Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

Modern life is heck

Understanding war

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Support in the time of war

My mind is overwhelmed. I didn’t think it would happen. I was always proud of an ability to compartmentalise. But the news of war on Ukraine has me overwhelmed. Images of violence, refugees, death…

I try to focus on writing, but my thoughts keep straying. I should be working on my next novel, but all I can think about is the conflict. My mind won’t let me be.

My mind overflows with pictures. Torn-up earth, blood, children crying. My heart swells with anger. How could this happen? Why? I don’t understand. I want to do something. But what? I am powerless.

Information overload

I sit, head in my hands, trying to let torrents of new information sink in. All the time, trying, and failing, to make sense of it all. I just can’t seem to put it into any kind of context, because it’s too overwhelming, too big.

I don’t understand the war, and I don’t know if anyone does. Why did it really start? What is the cause? Why are so many young men fighting to support the greed of one despicable rich man? How did it get to this point? What will happen now? Why is it so hard to understand?

I have tried and tried to understand this war, but it is too big. It is all over the news, but I still don’t understand. I’m overloaded with stories trying to find a human angle or something with which I can identify.

When the simple fact is, I can’t identify with this war, because it makes no sense.

How you can help in this war

PEN Ukraine together with PEN Belarus, Polish PEN Club and Open Culture Foundation is organising a public fundraiser to support the creative community of Ukraine.

The funds will go to help Ukrainian writers, journalists, scholars, translators, and artists who have found themselves under threat as a result of the Russian war against Ukraine.

The funds will be used to alleviate the urgent needs of Ukrainian creatives, whose lives are now in direct danger:

Culture is one of the chief bastions of Ukrainian freedom and we must ensure that members of the Ukrainian cultural community can continue to speak out loudly and without hindrance.

Support now: https://penbelarus.org/en/2022…

Dialogue in the age of Covid

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Dialogue in COVID times

Have you ever heard of Freecycle? It’s a website where you post messages about stuff you no longer need but don’t want to just throw away … because they might be useful to someone else. It’s brilliant if – like me – you have the most awful habit of deciding you’ll have a crack at something for which you’re hopelessly under qualified – such as plastering a ceiling or rewiring a bedroom.

I mention the site because today I was getting rid of seven large sheets of plasterboard (slightly damaged) following an ill-thought-out way to disguise an artexed ceiling. I posted them online. Within hours they were snapped up, and the fellow who came to collect them was a chatty chap who was more than happy to spend awhile talking as I picked his brains on various home improvement projects. His advice on the whole was don’t bother, just paint it. It was only after he left that I realised I’d worked a flabby muscle. I’d been talking to someone I don’t already know for more than a minute. It was liberating, I tell you. Being able to talk about something with a stranger who has no skin in whatever mad game I have planned for 2022.

If you have anything cluttering up a room (or garage in this case), I highly recommend giving it away to a stranger. And maybe add you expect a decent conversation in exchange. Just to weed out time wasters.

Writing dialogue

Because I ought to bring all of this back to the subject of writing, it kind of makes sense that having these conversations matters. In days of yore, I sat on buses and trains, ears pricked for the type of chatter that could find its way into my pages. In each office I hotdesked, I tuned into people, hoping they’d share a story I could use. After all, I wrote a book about dialogue, and one big tip relates to listening in to those around you.

Sparkling dialogue

It worries me Covid is impeding conversation and communication. Sure, we can Zoom into anyone’s living room or home office, but the chats we have are often edited. The body language hidden. It’s hard to maintain eye contact when the eyes in question are three inches under your camera. I do wonder if the stories we write in the next few years will sound different because of this. I’m watching ‘Offspring’ on Netflix right now. I recommend it as total binge fodder. The dialogue sparkles and people are forever hugging, touching and being together. In a world where we’re lucky if we see families in the same room, will we lose that ability to write such believable words? And what are believable words, anyway?

I’m still unsure if the stories I write now ought to consider Covid. Should my characters wear masks? I’m opting for setting everything in 2018, but that limits some cultural references. The other option is to set them in the here and now and pretend it’s all normal, but then you lose the Zoom meetings or plastering your hands in alcoholic gel to enter Tesco.

I wonder how you’re all cooping with this?

Happy new year to all my readers.

My top five don’t read list for 2021

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No reading

While the world and his wife/partner/best friend with benefits is busy telling you which (non-romantic fiction) books you absolutely must read, I thought I’d look back on 2021 as the year I reduced my reading materials and write instead about things you might also like to consider no longer reading.

Emails

Reading spamWay back when, email was going to be the game changer. No longer would you need pen and paper, an envelope, a postage stamp and the services of the Post Office (other mail delivery services are available) to tell someone what you had for your lunch. Email was going to do it all for you. And faster. Often using fewer words. In 2021, I stopped reading almost every email sent my way. The only exception being my business email inbox, and even then, I stayed selective. 95% of emails addressed to me were deleted unread. We’ve got smart home security Every time it detects movement I get an email. Recently, I had sixty-seven emails about a spider.

