letter #35 A Book I Read The First Time I Gave Up Scrolling

In the scheme of things

My dear friend

Something happened a few weeks ago, and as it was happening, as bit by bit the day unfolded, I imagined myself writing to you, telling you about it. I began to form the words and the phrases I would use even while I was in the midst of things.

In part, this act of writing in my mind was a form both of distancing myself from what was unfolding and of accepting it (comedians often console themselves with these words: ‘it’s all material’. Or these words: ‘comedy is tragedy plus time’. Which is a way of saying, ‘This too shall pass.’). But it was also because I thought it would be an interesting thing to write about (me) and to read about (you).

Some of the sentences I wrote in my mind during this time were perfect descriptions of this experience I was having (present), of its source (past) and of its implications (future). I was looking forward to talking to you about it. Then I sat down to write to you—physically write I mean, not just mentally—and something changed. Do you know how sometimes something happens, and it’s enormous for you, but when you say it out loud it seems a bit so what. That’s what happened when I wrote that story down.

So I won’t tell you that story. Instead, I’ll tell you this: for Lent, I gave up scrolling. Your surprise that I have given something up for Lent is justified. Giving something up for Lent has never featured in my life’s routines. It came about somewhat organically as several events converged:

• I was trying to convince my child to make me some of the delicious oatmeal pancakes he occasionally shares with me, adding to my usual pleadings: It’s Pancake Tuesday which led me to think about Lent;

• I went to a workshop that was all about TikTok and using it to get traction for your creative work (for example, how to sell tickets to a show), I spent two days on TikTok trying to train the algorithm to match the needs of a middle-aged woman who writes quiet novels and performs quiet theatre pieces, and I nearly atomised my mind;

• I’ve spent the early part of this year trying to put my phone down, to focus on the book I’m trying to finish writing;

• I was absorbing the gentle contemplative nature of autumn which I find energising, physically and creatively (Jeanette Winterson writes beautifully about the ‘free energy’ of the change of seasons in her most recent newsletter).

All of these things converged and coalesced and I made a conscious decision that I would give up scrolling for Lent. I said to the mister, ‘I’ve given up scrolling for Lent.’ He is very used to me making such declarations. Our house is a burial ground for excellent ideas and good intentions. But he nonetheless said to me (and with conviction), ‘That sounds like a good idea.’

Of course, giving up scrolling is a somewhat two steps forward, one step back kind of arrangement, but I’ve been using the technique I read about somewhere sometime ago. Each time I’ve picked up my phone, I’ve reminded myself, ‘You don’t have to put it down for a month, a year, a week or even a day. You just have to put it down for this moment.’ It’s working! Bit by bit, I’m scrolling less and less.

One of the things I’ve done is to leave my phone in the kitchen so in the morning, instead of picking up my phone, I pick up my book. By coincidence, as I started out with this new resolve, I had just started reading Christos Tsiolkas’s Damascus which is not about Lent exactly, but is most definitely a time-appropriate book.

What a book. What a reading experience.

It is one of the most challenging books I’ve ever read. Why? First, there’s the whole well-documented loss of focus and attention we are all experiencing as we navigate the complex truths of our mid-pandemic world. Second, there’s the subject matter. As you know, I was brought up by parents who were actively distancing themselves (and, by extension, me) from the religious upbringing of their childhoods. As a result, I know very little about Christianity, and had to do a fair amount of supplementary reading in order to follow the story that Christos was writing. Paul’s is a big story to get your head around, eh? Third, Damascus has Christos Tsiolkas’s trademark viscerality, and this, coupled with the truth of the times, means that some passages are extraordinarily brutal, with a lot of detail.

Damascus took me a long time to read. I would say two weeks of fairly constant reading and re-reading as I went back over passages where I had either lost my focus and was simply turning pages or hadn’t understood the first time. I kept reading, not because I was enjoying the book necessarily, but because I was enjoying the process of reading in a particular way that I’m not sure I’ve experienced before.

Amongst the brutality, there were moments of such tenderness that I was moved to tears. I learnt not only about the story of Paul, but about why people are drawn so strongly to his story and why people are challenged by him (I note here that I do realise this is one person’s telling of Paul’s story, and Tsiolkas himself says that it is heretical, but I did read widely while I was reading Damscus, and I’m also someone who thinks it’s possible to learn a lot about something from reading many interpretations of that something).

Bonus! In keeping on reading, I relearned some of the reward of focus.

I was about three quarters of the way through the book, when I could begin to see it as a creative whole. The research, the writing, the telling. I was blown away by Christos’s achievement of having written this book. Of having the imagination, the intellect, and the discipline. Of having the curiosity and the courage, the technique and the craft. All of the things that it would require to create such a work. I felt compelled to finish it not only because of the power of its narrative and voice, but because of the very fact that it even existed.

Now that I’ve finished, I’m grappling with contemporaneous and dissonant thoughts. On the one hand, I feel as I often feel after I have read a significant book or see a very good piece of theatre. I’m inspired by what he’s done. It is inspiring to think of someone applying themselves to this task for all that time, and through all those messy drafts. It makes me feel I’m on the right course, putting down my phone and focusing on my book. On the other hand? Well, what’s the point of continuing to write? I can never expect to write something as powerful as Damascus. I will never be half the writer that he is. I look at the wonderful writers I admire, the books I love and I think, What do I have to add to that?

I started out telling you about a story that I decided not to tell you because when I started telling you it made me think so what, and now I’ve ended up telling you this instead! You know I hate exclamation marks, but I think this one is justified.

Perhaps you have read all the way through to here (thank you), or perhaps you have not. It is true I have just read a book, but it is also true that reading is hard, and there are many, many pieces of writing I’ve started to read then discarded. And my friend, if you haven’t read this far, I totally get it.

Either way, for now, and as always, I send you my love.

Tracy xx