Substacking while the world burns

What to say when there are no words

I started this post three times, but after each attempt, I became overwhelmed by the vanity and futility of trying to say something quirky and fun while we hover on the brink of World War Three. I should write about my holiday, I thought. I should introduce myself to my new followers, I thought. I can just do a bullet-point list, I thought. And each time, words failed me.

But obviously, here I am, tossing my two cents’ worth into the void while The Horrors Persist. Why? Because we need to keep talking, keep writing, keep building community even more now than ever. I don’t have a magnificent essay of fluid prose to offer you this week, but I hope you’ll meet me where I am, which is somewhere on the liminal edge of domestic and global chaos.

Life in my little world has been in flux lately, albeit not as hellish a flux as that of the larger world. Here - and yes, forgive the bullet points - is what’s been happening:

• I released my debut fiction, The Anatomy of Us, on Audible. There was about a month’s worth of hardcore promo, including an appearance at the Hay Festival (lovely, joyous) and my own efforts at social-media marketing (uncomfortable, icky, necessary, moderately successful).

• I delivered the first draft of my next non-fiction book, Birth Wars, to my editor at Allen Lane. I feel like I’ve been working on this book forever, although it’s really only been about two years, which isn’t a terribly long time in publishing. At some point over the next few months, I’ll receive edits, which - to be honest - I can’t even begin to think about at the moment. I just want to skip ahead to publication which, OK, might not be a great idea before the book has been edited/legalled/etc.

• I went on a week’s family holiday to Ibiza. This was notable for several reasons. First, it was the first time that all four of us Hazards have been adults (over the age of 18). This meant that we could have family cocktails on the beach - a novelty - but it also meant that for the first time, I didn’t feel responsible for anyone else’s happiness/boredom/sunburn/hunger/insert-need-or-emotion-here. Brilliant. Also, this was the first time I’ve been on a warm-weather holiday since I plunged headfirst into perimenopause several years ago. It was strange to confront my new, mostly-bared ‘peri’ body in holiday snaps: where did those gammon-esque upper arms suddenly come from? Where did my waist go? Why do sundresses look blousy now instead of cute? I tried to accept it all with careful neutrality, the same way I surrendered to mosquito bites, overpriced paella and airport stress.

• One night on holiday, I couldn’t sleep (hello again, perimenopause) so - after trying and failing to lie serenely in the dark, taking deep breaths and thinking soporific thoughts - I decamped to a spare bedroom and dipped into the news app on my phone, only to livestream Israel’s initial bombing of Iran. I cannot emphasise enough how dystopian this felt. For the remainder of the week, I tried to be ‘in the moment’ and rest/recharge/restore while also being aware that global stability rests on a newly apocalyptic knife edge. How can we go about normal life - abroad or at home - while every headline seems to point towards nuclear conflict, or at least, the apparent inevitability of being drawn into war? Not to mention the constant awareness that others are struggling with violence and famine while we live our comfortable lives, many miles removed. Suggestions/thoughts/reflections welcome.

• To add an extra frisson of stress to this time, I am moving house next Friday - that is, if the missives ever conclude, which always seems to be a particularly opaque, last-minute event. Packing up twenty-three years of family history has been bittersweet; there is ample evidence of lives well lived and loved, but by necessity, so many ‘special’ things must be discarded. My dear friend Candice Chung, author of the recently released and incredibly beautiful memoir Chinese Parents Don’t Say I Love You, suggested that I should take notes as I pack so I can write about it later. She’s right, of course, but for now, the simple logistics of the thing are too overwhelming, never mind the emotion of it.

So, from my temporary ‘office’ at the kitchen table, amidst a pile of boxes and a world on fire, I send you my greetings, my best wishes, my welcome to this Substack (for the newbies), and my promise that I will, someday, write about it. All of it.