We Writers

Something happened today that shook me to my very core.. Something was said that rattled my soul and rendered me taken aback due to the utter disbelief I emitted due to what I had heard. And I felt the need to remove this from my chest before it takes someone else by surprise.

One would think that, within an academic setting, in an English classroom that aims to educate future educators and lovers of literature and written expression, one would be surrounded by common minds – minds that think alike, minds that believe communication in any form is an output of personal integrity. Today, I was shown that this is not the case.

After having gone through a dreadful peer presentation on a reading, I was shown that it could indeed get worse: on to the front of the class marched the next presenter, armed with a USB holding the blandest presentation I have ever set eyes on – but who was I to judge? We all have starting points. So I sat there, attempting to focus in despite all of the “like” and “ums” that I heard. I was fine with the fact that this particular presenter had no idea what to say and kept stating the obvious, that the science fiction story she was assigned to read and analyse contained alien life forms – that was completely fine, great analysis, thank you.

In our presentations, though, we are required to ask the group three key questions that contain depth. Her first two did not contain such a thing, and her third had me taken aback, and not in the way that I had desired.

Let me explain, first, the reading that she had read, ‘The Women Men Don’t See’ by James Tiptree Jr., who in actuality is a female who goes by the name of Alice Sheldon. She had adopted the pseudonym so as to divert the public’s gender-shaming of her work due to women’s writing apparently not being acceptable enough. But that is not what I am here to argue about.

This reading was preceded by another reading which gave an insight into Alice Sheldon’s personal life, her beliefs in gender equality and such, and it was not meant to be discussed by the presenter. What did the presenter do? The presenter took the last sentence of the following reading:

‘In May 1987, when Alice Sheldon’s beloved husband was in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s disease, she shot him dead and then turned the gun upon herself’.

Alice and her husband, later in their lives, practically became recluses after having suffered due to her chain smoking, and after her husband’s degenerative disease grew. Their health declined and they saw it fit to shy away from society. I understand that, because when I am sick all I want is a person who I adore to keep me company, and a box of tissues. Nothing else matters.

After having shot her husband and herself, they were found with their palms interlocked in an infinite embrace. They both may have wanted this. And that is understandable, because most of the time I think of ways that I can escape but I admit that I am not brave enough to do so. That is beside the point, though.

After having learnt this, this particular presenter had the nerve to take that fact into account and attack all writers with a mindless powerpoint slide:

The presenter thought it was appropriate to ask such a thing. And not only ask, but to imply that all writers are mentally ill. She flung the word around as though it meant no harm, and stood there in front of the class waving around her wrist that was entrenched in Tiffany and Co. jewellery, and paid no attention to my look of utter anger mixed with bewilderment. How dare she.

How dare she stand there laughing at those who do not befit the qualities of the status quo. How dare she stand there and mock those who render themselves vulnerable, who go out of their introverted ways to display a piece of themselves and categorise them in a department that society has labeled with negation? How dare she stand there and imply that most of the people in the room, and all other writers are the other? Something alien to the norm? Something that avoids standards of ‘normality’, something that undermines their intellectuality?

It is pathetic to think that some people classify writers as such. We writers document things that most people think and fear to think of again, let alone write down or read. We writers lift our very souls from our depths and scatter them into categories collected in clusters of words and share them with all to see. We writers bravely inscribe our belief systems, our notions of thoughts, our theorizing of concepts, our imaginations and fantasies and reach out with them to others who feel the same way to both acquire a sense of acceptance and receive one. We writers are urns of tears, spilling ourselves onto material accessible to all.

How dare anyone attempt to nullify an unshielded human who is looking to connect? How can anyone be so heartless as to invalidate a person reaching out for a touch of understanding? How can anyone be so cruel as to not inquire into the life of someone who may or may not be going through mental trauma, only to stand there waving their arms like a skewed lamppost, for the sake of a grade out of 25?

Mental agitation is something seldom considered. Rarely does one consider that maybe the person in front of them who has been wearing the same clothes for months, who drifts off into daydreams looking outside the window in class, who sits there with a yearning smile and a burning desire to be accepted, has fought in an internal battle just to be there that day. Rarely does one consider the mental battles themselves that most people go through.

Those people who fight these battles are the ones who do not appear as though they need to. They always smile. They are approachable. They are always happy to help. They are compassionate. They are generous. They will go out of their way to be there for you, to offer you a shoulder or a hand. And they are the ones who sit there and watch as negative connotations are carelessly flung around, aimed utterly at them when all they crave for is what they give to be returned.

We are writers. And we do not hanker for our integration into your commonplace, rather we hanker for your respect.

And to answer your question, presenter, yes. Mental illness certainly plays a part in our role as authors. But we do not see it as an illness. We see it as an antidote, repairing us from the notions that your society has placed unto you and us, blinding you of what we see. Do not get me wrong: we forgive you. But moreso, we pity you. You will never have the depth of our minds' springs, so do not lay implications where understanding is scarce.