View from The Royal London (photo by me)
If you’ve ever tried to cut sugar out of your diet, you–more than any Regency era literary character–know what true longing is. There’s headaches, nausea, irritability. The urge to eat a cinnamon bun, meanwhile, is involuntary, overwhelming. Try as you might to nosh on blueberries, no healthy snack can sate that craving.
For creative people, the desire to write is a lot like that: automatic, seemingly irrepressible. One of my favourite authors, Zora Neale Hurston, put it well: “... the force from somewhere in Space which commands you to write in the first place, gives you no choice. You take up the pen when you are told, and write what is commanded. There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you.”
This, of course, presents a serious problem for those of us who suffer from chronic illness. On one hand, we must write. Ideas for stories appear and accumulate in our mind like mail shunted through the letterbox. If we ignore these psychic missives, the sender–that ethereal “force” that Hurston mentioned–will only grow more desperate: forward reminders at increasingly frequent intervals, mark them "urgent" in bold text. (It’s a lot like Duolingo in that way–except there’s no option to switch off notifications.)
On the other hand, self-expression, which is difficult to achieve under the best of circumstances, is complicated by the presence of chronic illness. In addition to the usual obstacles that authors face, like time management and writer’s block, there can be depression, brain fog, chronic pain flare-ups, and intense feelings of alienation. All of these problems serve to demotivate, debilitate, and disenchant: a devastatingly alliterative combination.
So, what to do? Well, there are no easy answers. When one force compels you to write, and another continuously frustrates that process, the result is much like a good-looking but commitment-phobic French boyfriend–that is, bound to be exasperating. (I speak from experience on both counts.) Nevertheless, I can proffer a few tips that I’ve picked up from years spent in the former predicament.
First, consider drawing inspiration from your experiences. Though the old maxim “write what you know” may seem a bit trite, it takes on greater utility for those of us who have been isolated and marginalised by the state of our health. Indeed, many chronically ill people do not have anyone to confide in–or, perhaps more accurately, no one who is able (or inclined) to understand. The prospect of opening up on social media, meanwhile, can be intimidating given the stigma surrounding disabilities. In light of this, writing projects, from poetry to short stories to novels, provide a valuable opportunity for unfiltered self-expression and catharsis.
If the prospect of fiction feels too unapproachable, try journaling first. Detail your thoughts, feelings, and experiences–but also your impressions of other people, their mannerisms and quirks. Jot down, too, your opinions about current events and controversies, especially if they bear a particular relevance to your life (e.g., national medication shortages, funding for health care, and so on). And when you go somewhere, even a mundane shopping trip, describe the plant life you see, the buildings, and sounds. That way, when you’re feeling better-equipped to craft a story, you can look back on these literary snapshots and rework them into something both original and personal.
What’s more, consistent journaling can grow your self-esteem as a writer–brush up your skills, and make you feel that you’ve accomplished something. For chronically ill creatives, these kinds of dopamine hits are essential. This is because we often feel too discouraged to write: it’s been too long, or we feel daunted by the many barriers that stand between us and self-actualisation.
It is crucial, therefore, to take on smaller, more easily achievable projects, like composing a short story or poem. Though we might be tempted to start with a long-form project like a novel, these short works can be expanded into a larger project, like an anthology. Moreover, the confidence that we build during this time prepares us for more ambitious endeavours. In other words, “I know I can complete this novel because I’ve already written a collection of short stories.”
One of my best tips relates to the enhancement of your prose. When you read a book or an article–and you should be reading, as much as you possibly can–take note of standout vocabulary words, poignant expressions, and uncommon sentence structures. Whether using the notes app or a journal, compile this information for further use in your writing. Include the definitions of words, as well as examples of them being used in a sentence. Though doing so may sound tedious, it will prove helpful on days when you’re suffering from brain fog, fatigue, and pain, since these problems can impede your ability to readily retrieve words and think clearly.
There are many more recommendations I could make, but I’ll conclude with one of the most important: Join a writing community, whether in person or online. This will supply the sense of connection that, as previously mentioned, is so often lacking among the chronically ill. It will also, crucially, keep you motivated and accountable to your writing goals. With this in mind, schedule regular meetings or Zoom calls to discuss what you’re currently working on, ideally with a group of two to five fellow writers.
I acknowledge that this is easier said than done. Finding a group of people who are willing and available to regularly workshop your (and their) writing can be tricky. In the meantime, it is possible to gain valuable feedback from friends and family, even ones who know nothing about writing. All you have to do is ask them two simple questions: How would you summarise the piece? What works in this piece? The first question allows you to gauge how clearly you’ve communicated your most important ideas, and the second helps with editing and revision. Whether prompted or unprompted, people will always share their criticisms, but what is often even more helpful is knowledge of your writing’s strengths, i.e. what to keep and develop further.
None of this, it should be noted, will ever resolve the inherent tension between the force that drives you to create, and the one that stifles your ability to do so. But if we squint a bit, we can observe a curious symmetry between the two: namely, that neither gives you any choice. You didn’t choose to be chronically ill, and, as Hurston suggested, you do not choose to be a writer. Where you can find agency, however, is how you decide to navigate these aspects of yourself. That may sound dissatisfying, but that’s life. Hey, at least we have cinnamon buns. ◈
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