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My dispatches will always be free and open to everyone. I am unable to use my hands and I am writing, via dictation, with the help of my family. If you want to support my writing, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.
If you have any questions for me, please post them in the comment section, which is open to everyone this week.
Right at the beginning of one of my favourite plays, Chekhov’s The Seagull, the character of Medvedenko asks the maudlin Masha, “why do you always wear black?” She replies, “I’m in mourning for my life.” As far as I can remember, we never really find out what life exactly she is in mourning for, but it is a line that has resonated with me a lot lately, being in mourning for one’s life: it haunts me, as a piece of music can sometimes.
I once had a full and enjoyable life, and then one day I had an accident, and that life was over. But I didn’t quite die; I almost did. As I lay on my head in Rome, on a wooden floor in a pool of blood, with Isabella crouched down beside me, I felt death coming for me - I believed I had just a few breaths left, and I remember feeling enraged that I had to die in this ignoble way, when I was quite keen to carry on living, and there were plenty things I still wanted to do. It was an affront, I wasn’t ready, that was what annoyed me. I thought of my dear friend Roger Michelle, who was younger than me, who not long ago went to bed and failed to wake up in the morning.
I have continued to live in this crooked form while thinking about how I lived before and wondering whether I could ever get back to some semblance of it. There was literally a break, an accident, between the two parts of my life. In my mind, I’m still living in the first part, while in my body I’m living, unfortunately, in the second, broken measure.
Recently I had an MRI scan, and it seems that in the past I had some kind of mini stroke or strokes. Many people over fifty have these; they are very common, and there may be no symptoms. This mini stroke, as it is called, is not connected to my accident, but for me, it is an extra thing to worry about, since there is a danger I may have another stroke, hence I’m not so cheerful these days. The hospital tried to give me a test to ascertain whether my mental facilities are still all there. I glanced through the pages of the test - which were a series of questions, pictures and basic arithmetic – and it was so simple and childish I refused to participate. I haven’t yet lost my mind as I far as I know, though I am aware that I have less energy and my speech is slower.
One of things about Chekhov’s great plays, particularly Uncle Vanya and The Seagull, is that they concern friendship; his work is full of people just hanging around together, even if they haven’t chosen each other, and don’t like one another so much.
During lockdown I wrote a play, The Spank , which concerns two middle-aged male friends falling out over a relatively minor incident which strains, tests and then ruins the friendship. The play was performed in Italy, toured all over, and was successful. In the introduction to the published edition, I wrote an essay about friendship in which I talked about how a bond is tested, taken to its limit, and finally broken. Now, in my situation, relationships are tested in new ways.
I have been living in the hospital since Boxing Day, which is an unusual situation. Most people will be in hospital at some point in their lives, but it is uncommon for a patient to live in one as I have been doing, for months on end. This has not only been a test for me, but also a test of the devotion and loyalty of my friends. I like to be visited; I lie in my bed in a state of rage and distress while my friends chatter around me. They bring stories, gossip, complaints and other distractions. Sometimes I’m excited and amused, and other times I am bored. But it is something I desperately need, it connects me to the world. I have learned that a hospital ward is an ecosystem in itself: the nurses, physiotherapists, doctors, patients and visitors are all connected, they come and go, it is a network full of pleasures and conflicts. One day last December, I was moved from the real world into this soap opera, where I have existed ever since. I experience it as a torture and punishment; I feel it as dismemberment. How it exists in my mind is a horror, I have to be reminded by my friends of its reality, and the possibility of some kind of recovery, and even a future.
Carlo wanted me to add that yesterday I picked up small bottle with my left hand, although I couldn’t grip it for long. He also wanted me to say that this morning I stood up on a hoist for about fifteen minutes, and even used my knees to squeeze up and support myself. It is amazing how difficult it is to walk, if you can’t do it. What an incredible about of muscular activity goes into walking across a pub, for instance, and ordering pint of Guinness. It is certainly not something I am capable of doing, and I wonder if it something I will ever doing again. It seems like such an achievement when you are on the other side.
Your Questions
DAVID SUTTON
Do you ever have trouble getting started on a piece? And if so, have you discovered any reliable ways of getting going?
HANIF
If I have an idea for something, I won’t actually start on it, but will make reams of notes and will probably read around the subject for a while. Sometimes my notes are interminable, and I never actually get round to writing the piece at all, I may just go on making more and more notes. That is when I know I’m in trouble, that the piece will not actually spring into life. This can happen, and this can happen more than one might think. An idea might seem to be a good one, what you might call a ‘goer’, but it’s not really that good when you start to examine it. You can only find this out by experimenting with it, by writing it down.
JK2
What is your preferred form: Plays? Screenplays? Short stories? Novels? Essays?