In my (non-writing) day job, I’ve made it clear I regard emails as ‘for information only’ and if anyone needs me to do something, they should pick up the phone and call (or connect through one of the now many chat applications I’m forced to maintain). I suggest you do the same. Unsubscribe from any and every mailing list – there’s not one that ever matters (except for my lovely and increasingly rare newsletters), set up an auto-reply that lays down the law about how you won’t be doing a darn thing based on an email, so speak to me if it matters and delete every other message you get. It may help to know I have cultured the reputation of a crotchety so-and-so in the workplace, but it means I get to do actual work and make a difference.

Leaflets and junk mail

Each time I buy a magazine, I find an in-store bin and shake free all the inserts. It’s the same when one arrives through the post. 4 out of 5 dentists agree. What does the fifth one think? Brush your teeth with a lollipop. I have the most awful impulse buying habit and I realise I am the precise target of these special offers and dubious claims. It’s best I don’t see them. The same goes for any junk mail – and indeed any mail that isn’t a bill or statement or the offer to buy film rights to Rebuilding Alexandra Small. Rid yourself of the meaningless words and wasted paper. Recycle them. Save trees. And don’t get me started on petitions. They never work. I might start one: Rewrite Hamlet so his dad doesn’t die. And everyone gets two hours of their life back.

The news

Disaster headlineOne of my other dreadful habits is that I over-consume the news. I can’t sleep at night until I’ve checked at least three or four major news outlet websites. Twice. I have two settings: worried for the world and craving cheese. I realise this sort of reading means I’m setting myself up for a bad night with so much screen time exposure, but something inside me remains convinced that if I don’t keep an eye on the world, it’ll blow itself up. Putting Boris Johnson in charge of the country is a bit like employing Prince Andrew as a babysitter. Every few months, I’ve managed to swear myself off and take what I call a news blackout. I refuse to listen to, read or talk about the news for two whole weeks. These are the good weeks where writing happens, the house gets a spring clean and I sleep like an overfed baby. I also realise I should do this more often or ration my intake. I could give it up tomorrow. It’s no big deal. Honest.

Warning labels on medicines

I am a hypochondriac. There, I admitted it. I am the sort of person who’d take a broad spectrum antibiotic as his desert island disc luxury item. There’s little more beloved of my sort of people than reading those little folded up sheets of paper written by lawyers that come with every pill or potion you buy or collect from a pharmacy. It’s not the ‘may cause death’ thing that bothers me. So can eating pizza. It’s the rare side effects that I home in on and within days convince myself I have at least half. COVID-19 has been huge in my head. Even bigger than in the real world. With each new variant, there’s a list of revised symptoms and I get them all. I’ve worked my way through many a box of self tests. The inside of my nose must be squeaky clean from regular use of cotton buds. This needs to end. Now.

BTL

Daily Mail BTL typicalBelow-the-line comments. Often found on newspaper websites, but also the same sort of content makes up 99.9% of Twitter. It’s like glimpsing the soiled underwear of a nation. These are people who lost their teeth to Mountain Dew. The Daily Mail website is like someone put Mein Kampf on shuffle. It’s the home of the stupid.

Under recipes, you find gems like: “This was NOT GOOD. I didn’t have eggs, so I substituted jalepeños and the batter wouldn’t hold. Also, I was out of white sugar so I substituted anthrax. Hubby died! But so did my stepson, who I hated. 2 stars.”. Before memes there were bumper stickers. Before that was the renaissance or some shit. I posted, ‘Hey everyone what’s your favourite doughnut?‘ It took just under a minute for superwowgirl77 to reply ‘I can only dream of them as unfortunately I am a celiac.‘ People weighed in, some to argue she was missing out, some to call her a killjoy, then the tide turned I became the evil one. I was cancelled.

Beating an addiction helped process growing up an outsider

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Drinking alone

Any recovery programe starts in the same way. You admit you have a problem and it consumes you. In my case, it was drink. It could easily have been any of my other self-destructive behaviour patterns, but as a starter for ten, my body decided to tackle an unfettered love of jar.

For every success story, there’s at least a thousand people ready to stick up their hands and say giving up didn’t work for them. The failure rate is depressing. Those who fail are happy to speak out. Like when you watch reality casting shows and whoever happens to be this month’s Simon Cowell-alike tells a room full of eager faces how most of them won’t have the X-factor.

So what does it feel like to be four years sober and consider yourself a success? I should add, the four-year part doesn’t matter. There’s strength in white-knuckling a single sober day.

There’s one thing of which I am sure. The decision to stop drinking saved my life.

Hangovers

For years, I refused to own my problem. I would drink. A lot. I’d have hangovers and dread facing people the next day. As a functioning alcoholic, my career highlights include: finding myself with no wallet in the middle of nowhere looking for a phone box to call my sleeping parents 200 miles away and ask if they can prepay a cab to get a 25-year-old me home. I’ve woken with two cracked ribs and a broken TV. I’ve found myself thrown from a cab in a foreign city covered in sick that might have been mine.

