“Politicians as people”: Liberal Democrat leader Ed Davey with his son, John.
Welcome back to A Writing Life, our series of monthly articles written by long-time 26 member and contributor Rob Self-Pierson.
Like many of us, Rob straddles the line between commercial and creative writing. Each month, we’re inviting him to share the trials and triumphs of a writing life – and what he learns along the way.
It’s February, and Rob’s writing his way back into work following the loss of his dad. He reflects on the strength in vulnerability…
I’m in a vulnerable state and trying to learn from it.
The other day, after a chat with Mum about the last five months, including her brain haemorrhage and Dad’s sudden death, I sat on the third step of her staircase and questioned how I go on.
Breathing strains my chest. Eating feels both pointless and painful. Writing is a waste of my time and energy (yes, is a thought that creeps in). All that was once second nature is now hard work.
It would be easier not to, I whispered through my tears. Why bother?
In that moment, I noticed just how peeled back I am.
Coming to accept
I’m in a vulnerable state. I’m sharing too much with people I’ve just met, talking about Dad like they adored him too.
And I’m not sharing enough with those who knew and loved him. To them I’m saying awful things like, ‘But he’s at peace now.’ I’m sick of that sentiment. I think. Probably. Maybe. Gah, I used to be so sure of so much in life. Now everything seems uncertain.
I’m in a vulnerable state. I’m crying at everyone’s every woe. Those rush-to-hospital A&E shows on TV are too much. Even adverts where a dog is sobbing scratch away at me. The ‘distressing scenes’ warning on news reels is actually making me look away. I always wondered who that was for. It’s for people like this new vulnerable me!
I’m in a vulnerable state. And as hard as I’m finding it, being there, waking there, not being able to escape there, experiencing there even in places where I used to find safety and solace, I know this time is adding to who I am – as a person, and as a writer.
As we’ve explored in these last six months of reflections on a writing life, I consider those two the same. I write, therefore I am.
Lessons in vulnerability
Being vulnerable teaches me what it is to be human.
And learning that – that being human is growing through the pain and hurt and pit of stomach gnawing, as well as the bright bursts of happy, as well as the endless winter evenings of confusion – teaches me how to write in a way that connects with other people.
After all, those feelings, and the vulnerability needed to acknowledge, accept and move through life with them, is perhaps the one place all of humanity can meet. I’ve seen the more vulnerable I am, the more people engage with me: speak, listen, hug. And the more vulnerable my writing, the longer people read. You’re still reading, I hope?
I’m writing about this because of recent trials. Losing Dad, caring for Mum. But also because of an advert I saw a couple of nights ago. It was playing in the background as I served dinner for my mum.
Ads rarely distract me – working in branding, you can develop an immunity to most. But this one did something unexpected.
Ed’s story – politicians as people
It was a party political broadcast for the Liberal Democrats called ‘Ed’s Story’. It follows a day in the life of Lib Dem leader Ed Davey – who until now I’d seen as a sort of court jester.
We begin in Ed’s kitchen with Ed talking about his son, John. We soon meet John, who’s living with a disability. Ed speaks to camera, shares how he likes to be the person to wake John in the morning. John’s soon squeezing his dad’s nose, and the two are laughing.
Cut to interview, where Ed tells us about his younger life in Nottinghamshire. His older brothers. His dad’s cancer and death in March 1970. We’re soon with Ed outside his childhood home, built by his uncle after his dad died. Ed shares how his mum became ill and he looked after her but she passed away aged just 46.
Back to the interview and Ed’s asked if he thinks his mum would been proud of him today, as we move towards the main focus of the ad: social care and family care. Ed breaks down.
These are real tears. Brought about by real stories of ‘quite tough times’, as Ed calls them. Jumper wonky, shirt skew-whiff, this is a real man embracing his vulnerability. Two minutes and thirty seconds into the film, Mum and I agreed we admired Ed. We watched on.
Now, I could speak about Authenticity and Trust and Brand Engagement. But I’d rather reflect on Ed’s strength in vulnerability. And how bonds are made when we’re most peeled back.
Together we go
It was Dad’s birthday Saturday. I bought him a card and wrote him a letter, updating him on Mum’s recovery. And promising not to keep writing about him – he wouldn’t have liked the attention.
With that in mind, I’ll be back in March as the buds of spring open to warmer temperatures, longer evenings and new hope.
Onwards,
Rob
If you’d like to share in response, message Rob via Max at 26. Also, find out more about Rob or connect with him.