2016 has been an extraordinary year. Having celebrated its first decade, Cinnamon Press has published some extraordinary poetry and fiction this year and put gorgeously designed books into the world. We’ve had a bumper crop of mentoring students making it very hard to choose who we will go on to publish. We’ve had well-supported competitions with winners whose books we’re enthusiastic to develop, publish and promote. We’ve even been privileged to have some international launches and have enjoyed opportunities to write, think, walk, cook… in between editing and mentoring.
In all these respects, 2016 has been good – very good. And yet it’s also been a year of loss and turmoil. The political landscape looks grim: Brexit – an ‘advisory’ vote has become synonymous with the ‘people have spoken’ – even whilst many of those people are crying out that they had no idea what they were voting for; the terrifying move to the right in many European countries ;the election of Trump in the US, a sign of the ascendancy of confusion, anger and nihilism and a dearth of political education or hope and horrific humanitarian disasters, especially in Syria.
Politically 2016 has been bad – beyond bad and has instigated decisions that will go on having negative repercussions and sewing divisiveness. And the downsides of this year have not only been political, though the connections between personal and political realms are never absent. It’s been a year when great thinkers, actors, singers have died – of course any year might be that, but it’s ‘felt’ more acute in 2016 – the loss of people like Umberto Eco, Ornette Coleman, Alan Rickman, Leonard Cohen, Gene Wilder, George Martin, John Glenn, Elie Wiesel… has gone on and on, whilst I’ve known at least five close personal friends battling cancers this year, felt helpless for several gifted young people who, despite god degrees and hard work, can’t keep up with their rent in minimum wage jobs that squander their talents and leave them exhausted and dispirited. I’ve celebrated with friends who’ve had triumphs – a publishing contract, a new relationship, an extraordinary creative project, but more often cried with those who are mourning terrible illness, the end of a long relationship, the loss of a child, one too many rejection.
In the midst of such a strange year, brimming with celebration and loss, but coming to an end in so much political uncertainty and anxiety, I’ve finished a novel. It’s a book that has been simmering slowly in me for over 30 years. The actual writing began much more recently, but some of the events that informed it and later became reshaped and fictionalised have very deep roots. I’ve finished a novel and of all the books I’ve written it’s the one I feel most passionate about because it’s a novel that says the personal and the political are not disparate but intertwined and it’s a novel that says when the world is going to hell, when culture is being harried, when divisiveness is on on every corner , then we need other ways of seeing – ways that sometimes only story can provide.
It can feel self-indulgent to write while people suffer, but shutting up artists – whether visual or of the word would ultimately assist the tide of insanity; downing pens and paint brushes and cameras would let the rise of hatred and suffering overwhelm us and have its way. My novel is not salvation. One exquisite photograph, one exceptional poem, one inspiring sculpture will not save the world – but each of these acts of art is something – something that has the opportunity to say, with Cervantes:
When life seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams – this may be madness … – and maddest of all to see life as it is and not as it should be.
2016 has been the best of times and the worst of times. 2017 might be the same. We can resist madness where we see it, mourn with those who mourn, rejoice with those who rejoice, refuse to be dumbed down; above all make art and literature that will not accept the way things are. This is at least one good reason to write fiction in an insane world.