I stopped drinking much like I stopped smoking. One day it didn’t happen

Towards the end, my evenings always started the same. With the intention to limit myself to what was in the kitchen. Once I took the first sip, I couldn’t stop and wanted to keep going to that place where I got sociable and fun and brave enough to not hide away. I wanted to think nothing. Half way through any evening, I’d stumble to the nearest shop selling wine and slur my orders.

I stopped drinking much like I stopped smoking. One day it didn’t happen. The next day was the same.

It took a year of not taking a drink to deal with the dark cloud that had followed me around. Until I could do that, I was simply a guy who drank too much.

Bit by bit, I asked why I let myself get literally legless, lifting the lid of a box marked PRIVATE. I came face-to-face with the hurt of growing up an only child, with industrial grade acne, no friends, no self-confidence, a weight problem … and a preference for men. In each and every respect, I felt alone. Add them together and the feeling manifested as alcohol abuse in my adult life. I was singled out by the school playground bullies because I didn’t know how to fight back. I stood alone in bars and clubs on account of zero social skills. People didn’t bother getting to know me, because I hid away in shadows.

Drink corrected everything.

Numb

As I identified each cause, the effect lifted. A little each day … until I no longer was consumed by the desire to drink. I no longer needed to be numb.

I don’t call myself sober. I prefer to say I’m not drinking today. Mostly because it saves on the embarrassed silences when ‘fessing up to being a reformed booze bag – or the people who implore me to have just the one glass when I stay quiet.

I let myself have a drink. Because I trust that I know when and how to stop. And why. Drinking was no longer fun. The pain and anxiety that drove my love of the bottle added bubbles to my beer.

Of course, I’m not unique in this. Millions of us only drink once in a while. I have a penchant for an espresso Martini. But drinking is no longer a defined part of my life; something I do every day from 5pm until sleep takes over.

I’ve long been reluctant to write about this part of my life, even though I’ve published stories about recovery and made it the central theme of ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small’. The thing is, I realise there are lots of drinkers like me. People who don’t accept their relationship with alcohol might be a problem. They’ll keep tumbling and hit new lows.

One of the best things I ever read is that you don’t have to hit rock-bottom to step out of the lift. You can stop self-sabotaging at any floor.

I was lucky. One day, drinking didn’t happen. I’m grateful it did. I’m grateful to Mark for making it so.

Moderation management
Moderation Management™ is a lay-led non-profit dedicated to reducing the harm caused by the misuse of alcohol. MM provides support through face-to-face meetings, video and phone meetings, chats, and private online support communities.

 

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How was your lockdown?

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Lockdown 2021

How was lockdown for you? Boris Johnson has released us into our own care. We’re free. And the government is free to stop having to pay their way out of a crisis and gets to blame us for any further deaths under the guise of personal responsibility. I suppose more than anything, I’d like a PM who doesn’t act like he might fail the ReCAPTCHA on an Internet contact form.

Rebuilding Alexandra SmallI’ll miss lockdown. It was like a series of duvet days. Combined with the fear of death. As an introvert, Corona was my Christmas. No more needing to make up surgery to get out of drinks after work. I was waiting for the perfect time to change my Netflix password so my ex couldn’t use it any more, and it doesn’t really get much better than a national lockdown. All those guys on Tinder who say they’re “5’10, if it matters” must be feeling pretty satisfied with everyone stuck at home so it…didn’t matter.

I always told myself I’d prepare for the inevitable apocalypse, but then got to thinking what if I succeeded and then had to spend eternity eating fox meat in an abandoned Toys R Us with the type of people who prepare for an apocalypse.

Coronavirus finally got men washing their hands after a piss. We’re literally two epidemics away from them learning how to wash their dicks.

There’s something about knowing that none of your friends are doing anything fun that feels good. Quitting drinking really prepared me for quarantine: it’s all about taking it one day at a time and never seeing your friends again.

Lockdown downsides

There were downsides. It’s hard to know if someone you care about is self-isolating or having a three day wankathon/Pornhub box set binge. I could no longer pretend to be out when people called, or end calls fast because I had to be somewhere. My life really wasn’t good enough for it to get drastically worse. I could no longer say for sure I was having a mid life crisis, given I could easily die within days. One time, I coughed in the queue at Sainsbury’s and four people turned round. It felt like I was on The Voice. I’ve started watching porn and making up dialogue. I stopped shaving and downgraded my skincare regime. The facial recognition on my phone insists on a password as proof.

I miss the office. It’s weird not having people around I leave passive aggressive notes when I don’t put mugs in the dishwasher. I’ve written my name on food in the fridge. Again it has an upside. No avoiding twats who want to get a team together to go on The Crystal Maze.

I’m going to come out of this a better person.