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What started as a trickle of hashtags, a game of safety and invisibility in numbers, quickly grew to become personal, overwhelming, and eviscerating. Longer and longer posts appeared, ritual defenestrations from our hard-won rooms of our own into a world that remained silent and complicit. The gamut of responses from fellow victims alone ran from deep sympathy, love, and solidarity to complete and utter standstill (switching off modems at the wall and burying phones under concrete slabs). I was firmly in the latter camp.
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If rock music amplifies capitalism’s misogyny, racism and male entitlement, it’s not surprising that rock star politics are often built out of those things.
This is very resonant with fiction for me, and something I think many writers neglect to consider deeply: what shape is your story, and why is it made this way? I often reread Ursula Le Guin’s essay, ‘The carrier bag theory of fiction’, which talks about the issue of narrative form as a radical project – and the idea of using the story as a container for something.