Andrew Chapman An Authors Life, Screenwriting, The Other Stuff, Words and Writers

The Slightly Morbid Reason I Write

I was looking back over a book I had abandoned writing a few years ago, and was surprised by the final few paragraphs, which had nothing to do with the novel. They were instead my reflections on hearing the news about my dad’s diagnosis, which would take his life shortly after, and how death is the driving force that keeps me writing. If grief is a trigger for you, I would recommend skipping this post.

I wrote the following back in 2022, while Dad was still around, a few months before he passed.

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There is no greater sedative than bad news. One month ago, my dad was told he had two months to live.

It was my mum who told me. Called me up, crying. They were leaving the hospital, on their way home. Didn’t want visitors. Needed to process it.

I called David in Spain. Told him. He’s on holiday with Arthur. Mum and Dad were meant to be there but stayed home to wait for the results of the MRI. Dad was told he couldn’t travel.

I’ve always felt that we are marching at full speed towards mortality. My dad took a wrong turn and slipped off a cliff.

I was in the middle of doing the dishes when Mum called and after the phone call I got back to it. Rachel followed me into the kitchen and said I didn’t need to worry about some dirty pots. But I did, because they still needed to be done.

I think I washed one cup before I had to stop. I leant against the counter and stared at the floor. We talked, though I don’t remember what either of us said, and then a spontaneous burst of grief caused me to push away from the counter and sob into that gap between Rachel’s shoulder and neck.

I read somewhere that writers avoid death. I think that’s why I do it.

I write so that when I am gone, my daughter can pick up one of my books and say, ‘There you are, Dad.’

It’s got me thinking about voice. Anything other than death. Voice as in the authorial voice. A lot of creative writing advice focuses on removing yourself from the prose. The author should never be present. I disagree. Whatever style I have is fundamentally me and too much tidying up of the language will remove me from it. I don’t write to deliver a plot. I write to save some part of my soul. That’s not as grand a statement as it sounds. It’s vanity, really. And terror.

Andrew Chapman An Authors Life, The Other Stuff, Words and Writers

The Obscene and Criminal Malice Inflicted by Time

End

You know when you lose your TV remote and it drives you crazy. You look everywhere. You search frantically, chucking the pillows off the couch and lifting it up to look underneath. You check under newspapers and lift up the rug. How can it have disappeared? It’s a TV remote! After looking everywhere you finally give up and sit down, defeated and dejected. After your internal tantrum has abated, after you’ve mentally blamed everyone and everything that could have caused it to vanish, including the cat, you finally calm down and look up at the TV. And there it is. Right in front of you, on the TV stand. Of course it is. It’s obvious now. The thing you were looking for was right there in front of you the whole time. For fuck sake.

I have that feeling. I have it all the time. The problem is, that moment of sitting back and finally finding it hasn’t come. I don’t even know what is missing.

It is that feeling that makes you want to travel. The urge to explore. You don’t know what it is you expect to find but you’ll be damned if you’re going to stop looking before you find it. But it’s not just that. And it’s not just travel. It’s everything. You don’t just want to explore new lands, you want to learn everything. You want to try everything. All the food. All the music. All the booze. All the knowledge. Time is being pulled from our veins with each passing minute. Aging us. Every day that passes, every second that tics, every Christmas that zooms past; we are being killed by the calendar, one day at a time. Fill those days before they are rudely taken from you.

You don’t have to pack up all your shit and spend the rest of your life travelling. That would be a form of hell for some. It is a feeling that surrounds everything. You wish you had learned how to play the piano when you were younger. You can buy a second-hand piano or keyboard for £20. Get one. Learn how to play it. You will love it. Want to write a book? It costs nothing. Just start typing. It doesn’t matter if you know what you want to write about. That will come. Just start slinging words together and see what happens.

People have no urgency. People don’t seem to want to do anything anymore. They are content dedicating their life to a career. Have a career, why not, I have one, get promoted, do good work, but be ready to put your foot down and leave work early to go to your kid’s school play. Let your job pay for the things you love. Don’t miss out on life so you can get more money. You want that money so you can have a better life so what is the point if you are giving up on life to get it?

I write because I’m going to look back tomorrow and release that yesterday was thirty years ago and I have left nothing solid to justify the wasted years. I write so I can trap time and keep it there.