The view from my bedroom window is a sweeping scene of the woodlands of Stanmer Park. From my bed I can sit back and see where the tips of the trees touch the sky, where each trunk is a silver pencil mark in the fog and the shade of the land turns from fern green to honeydew, to thick strips of barley brown.

If I start early enough, I can watch the sky bleed its warm gold down the fingers of the tree tops, over the roof shingles spotted with blue green algae, feel the split beams of light glow in patches on my face. By mid-morning this light will usually pass into a dullness, like the world has forgotten itself, before a recollection, or a rebellion to its loss, cracks the sun over an afternoon in full flow. As I watch I feel myself within that sky, as if the yolk had burst in my own chest. I watch as if commuted on rays of light, laid to rest, for a while, on the shoulders of the horizon.

O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold this swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright. [1]

I can’t imagine Shakespeare in lockdown; wearing a face mask, queuing for the last pack of toilet paper, whooping and banging a pot for the NHS. Of course I can’t. I can’t imagine him being anywhere or doing anything. He is just a pattern of vague impressions on my unconscious; of general culture, of a simple education, of limited personal experience with his work. However him, sitting back, watching a day rise to its feet, that I can imagine. That was why the words came to me.

It was a Monday. As rare as poetic moments are for me, I didn’t hurry from my bed to search for a pen or a notebook. There was no pressing need or excitement to catch anything, because I didn’t want to reach out for something only to lose it again, or to be disappointed by it on closer inspection, or to have it open up into something more difficult, more hurtful, more confusing. I was hungover, and I felt relieved that I was, because it meant I had an excuse not to try. Everything is about trying now. Lockdown is about trying while slowly being restrained and smothered and contorted into painful and unfamiliar shapes in familiar places.

A lockdown cannot be said to have worked until your thoughts and behaviours have been locked down. Until you have been locked down. So while I thought of Shakespeare’s black ink and the love that may have shone from it, I did not look for my notebook. I was locked down.

Yet today I am trying. Today I am writing. What has happened to cause this change?

Unfortunately, I’m not sure. In fact, I’m asking myself the same thing. But at least this seems to be the thread of a beginning; I am able to write because I am asking myself.

There is a research method, a way of exploring the qualitative experiences of one’s self, called autoethnography. It is an approach where the writer locates themselves in an experience and relates it, with the intention of constructing a narrative, a record of themselves within a particular time and space [2]. An autoethnographer writes such an account with the awareness that the social and cultural spaces they exist in leave impressions upon them, and that therefore they must conduct their research with honesty and care, and with respect given to the limitations of a subjective narrative [3].

Autoethnographers may emphasise different aspects of the practice; some may weigh an importance on the self (the -auto of the term), some on the sociological connection (-ethno) and others on the application of the research process itself (-graphy) [4]. The element that distinguishes it from journaling or diary writing, is that the approach is investigative; there is a method of application, there are data to be collected (that of the experience), and there is the outcome of writing a relatable account of experience.

What experiences? They can be on any topic, some autoethnographers have written on the experience of surviving cancer [5], on being an adoptive mother [6], or have given a character portrait of their grandmother [7]. The point that we should try not to vary on, however, is the honesty of our account. We should try to be true to ourselves, to respect our research, and more importantly, to do our stories justice. Adhering to this simple principle can prove to be very difficult, as I will explain in future posts.

So I am able to write because I am asking myself. I am my own subject of research. It has given me a voice, for now.

I am an autoethnographer. Anyone can be.

So if you, the reader, are struggling during lockdown, and want to be creative, and are searching for a way back to your creative voice, why not sit down and give the most direct account of how you feel right now?

I have given you something of my own account above. I was as honest as I could be. Show me the window to your horizon. More importantly, show it to yourself.

[1] RSC, William Shakespeare: Complete Works (London: MacMillan, 2008), p.2446.
[2] Norman K. Denzin, ‘Analytic Autoethnography, or Déjà Vu all Over Again’, Journal of Contemporary Autoethnography, 35.4, (2006), p.419.
[3] Carolyn Ellis, ‘Heartful Autoethnography’, Sage, 34.5, (2005).
[4] Sarah Wall, ‘Easier Said than Done: Writing an Autoethnography ‘, International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 7.1, (2008), p.39
[5] Carolyn Ellis, ‘Heartful Autoethnography’, Sage, 34.5, (2005).
[6] Sarah Wall, ‘Easier Said than Done: Writing an Autoethnography ‘, International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 7.1, (2008), 39
[7] Carol Rambo, ‘Impressions of Grandmother: An Autoethnographic Portrait’, Journal of Contemporary Autoethnography, 34.5, (2005)