The lights of the mothership

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Today is six weeks since my assessment for PIP, and still not a word from The Department for Work and Pensions. It seemed my benefits had been withdrawn when less money than usual went into my bank. Strange (or just plain rude) then that no-one had the decency to tell me. It’s been playing on a primal human fear within me: that of the unknown. I was grateful for the wisdom of the mothership, telling me to slow down.

mothership_by_jambi20-d6nq2yvMothership by ShahabAlizadeh

My mum pointed something out which gives me a glint of hope: It could (just about) be, that my last period of benefits (two years) ended, while DWP are still considering my re-application. It’s a faint glimmer, but it’s a small light at least.

It could just be that someone has found some inner humanity, and decided not to put me through the social cleansing machinery. It’s more likely to be weeks of making calls, waiting 20 minutes to be connected, then hung up on as soon as someone can’t answer a question.

I’m usually the optimist – despite having chronic depression – my reasoning that neither the optimist nor the pessimist can affect or predict the outcome of something unknown and beyond their control, but the optimist has a better time while not knowing. I must admit – because a government department is involved, and a Tory one at that – the pessimist is more to the fore of my mind at the moment.

But even if I have been declined, I know what I have to do now. I can’t fully relax like I would if I wasn’t facing the tribunal appeals process, but now I have the knowledge, it helps. So much so that I’ve started writing some new stories.

There’s one I’m particularly excited about, but too much reveal would be spoilers. It’s a science fiction yarn, about plastic pollution on Earth, a way in which aliens might communicate with us which hasn’t occurred to us to look for before, and a message in a plastic bottle. The central idea is not one I’ve seen used in fiction before, and it needs a bit of explaining, but I can do that in fiction with show-don’t-tell and with dialogue. It’s a rare departure for me into long-form short stories (I’ve written a few before), of anywhere between 6,000 and 12,0000 words. The kind of length which could be made into a feature film.

I don’t even have a working title for the story yet, but I feel compelled to record my intention to finish it, lest any DWP shit sandwich arrive in the post and throw a spanner in my brain’s workings. There’s a lot in there, troubling me, including (but not limited to) the end of the world and of human extinction.

Now that I’m getting back to writing, perhaps I’ll deal with the rise of the right, their invention of fear with a rhetoric of unseen outside threats, placing a protectionist dome over their captive audience as they repeat lies with such frequency they become the truth. I’ll use the coping mechanism of the keyboard to write of the hacking of democracy, and the various ways humanity may commit mass suicide or save itself. One story will see humankind in a new paradigm, one in which extraterrestrials arrive in our solar system, a common new actor uniting previously hostile human factions. The arrival of a mothership might force all humans to slow down and take a look at themselves, just like my mum, who gave me this computer, because she “…thought it might help with your writing.” When I first started, it was for therapy.

I’m busy on the typewriter: The laptop computer which actually sits on a desktop, where a desktop was always really a ‘Floortop’. There’s an analogy, perhaps for more fiction, of computers placed as though by a superior intelligence on ever-higher shelves as it brings up kids. A technological Tower of Babel. A protectionist mechanism, telling us not to grow up too fast.

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