Why I Don’t Write

In 1946 George Orwell wrote his essay ‘Why I Write’ in which he describes, and reflects on, becoming a writer. In this essay he shares a thought which has always resonated with me:

“What I have most wanted to do throughout the past ten years is to make political writing into an art. My starting point is always a feeling of partisanship, a sense of injustice. When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work of art’. I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial concern is to get a hearing.”

I share his sentiment. My inspirations for these blog posts, for my academic writing, for my work with policy makers and practitioners, is always an observation of an injustice and a feeling that I want to, that I should, say something about it. I always hope that what I say reaches the ears of a receptive audience, prompts responses, new questions, dialogue. But to write, to continue to write, to share what I have written, requires so many things.

When I write I like to feel of being at ease in my environment, having a warm and comforting drink beside me, perhaps some music in the background, the fizz through my fingers as I realise that I have an idea and know exactly what I want to say. I also need time. So much time. And not the kind of time that can be squeezed in between the school run, the meeting, the answering of a knock at the door. It takes the kind of time which almost stops moving as it holds you in an embrace of possibility.

Sometimes I feel it is much more fitting for me to offer some thoughts on why I don’t write. Today, for example, I was determined to begin with some self-care and nature. I walked the dog and breathed the air and chatted to a fellow dog walker and felt rooted and happy. Then I was determined to enjoy time with my eldest child who is already on school holidays and has been ignored by me for most of the week, so I joined him for the final stages of building a snowman. I laughed and wanted to stay longer but couldn’t. I was determined to clear my email inbox. Then I finally got to an oasis of writing time, my companion my older sister who connects on teams and brightens my day. We cut this short as I have to field phone calls about Christmas presents and questions about making jelly. All these things made me happy, and I’m grateful for them. What a precious privilege to have family, to have nature nearby, to be able to look forward to a Christmas day with presents in it. And yet the nagging feeling, the knowledge that I am supposed to be writing, the desire to find pleasure in my writing, the call to write. There is something to be said, some injustice to be named.

Two years ago, I found out that one of the most cited, inspiring, scholars in my field of peace and justice studies wrote her most well-known and influential article while experiencing a very difficult pregnancy, waiting for her twins to be born, not her first children but her 5th and 6th . While I was reading about this, I glanced over at my bedside table and saw a book I had yet to finish reading, a biography of Ruth Bader-Ginsburg which describes in awe inspiring detail her tireless efforts to excel in her study and her work while at the same time being a present and loving mother and wife. These are fragments of the stories of these women, stories which are so much more complex and multifaceted, and I am certain are also at times full of feelings of failure and inadequacy. But I remember these stories, they have had a profound effect on me. I was at once impressed, inspired, daunted, and destroyed by them. I wonder why? Their achievements do not need to bring me down, but I cannot but help compare myself to them as I raise my (only) 2 children and spend a seemingly endless10 years writing my book. Never feeling comfortable with any request for help, never feeling comfortable with my failure to not need it.

While I have been on study leave this year, I have noticed that my day job became manageable. I have time to respond to my emails, sometimes on the same day, and I have time to think and explore ideas and read. Most importantly I have time to write. It is a stark contrast to the creeping overwork, burnout, and stress of the higher education sector in the UK. Many have written about the pernicious effects of the neoliberalism of universities, which at its worst sees students as customers, academics as service providers, locking them into contracts which prize revenue and outcomes over intellectual risk taking and solidarity. In response I have been drawn to discussions about slow scholarship4 which prizes thoughtfulness, reflection, and quality over quantity. Learning to move more slowly is a skill, as Katherine May teaches us in her masterful book Wintering. But it is a skill well worth acquiring, and also helping others to acquire. It is also a privilege that not everyone shares. Perhaps that is the injustice which inspires my writing these days: an unequal distribution of time, an unequal distribution of burden, and an unequal ability to find rest and restoration in the fabric of daily life.

You know I still haven’t finished reading that biography. Maybe next year.

January 2025