human after all. Just a dood, drinking his cup of tea, being mythered by a fan-lass and then getting it a bit wrong...