HANIF
When I began writing as a teenager, I wanted to be a novelist because at that time I read a lot of novels, and I fancied I could write one. In fact I wrote several. It’s where I began to learn to be a writer. I also kept diaries, notebooks and journals. Around the age of eighteen, I began to write plays, because I wanted to get away from myself and work with other people. I was incredibly lucky at that age to be offered a job at the Royal Court theatre in Sloane square. It was a wonderful place to be a young writer, and where I met many artists. It was the first time I was able to be with people who took the arts seriously, and had devoted their lives to it. They were eccentric, mad and devoted, passionate about what they did. They argued furiously amongst themselves.
In the early eighties I was invited to write a film for Channel Four which became My Beautiful Launderette, and for a while I wrote films. But I knew I never wanted to be exclusively a screenwriter; it is a dodgy business, there are many variables involved, and it’s too unpredictable for me. So then I wrote The Buddha of Suburbia, which was a huge success, and I continued to write novels on and off over the years. I also love reading and writing short stories. It is a beautiful form and very hard to do.
Also not many people read short stories, but still, if you have an idea for one, you are lucky, and you should follow your instinct on this, as on all matters to do with writing. When the screenplay of My Beautiful Launderette was published by Faber and Faber, they asked for an essay to accompany it, so I wrote my first non-fiction piece, The Rainbow Sign, and I became an essayist by default. As you can see, almost all of this has happened to me by accident. I never thought I couldn’t do these things, that I couldn’t write in these forms if I put my mind to it. The one thing I cannot do, and certainly have no aptitude for at all, is write poetry. I wouldn’t know where to begin. But all these other forms come naturally to me. They are all, of course, sources of money, which as a professional writer, is something I’ve had to think about my entire life. Writing is a business as well as an art. I have three children, and like any other member of the middle-class, many outgoings. There is no way you can make a living writing short stories. But several of my stories have been made into films, or at least optioned, so they can be a good source of income, despite their length and obscurity. Some of the writers I admire, like Jean Paul Sartre of Graham Greene, have all written in a number of forms, so it is not so unusual in a long writing life to want to do that.
Two of my sons have become screenwriters, and unlike me they are only screenwriters. I can’t imagine them wanting to write novels or short stories. At the moment, it is not within their range of interest. In the screenwriting business, you are very dependent on the taste of the producers and the public.
Please, if you have any questions, please post them below, open to everyone. I love hearing from you.
Hanif
Hi Hanif,
I was struck by your reference to The Seagull and the words ‘I’m in mourning for my life’ written so expertly by the brilliant Chekhov. It’s a phrase I’ve been using for many years after an accident left me unable to live my previous life. I do have a rather dark sense of humour and also tend to always wear black (very well I may add!) so whenever asked why I’m dressed in black that is my stock answer and people laugh. I laugh with them and that then stops any questions about the wheelchair and so on. I’m on a lot of meds for pain relief and mood which helps keep me on an even keel most of the time. I’m busy with my teenage lads, I read, I write and I listen to music, watch films and so on which helps me live in a balanced way. I regret what happened but I try not to dwell on it as then I do become enraged and bitter and so tearful but holding on to those feelings are so painful I try to let them go by meditation or listening to Buddhist chitchat on a million and one podcasts.
So in other news I finally got a stairlift fitted which I hate and love equally. It’s very whizzy and I’m getting used to it I think. Using the stairs was becoming impossible and this way my energy and pain levels behave themselves- so yay. I wanted black but they only do white so I may have to pimp it up a little.
When you go home you’ll be asked about all sorts of gadgets to help you for now which may well be removed if you no longer need them. It’s all just a process; well, more a rollercoaster for us survivors, us warriors. You’re doing better and that’s the thing - holding a bottle for a second or two is a real achievement - keep moving forwards. And yes sometimes we do too much which knocks us back but it’s only a blip. I’m giving you access to my almost permanent internal pep talk. I drive myself mad too so apologies for my chirpiness - it’s just my hard-wired survival tactics!
Much love,
Kate x
And I love hearing from you! As soon as there is a post, if I am near my computer, I read it. This one was somber- it really brought it into focus how utterly miserable it was for you to have that accident. And the mini-stroke issue is certainly not something any of us can feel smug about not having to consider.
I'm older than you are. And in the last ten years, since I stopped traveling as much, my ability to manage flying has diminished considerably. Going to Italy for probably the last time, next week, it will be very obvious how much has changed for me, not just for Italy, which is far more politically weird than it was when I was last there but for me, my body, my mind, my energy. I used to hop on a plane and love going through it all just to feel a part of the weird country of airports. I'd arrive and inhale the rental car smell, indistinguishable from the odor of Italy. I'd enjoy the new clothes I was wearing. I'd think with excitement about who I was about to see, and the new impressions, and the sheer enjoyment of that country. This is all in the past. So many friends have died since I was there last. I'm making a will before leaving, having put it off until now. I will make appointments for several physical tests when I get back- even wonder if I ought to go with so many things of concern. But I want to.. I want to... I want to see my friend, and that wonderful country, one last time. Isn't it strange, one last time? As so many say, we never really know when the last time will come because it comes often without warning.