On love, loss and a third thing

When words can't do the job. Plus, write with me this weekend.

With love from Gower, Wales, where it’s easy to stare out at the sea and think about serious things

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Last year, I saw a tweet by the writer Imogen West-Knights that was not only very funny, but also (brace yourself) changed the way I think about literature, and even about life. It said:

we need to retire the novel publicity copy "about love, loss and [a third thing]". i would argue that every novel is about love, loss and a third thing

Well, she’s right. Remains of the Day: love, loss and the high cost of duty. Little Women: love, loss and finding yourself without shedding your family. The Hobbit – actually, I haven’t read it. Let me know.

I’m sure there are exceptions, and of course there are stories in which these themes are peripheral, with a wild caper or a psychopath or a complicated scientific leap as the focus. As humans though, I think most of our deepest concerns can be boiled down to love and loss – and if you keep on boiling, I think loss is just part of love anyway.

Don’t send condolences, because I’m far down the pecking order of grief and I’m OK, but recently a lot of the people I love have been dealing with awful loss. I went to a funeral last week; I’m going to another next week. It’s one of those periods where there’s a lot of sorrow washing around, and I think we all feel that from the news as well (which, to be honest, I can’t bear to follow).

I’ve always had confidence in language. I think if you can put words to what you’re feeling, and what you want – and listen to other people’s words, too – you can navigate pretty much anything. I thought I was good at that.

Recently though, there have been several occasions where I’ve found myself speechless – my mouth open, my breath held, as I searched for the beginning of some sentence that would be honest but also comforting. When there’s a real tragedy, I’m not sure there’s much worth saying. I’ve found myself typing out the phrase ‘thinking of you’ many times recently, because it’s true, but also because it’s the only thing I can offer. Often nobody needs you to express yourself anyway, but what I really don’t want is for someone to feel alone in pain.

I find it difficult to accept that language is of limited use, but there you go. When I’ve logged on to Instagram over the last couple of weeks, I’ve seen a lot of words about what’s happening in Israel and in Gaza – some people have a lot to say, but really it all feels like an enormous roar of pain, coming from a place beyond language, and I don’t know how much those words are helping right now.

I don’t often turn to royalty for wisdom, but in a speech after the September 11 attacks in 2001, Queen Elizabeth II said, ‘Grief is the price we pay for love.’ I haven’t heard that better expressed elsewhere. I remember in my twenties thinking that losing somebody or something you love is so agonising that it’s not really worth it – better to travel light through life. At forty I don’t believe that any more, even though you see more bereavement as you move towards middle age. Give us the love; give us the loss; give us the love; give us the loss.

Love leads to grief, but it’s also maybe the only thing that makes grief bearable. At the last funeral I attended, there were hundreds of mourners, and the most powerful moments were the silent ones. I looked around at the stricken faces of family and strangers, and saw their hearts breaking. There wasn’t much to be said, but somehow it helped that the room was full.

As for writing about either love or loss – less is probably more. One of the most moving books on grief I’ve ever read was About Alice by Calvin Trillin – he described life with his late wife mostly in funny anecdotes, and I cried my eyes out.

When I interviewed Michael Rosen for the In Writing podcast, he talked about Raymond Carver and his own preference for plain language when it comes to the most painful feelings. I think restraint is definitely the way forward, especially bearing in mind that as West-Knights said, most novels deal with this stuff in one way or another – but I know from my own attempts to write about emotion that it’s not easy. I recently read a novel that started so well, and with such restraint, and then fell apart into repeated explicit descriptions of how anguished the protagonist felt, chapter after chapter, until I stopped feeling empathetic, and started to look forward to losing the book.

If there’s a writer who’s tackled this stuff particularly well for you, I’d be interested to hear in the comments. Meanwhile, if you’re navigating sadness of your own, it’s inadequate but true to say that I’m thinking of you.

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On a much more cheerful note – I’m hosting another In Writing Creative Hour on Sunday 22 October at 5pm UK time, and as usual you’ll get the link to join a few hours beforehand. Here’s your timezone converter so you can work out what time that is wherever you are (put your location into the second set of boxes). You’ll find more info about the Creative Hour here.

You have to be a paying subscriber to join us for these live writing sessions, but it was quite exciting to do a discount last time, so I’m offering one again. Upgrade to a paying subscription by Sunday for twenty percent off your first twelve months.

Your support of my work is massively appreciated – so thank you, and do forward this on if you know somebody who might benefit from it.

Looking forward to seeing you on Sunday. Until then, good luck with your writing!