Picture the scene. In fact, I’ll paint it for you (should be easy enough, right? Considering I’m a writer…)
March 24th, 2020. An alarm goes off at 7.45AM. My husband, Nick, dutifully rises. He showers and gets dressed, kisses my furrowed brow protruding from the duvet, then he heads downstairs.
I remain in bed, in denial that this day has begun. Instead, I lie in the dark listening to Nick clatter about the kitchen. The flick of the kettle’s switch, the low rumble of it boiling to make tea. Plastic rustles as cereal is released from its package to a bowl, spoons both big and small clink against ceramics. Just a weekday like any other; until he shuts himself away in what was formerly our dining room. Not anymore. Now it’s his office and he’s working from home. Most of us are in fact, unless deemed ‘essential’ and bravely venturing out for the good of everyone else.
I didn’t feel very essential myself.
When my alarm goes off a little later, I realise I don’t know why I’ve bothered to set one. There’s not much to get up for today. After I silence the shrieking beeps on my phone, I head back to the home screen to see what’s being said on social media.
It’s nothing good, because nothing is.
Usually I find comfort in words and stories, but they’ve become the enemy. They’re used to deliver statistics that overwhelm me. Heart-breaking true stories of lives turned upside-down, the troubles that people are going through. No one is doing OK.
I wasn’t doing OK.
I’d been very fortunate in that I’d been working full time in the arts until lockdown began. The downside was that as a drag artist and writer my income relied on performing at events and leading workshops which were all cancelled ‘until further notice’. Now this manner of miserable morning became my routine instead. What’s a creative type of person without their audience, their community? Without events to perform at and workshops to teach? It all felt very frightening to me.
So I follow the lead of other artists, and do some gigs online – digital shows, live streams, whatever’s going. It’s not a lot, but it’s something. I apply for some pots of funding with what I think are pretty great bids. And when the second one isn’t successful, the stubbornness kicks in.
I think to myself, “I’m not having this.”
I whack the proposal online as a fundraising campaign, reaching out, asking if people would be interested in seeing my project – ‘Stories From the Back of the Cupboard’ – come to life; a virtual storytelling series where ‘Mr Ben’ can’t leave the house to pop to the costume shop. Tales of self-isolation where ‘Jackanory’ meets ‘The Mighty Boosh’.
And the response is overwhelming. People want these stories to be made.
I knuckle down, writing, filming, editing; as each episode is released online, the feedback makes me emotional like you wouldn’t believe. It’s as if people need to hear these words, to be entertained, to escape.
It feels like an audience. Like a community.
Cut to two years later, and the world is waking up, albeit cautiously. I attend poetry nights and open mics, I plot workshops and curate drag shows. I chat to everyone I meet. I connect, exchange, get inspired. I say ‘thank you’ for every kind word received.
Because like never before, I appreciate that through words and stories, we do more than titillate our imaginations. We find each other, keep connected, stay sane. I’ll never again take for granted again how easily the thing I’m most passionate about can come under threat, or even be taken away. It’s why I’m so excited for Queer the Shelves to begin. Each event like this is a little reunion in its own right, to celebrate art and creativity, to stand once more as a community.
And I’ll tell you now, I’ve never been more pleased to be out of bed. To not be staring at a screen. To see words being beautiful again.
Thom Seddon will be at the Queer the Shelves LGBTQ Book Fest in Nottingham at Waterstones. Get your tickets now!
lgbtq, literary festival, nottingham, queer the shelves, Thom seddon
