Writing when the world is burning

Hey, you!

Yes, you.

You, a writer,

or somebody who wants to write,

who feels like they have something to say,

a story waiting in the wings,

one that you have a compulsive need to share.

You've read a whole bunch,

maybe you've taken a class or twelve.

You bought a laptop,

a typewriter,

a notebook & pen,

or a stone tablet, a hammer and a chisel.

You might have told a few close friends,

"I'm going to write a book",

hoping they'll ask you how it's going every so often and hold you to account.

You set your alarm, without snoozes,

knowing discipline and consistency is key.

You get a nice mug

a nice space,

an ergonomic chair.

You sit down at 5.45am,

chew on your coffee,

crack your knuckles,

ready to write,

and then you remember that the world is on fire.

That there are miles-long queues of people desperately fleeing their homes,

their cities,

their country,

as the bombs rain down over their heads.

You remember seeing their tears on the news.

You remember reading that it's all a hoax -

- someone on your Timeline shared an article, without comment, claiming it was -

- and another little piece of your faith in humanity quietly dies.

You think small.

Your own country.

Where politicians lie,

and are caught lying,

and lie about lying.

Where the cost of living is skyrocketing and schoolteachers wonder aloud in the staff break rooms about whether they will be able to afford to switch the heating on in their homes because the price of fuel is so high.

Where the hospitals are still straining under the immense weight of the virus that has infected nineteen million people in your country alone,

and swept one hundred and sixty-two thousand of those people to their graves,

and which is infecting members of your own family still, two years on.

So you think bigger.

Bigger picture, you think, you must think of the bigger picture.

The world is on fire.

The rainforests are burning.

Harmful gases, the product of human industry, are pouring into the atmosphere,

creating a greenhouse effect which is melting our icecaps, polluting our environments, contributing to wildfires and floods, destroying habitats, and piling

suffering

on suffering

on suffering

on suffering

and suddenly

you realise you don't really want to write anymore.

You close the laptop,

put the pen away.

Because it all feels a bit pointless, doesn't it?

Creating art,

or even just telling stories,

when people are dying.

*RECOMMENDATION(S)*

This week I have two recommendations, as I forgot to give one last time - apologies.

1) Volunteer, if you can. There's no shortage of worthwhile causes to devote a little of your time each week, or month, to. Pick one that speaks to your heart, do a little perfunctory research to ensure it's reputable, and give whatever you can of yourself to it. Many voices, and many hands, make change.

(If you can't afford to contribute money or time on a regular basis, why not look up your local blood donor centre and go donate a pint of the red stuff. It's easy, the staff there all know what they're doing, and they give you crisps after.)

2) This rec is VERY specific and won't apply to the vast majority of you, but for anyone like me who suffers from chonic migraine, the information found in the comprehensive guide to migraines, compiled by The Walton Centre (an NHS Foundation Trust) and accesible at the link below is a great, up-to-the-minute resource that I was given by my physiotherapist. I hope the advice within it helps you (and me).

https://www.thewaltoncentre.nhs.uk/patient-leaflets/migraine-a-comprehensive-guide/479279

Talk at you in 2 weeks.