The Power of Writing
This week’s blog was meant to be about something else entirely… but then we ended up back in another lockdown and a bunch of armed fascists stormed the US Capitol at the urging of the President, and now rage and frustration and disappointment are overwhelming me to the point where I can’t think about anything else, let alone write about it.
I’m frustrated by another lockdown. It is absolutely the right decision, and I’m more than happy to comply with it, but I’m still frustrated. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss my freedom. And I’m an introvert with borderline agoraphobia, so I can only imagine how much others might suffer with such restrictions. The last-minute changes at Christmas broke my heart, even though we had always planned to spend Christmas Day just the two of us in our new home, but I was also frustrated by being messed around. Easing restrictions for Christmas had always seemed mad to me - the virus wasn’t going to take the day off - and restrictions hadn’t been eased for any other religious holidays, so why make an exception for Christmas? It seemed like a stupid idea from the beginning, but to get everyone’s hopes up and then dash them at the last moment just felt cruel.
I’m angry at all these idiots who won’t take the pandemic seriously. You know the ones - the people who refuse to wear masks or observe social distancing. The anti-vaxxers, the conspiracy theorists, the halfwits who have illegal Hogmanay parties and cause thousands of pounds worth of damage to a hundred-year-old church… the sheer selfishness of these people is rage inducing. But it’s also not surprising when the Prime Minister’s (former) Chief Advisor can ignore all restrictions - and get caught doing so - without consequence. There is very little in this world more guaranteed to make my blood boil than hypocrisy and after months of it spewing from Westminster, I am fit to burst.
Fortunately, I have a pressure-release valve: writing.
I’ve talked about the need to give our emotions space to breathe before, but when I get overwhelmed to the point I am now, that ceases to be a passive process. A long soak in the bath, an afternoon painting, even going for a run won’t cut it. If I leave these emotions to work their way through on their own, I’ll spend the next six weeks spitting blood.
So I write. I give my feelings form. I give them a voice. It makes them feel a little more valid, a little more heard, and therefore a little more satisfied. It helps me make sense of the chaos in my head. I don’t have to share what I write with anyone, although I’m choosing to share some of it (filtered for swear-words, as anyone who knows me can attest). Sometimes I write like this - journalling about specific, real-life things - and sometimes I write more creatively. I’m yet to find a better outlet for venting some frustration than coming up with a good fight scene.
“And as the dust settled, a feral smile rose to her lips at the familiar figure that stepped out of the shadows. He was battle weary, sweat and blood coating his handsome face, but there was fight left in him yet. She could see it churning in his thunderstorm eyes.”
Creative writing is, in my humble opinion, a somewhat underrated skill. It’s something we’re was taught at school, but often only briefly and with far more emphasis put on critical analysis of literature. I studied English to Advanced Higher (Scottish equivalent of A Level) and creative writing was only worth 30% of my final grade… which is why I ended up with a B. To be fair, there is also a requirement for good written communication skills in the other 70% (it is, after all, hard to demonstrate clear understanding of a subject if you can’t communicate it coherently) and that is a vital skill in any walk of life. Regardless of whether you work in engineering or entertainment, business or ballet, we all need to be able to communicate through the written medium at some point.
Brandon Sanderson, the best-selling fantasy author, describes writing as telepathy - we write a thought down and when someone else reads it, that thought is then in their head too. That comes with a level of responsibility, as we have the power to share both good and bad, but what I love about creative writing is the complexity and nuance it offers. Because my interpretation of a thought is different from yours. If I write about a dog, you will probably picture something quite different from what I am picturing (a chocolate cocker spaniel, in case you were wondering). But even more incredible is how your experience is colouring this dog. Maybe your grandad had a dog when you were growing up, and this talk of dogs is bringing up the warm and loving feelings that come with the memories you have of that time. But maybe you had a run in with a dog when you were young, and all you are feeling now is discomfort and unease. We see the world through the lens of our experiences, and the real magic of creative writing is how it can help us understand and process that.
Because writing can help us organise our thoughts and process our emotions. It offers us a chance to reflect, to connect and create - all of which are vital to maintaining good mental health. It gives us an outlet where we can explore our inner workings without fear of judgement and provides us with a new perspective on ourselves, helping us develop greater understanding of who we are and how we think. It can help us make sense of our darker moments and reinforces positivity when things are well.
I spent two hours on Twitter this morning (7th Jan, at time of writing), watching in horror at the news pouring out of the USA. Rage roaring in my ears. Disgust churning in my gut. Fear gnawing at my nerves. Because it might not be my country, my democracy under assault, but if it can happen there, it can happen here. And the hypocrisy of it, when mere months ago peaceful protesters were targeted for the colour of their skin, while now these terrorists can storm the heart of US democracy without pause? I don’t have words for those feelings. But what can I do? Nothing. Mine is just one voice, and far from relevant right now. My rage, my disgust, my fear… they had nowhere to go. So they just sat inside and burned.
Until I said enough. I sat down to write. I gave those feelings form. I set them free. And in the silence that echoed in their departure, something beautiful began to take shape. After all, I am not alone in my feelings - whether in response to this latest horror or something else entirely, we all feel. Keenly at times, too. So perhaps, rather than just writing for release, to vent my frustration and thus further spread that anger, I could write with purpose. To share my experience. Not of my feelings, but how I have dealt with them. Hoping it might help someone else make sense of their feelings.
So, dear reader, I challenge you… put pen to paper. Fingers to keyboard. Write it out. Write whatever you want. Real or make-believe. Magical or mundane. Short or long. Paragraphs or pages. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be elegant or beautiful. Just honest. And you might just surprise yourself.