Seriously?

As a writer, it is, obviously, my job to have opinions.

This is a great shame.

It’s a shame because writers are, in general, expected to have more opinions, and express them publicly, than other people, and it is generally thought that writers’ opinions are worth more than other people’s opinions, because they are writers. It is considered, by corollary, that when writers have bad opinions, it’s worse than when ordinary people have bad opinions, because their opinions will infect a greater number, and because we should expect better.

This is an even greater shame.

Now, I am not naive about my own place in the ecosystem. I am aware that on a scale of 0 to 10, 10 being JK Rowling and 0 being a drunk screaming obscenities at families leaving the hotel bistro, I’m probably a 0.2 in terms of audience reach and impact. Nevertheless, I do have a certain number of readers - ie you - and I do want to tell you what I think, and I want you to like what I think, and I don’t want you get angry about what I think. Especially because I can’t really afford to lose any of you - I’m unpopular enough as it is.

So I will no doubt continue to tell you my opinions, in as eloquent way as possible, indulging in the writerly delusion that being a writer and therefore better than average at expressing my views, automatically means my views are, in and of themselves, better.

But this is of course not true. The reason professional writers manage to become professional writers is because of their skill at expression, not their ability to be right more than others. A writer is an expert on writing - they may also be an expert on science or politics or history, but that’s coincidental to the fact they’re a writer. If the only thing a writer has to recommend them is their writing talent, you should enjoy reading what they write, but not place any more weight on their personal opinions than you would on any old nut stammering nonsense at you while you wait for a bus.

Now, the thing is, I DO have a lot of opinions. And boy, has the last week or so given me a hell of a lot of raw material to form opinions out of.

I have opinions on Israel. I have opinions on Hamas. I have opinions on who is right and who is wrong, and what is reasonable and what is an atrocity, and whether it’s possible to even resolve these questions. I have LOTS of opinions on the way people in the media, and on social media, and in the west in general, are reacting to the nightmare over there. I have very strong opinions on people whose first reaction to hearing about mass murder of innocent people, including children, was “how dare you presume to judge how an oppressed people resists”. I have quite vehement opinions on the matter of whether I am allowed to make judgments on that very subject.

I have opinions on the Voice. I have opinions on whether it’s a good or a bad idea, and on how dishonest the No campaign was, and on how incompetent the Yes campaign was (and incidentally, how dishonest, in a different way, the Yes campaign was as well). I have opinions on the aftermath and the people donning sackcloth and ashes over the result, and whether it’s fair to describe people who have rejected a very specific proposal as savage bigots who have rejected Aboriginal people’s very right to exist. I have opinions on my hunch regarding the average person’s tendency to use professed concern for social justice as a means for declaring their own personal virtue and for justifying their innate desire to dehumanise anyone who thinks differently to them. And I do, I really really do, have opinions on people’s inability to distinguish between the statements “I do not think this is the right way to solve this problem” and “I do not want to solve this problem”.

I have opinions on…

But look. Who gives a shit? Maybe I’ll expand on those opinions, and maybe I won’t. Something else will come along soon for me to have opinions on, and I’ll move onto that, and maybe I’ll tell you what I think about that, and maybe I won’t. And who gives a shit whether I do?

I’ve been feeling sad lately. I’ve been sad at the state of the wide world. I’ve been sad at the state of my own narrow little world. In both those worlds, it seems, lately, people have been dying, and weeping, and feeling lost and alone. People have been angry and mean to each other, and sometimes those people have been me. Lately everything feels desperate, everyone seems exhausted, and having opinions about every damn thing has been simultaneously irresistible and increasingly distasteful.

So who gives a shit what I think about anything? Do you? It’d be lovely if I could write something, someday, that makes you think. But it’d be even better if I could write something that makes you smile. My opinion is that, right now, that would be of more use to you.

Maybe I’ll do that.