The Comfort of Words
Novelist and flash-fiction writer Helen MacDonald explores how the ability to write creatively is lost following a bereavement, but how gently reconnecting with your writing brings joy during difficult times.
My mother died in November. Her departure left me with every possible emotion, and none, all at the same time. Much of this was expected, even accepted, despite the fact that I would have done anything to change what happened. But what I didn’t expect was to suddenly find myself devoid of words.
Words danced on the page, or across the screen, making no sense whatsoever. I couldn’t read beautiful sentiments written by others, nor could I write my own. My main sources of joy and comfort - activities that help me understand the world - had simply stopped being. Day after day I stared at blank pages, desperately trying to connect with something - anything - more substantial than a hurried post-it note to get a pint of milk.
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At the same time as I was trying to adjust to a ‘new normal’ without Mum, I felt a genuine fear that I might never write creatively again. Combined with my grief, I had a crisis of confidence - this secondary loss left me questioning my own identity.
Who was I without my mum? Who was I if I couldn’t write?
It’s now three months later and my ability to read has returned. While I’m back to reading just as voraciously as before, what I like to read has changed. My towering to-be-read pile of psychological thrillers has been abandoned in favour of uplifting poetry, cosy crime and humorous fiction. I simply can’t stomach fear, suspense or death as escapism any more. This was something I hadn’t anticipated, but perhaps shouldn’t have come as a surprise. It’s natural to want to shield yourself from things that might cause you pain.
My writing, however, has returned more slowly. It took five weeks to write in my journal - a practice I’ve sustained almost every morning for years. Another three weeks before I could contemplate flash fiction, and even then I could only write allegories of grief. Creative writing eluded me. Only in the last few weeks have I been able to write snippets of fiction. Words would randomly pop into my mind, scribbled down with haste in case they vanished just as quickly as they arrived.
Yet the words failed to flow like they used to, so my whole approach to writing had to change.
I still go to my desk most mornings, lighting a lemongrass candle and putting the lava lamp on before sitting down to empty my head. But I can no longer have any expectation of what I might be able to write, or how much. Often my brain is unsettled, unable to focus long enough for a single sentence to form, but sometimes whole paragraphs slot into place, shoring up an idea before it can fade away. It’s frustrating for someone like me - a goal-orientated planner - when the only goal I can set is to show up and see what happens.
I had to take the pressure off - yes, all of it - to stand a chance of getting any writing done. I had to remember not to beat myself up when I failed to write, when it was beyond my control. Instead, I try to be grateful for every word, no matter how annoyed I get that ‘February 2023 me’ can’t do what ‘July 2022 me’ could.
It hasn’t helped that what I want to write has changed too.
In October, my novel had been nearing completion, but since then progress had largely stalled. Often, I can’t face working on it - some scenes are impossible to read because they’re now too close to home, others just remind me of the before.
When it’s still too hard, I lose myself in random fiction instead. Tweet-length stories featuring robots or dragons, or people from worlds where neither I, or the pain of grief, exists. Sometimes that’s all I can write and maybe, for now, it’s enough. Because with those words, unfamiliar and fantastical as they may be, has come something else.
Hope.
There’s liberation in having to find something new to write - something different that might have previously been outside your comfort zone. But I have found other things that I like: erasure poetry, hybrid flash, lyrical writing, speculative fiction.
These things have brought joy into my life. They’ve inspired new ideas, words that have actually found their way onto the page. I find comfort in them. Not the same comfort as before, but it’s there nonetheless. I feel my confidence and my identity quietly returning.
Some of this I’ve achieved alone, but I’ve had a lot of support along the way. Family and friends, of course, but also other writers and the wider writing community. Writing can be a lonely process where you’re often physically isolated with only your pet or a plant to talk to, and it’s made especially worse when you lose someone you love. I couldn’t have written this article, or even had the gall to pitch the idea, if it hadn’t been for my beta readers checking up on me on WhatsApp, writing group buddies reading my thoughts on grief on forum threads, or the mutual support of fellow writers who have sadly been on the same journey as me at the same time. I could not have kept my head above water without so many wonderful people - wonderful writers - around me. I cannot thank them enough.
I know I will never be the person I was before, or the same reader, or the same writer. I struggle with that thought because, in changing, I feel like I’m leaving Mum behind. Maybe it’s enough to think that I’m just starting a new chapter of the same book. I think she’d like that.
Life will never be the same again either, but I’m starting to make progress, one page at a time.
Credit: Helen MacDonald
Helen MacDonald
Helen MacDonald is an ex-astrophysicist and ex-project manager, born in South Wales and now living in Gloucestershire. She writes flash fiction and poetry (as Lena MacDonald) and is currently working through final edits of a psychological suspense novel.
Find her on Twitter @helenmacwrites
