Tag: writers

WRITING IN SOLIDARITY

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MA Creative Writing student R.J. Eaton gives a personal perspective on writing to express solidarity with causes that matter to her, and introduces a new short poem of her own.

Words have power. This is something I am very aware of, increasingly so.

I write both fiction and poetry, and it is in my poetry that I most obviously express personal thoughts and feelings, especially on subjects seen as political or in some cases controversial. I find it easier to express myself about complex and often upsetting subjects in poetry, carefully considering what I say and how I say it. I often to write on subjects in which I have a personal stake, and have written poems that engage with feminism and LGBTQ+ rights, because as a queer woman I want issues that affect me heard.

However, I also write on subjects that don’t affect me personally or directly – in part, to express my solidarity. Poems, songs, novels all get quoted at protests, in speeches, in articles, and writers can use their talents, and in many cases their platforms, to spread awareness about the things that matter to them.

Often, I feel, people are ignored because of things like race, gender, and sexuality. Although this is changing, in many places, I feel it is still important for writers to use their voices to advocate for the things they’d like to see change, even if those things primarily involve others – male writers can use their voices to advocate for women’s rights, straight writers can support queer people, and white people can write in solidarity with people of colour. While we should, first and foremost, centre people who are directly impacted in discussions about their specific rights, I believe support and solidarity from others still helps.

It is in that light that, as a white British writer, that I urge other writers, wherever they are from, to turn their skills to writing about specific social and political events and concerns, even if those things are not directly impacting them. For me, this includes the situation in Gaza, which in December last year Amnesty International described as including ‘acts prohibited under the Genocide Convention’. People’s rights to freedom and peace have always been important to me. In writing poetry about these things, one example of which is the poem below, I hope to help spread awareness, to encourage empathy, and to express solidarity with those directly impacted.

Using writing to express solidarity is, potentially, a slippery slope – something that requires considerable care. However, it can be a powerful tool. I can only speak from personal experience, but as a queer woman, seeing poetry or other writing that expresses support for people like me gives me hope, and lets me know that people support everyone being equal and an end to injustices against us.

I strongly encourage writers who have not done so to think about writing in solidarity with a cause dear to them – they might inspire others, and might even provide glimmers of hope. And doing so may well help you understand, and express, your own potentially complicated feelings on complex or even maligned topics.

I hear children scream

outside the house.
Adults sigh, huff, complain:
“Why can’t they be quiet?”

In Gaza, children also scream.
No adults complain about it,
because the quiet is worse.

INSPIRED BY PAIN

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Second-year BA Creative Writing student Laura De Vivo recently watched her monologue, ‘The Demon in My Head’, being performed on stage. In this blog post, she writes about what inspired her, and the experience of seeing the work brought to production. You can watch it below.

When inspiration hits, its like a bolt of electricity through the body. Writing can be cathartic, and that was certainly the case here. I suffer from the rare condition called trigeminal neuralgia. The need to be strong, to fight it, to be the one that stays on top is a daily battle and not one I always win. Not only that, but I go head-to-head with an invisible demon. How can I fight it? With what I have at my disposal: words.

The opportunity to fight came, surprisingly, in the form of a writing prompt from a wonderful theatre company directed by Alice Connolly. Set up during lockdown, Message in a Bottle Monologues provides opportunities for writers and actors to collaborate. Initially, this was over Zoom, but word spread fast as the world has opened back up.

Alice, herself a writer and actress, provides the prompt; the writers provide the material; the actors provide the performance. In November 2023, the prompt was ‘Darkness and Light’, and instantly I knew what I would write. I was going to give trigeminal neuralgia a form and put it in its place while raising a little awareness.

Writing about something so personal and so raw was easy. As Hemingway said, ‘just sit at your typewriter and bleed’. I played on the qualities of each symptom and my reactions to them; I took all my anger from deep in my belly and exploded it onto a page. With the piece written, I nervously sent it off to Alice, not knowing whether it was what she was looking for. She loved it, and my five minutes of anger was accepted.

The premise of the show is clever: the writers and actors all remain anonymous; the actor is revealed at the beginning of each performance, and the writer at the end. On the night, you are invited to attend as an audience member. While mingling with drinks, there is an expectation that you will not discuss anything that might undermine the mystery. The theatre is littered with writers, actors and spectators, only Alice knowing who is who, and how they have been paired.

I sat through each performance on the edge of my seat, afraid to breathe, not knowing when my piece would be announced, trying to concentrate on the other pieces, and – more than anything – worrying about myself being revealed. I even had a painful wait through the interval. Finally, second to last, the title of my piece was announced. This was it – my talent, or lack of it, was about to be laid bare. I held my breath, eyes unblinking, as James Doolan (‘my’ actor) took to the stage. I was transfixed. Would he play it how I hoped? Would he give it the anger I had when writing it? Would it live up to my expectations?

I was in awe. Every raw emotion was delivered with all the venom I had intended. Yet I couldn’t believe those words were mine, that they had taken a journey from my head through my fingers then out of his mouth, almost seamlessly.

As a writer I hide behind my laptop, never needing or wanting to be seen, yet my moment in the spotlight was coming. All the writers were interviewed, to shed some light on their pieces. Standing on that stage was daunting, but after James’s wonderful performance I was proud to claim every word. When the show was over, I was suddenly swamped with people congratulating me on a job well done, asking to stay in touch, asking what was next. It was overwhelming, an insight into things that could be mine with hard work and determination, and I left the theatre that evening feeling like I had won an Olivier Award. It was an inspiring experience that had me burning for more. And I had put trigeminal neuralgia in its place. For a little while, anyway.