Quite a rollercoaster week, this. A reflective newsletter ahead which inevitably means some mental health chat, so just a heads up on both that and the fact that there's nothing craft-related here this week so if that's what you're here for, you can check out now (I won't mind, honest!). Next week will be the one for you, I promise.

Right so.

Last Friday evening I was at the awards ceremony I mentioned in last week's newsletter. Met many an old friend and a couple of people I'd be hoping to meet for a while. After a late drop out, I was asked to present an award at the last minute, announcing the (wonderful) winner to not be the actor who was nominated for my play...an actor who was sat right beside me. Surreal but taken in good spirits by all, as far as I know. Got into an interesting discussion with an artistic director as to how a theatre engages with writers. I had made the assumption, beyond a polite invite to shows via the literary department (if they have one), to never get in touch with anything more specific or direct unless they did first. The AD insisted I should be e-mailing people like them directly. Or, as my friend would put it, I need to have, as she does, the confidence of a middle-class white woman. Always learning.

Then, on Monday, I was embroiled in discussions around the announcement of a new ITV drama about a real life honour killing case. I'm not going to repeat anything I said about it, and I'm not the most useful person to speak on it anyway, but it was an intense, exhausting few days. Journalists asking if you'd like to comment, you saying no, them just heavily quoting your tweets instead (linking directly to them - thanks so much!) leading to the most joyous of DMs. More learning - never Tweet (as if I'm going to learn that, but I should).*

In between these events, my Ba (grandmother) had a health scare that unexpectedly tripped me deep into my anxiety, which hasn't happened to this extent for quite a few years. Unfortunately, my routine couldn't help shake me out of it in this instance and I've basically spent the whole week trying to stop myself shaking, which has dragged my work to an absolute crawl. It's immensely frustrating and it's always been my worry, as I've written about before, that I will never be able to work with the consistency I would like because I just don't know how my head will treat me. How do you put colleagues through that - however understanding - when you resent it so heavily yourself? Anyway, I've gone back onto meds which has its own issues (takes a while to work, side effects) and though they might not do the trick, as someone who was vehemently against going on to medication for a long, long time, only to find them incredibly helpful for a while, I'm trying to not cling to the idea that it's a failing to be on them. Kudos to Lucy Prebble's The Effect for making me decide to be less stubborn about taking pills. Credit where it's due.

My Ba, in contrast, is a lot less interested in medication or medical intervention, generally. She has in the past told us, with that classic Asian grandmotherly truculence, that she doesn't care if she dies. She's lived for f*cking ages, way longer than she expected, so she's ready to go whenever God wants to take her. As a kid who was terrified of death, I used to find that impossible to accept. Who doesn't mind dying? What a casual attitude to have towards literally the worst thing that can happen to you. Then, from a somewhat sidewards angle, my own encounters with depression gave me a clear glimpse of that instinct, albeit not for the best or same reasons. In light of her latest trouble and the potentially grim eventual prognosis, I've now swung back around to "Hey I know you're ready and I respect that, but please don't leave us yet, please?"

Yet, in truth, my Ba has been leaving us in increments for a while now, drifting slowly off on her own terms. She has begun to spend half the year in India, ostensibly to escape the British winter and while India isn't uncontactable, it means she drops out of day-to-day thoughts. A life without her being just down the road becomes not just possible but, temporarily, reality. Though I don't think she's consciously providing my family with this emotional inoculation, it reminds me of the Hindu concept of Ashramas, detailing the stages of life, and in particular the last one where you begin to detach yourself from the material world. Not out of disdain or despair, more in preparation for eventually being made to leave it. There's something in that, I suppose.

On that cheery note...apparently it's a belter of a weekend, weatherwise. I hope you get to go out. I hope I get to go out. I should do it anyway. You should do it anyway.

Waaaait. Hang on. I've just found out that the unreasonably brilliant Spider-Man: Into The Spider-Verse is now on Netflix so maybe just watch that on repeat for the next two days. It'll feel as good as a month of sunshine. 

x

*This is, of course, nothing compared to what's happened to others in our playwriting tribe in the last week - Tom and Eve, wherever you are right now, I hope you feel safe and can bring your focus back to fighting the good fight. We've got you.