MOHSIN ZAIDI
As criminal barrister Mohsin Zaidi releases his autobiography, A Dutiful Boy, he muses on a cathartic writing process that has brought back difficult memories, and why he believes every LGBTQ person has a story to tell
The criminal justice barrister on the catharsis of writing A Dutiful Boy
“PUBLISHING THESE STORIES TAKES THE FEAR TO A DIFFERENT PLACE”
When I was first asked by Attitude to produce a piece about the writing process, I felt both gratitude and dismay. Gratitude, because for a first-time author to be invited to write for one of the largest LGBT publications in the world is humbling, and dismay, because, to me, the idea we have of the ‘writing process’ comes with an indulgent nostalgia that masks the reality of what it can be like to write a book.
The most damaging thing about this fictitious image of a writer? Its potential to scare away people from our community with powerful stories to tell.
My book, A Dutiful Boy, is full of intensely personal memories, including one from my teenage years, when I sought out an exorcism to expel the gay from within. You might think that in order to delve so deeply into myself that I’d need to be in a cabin by a lake, with an old typewriter, wearing a cardigan and on my fifth cup of coffee — but actually, I was in a wig and a gown. (And no, unfortunately, I’m not a drag queen, but a criminal barrister.) I was in the Crown Court waiting for my case to be called. That is the reality of the writing process for me, and, I think, for many other writers — holding down a job and finding mostly small windows of time between work and seeing friends to do something that feels important and urgent.
I must say straight away that this is not a complaint, but it is necessary to dispel the idea that there is any magic in the writing process. The magic lies not in the process, but in you, the writer.
That is not to say that it isn’t an emotional journey. Writing about the scariest thing I’ve ever had to do – coming out to my Pakistani Muslim father – was almost as frightening as the act itself, because it requires an honesty that isn’t always kind to its subjects. Publishing these stories takes the fear to a different place, because something that was private and difficult, then becomes public, but remains difficult.
It isn’t always hard, though – in fact, it’s mostly quite the opposite. An unexpected benefit of writing this book was the chance to become re-acquainted with songs from my past. Music doesn’t just fill me with emotions, but it is my companion when I am going through them; it always has been. Writing about things that happened in the past came with the joy of dusting off old tunes that had spent so much time with me – songs such as George Michael’s Too Funky, which oozed a sensuality I couldn’t grasp, or, later on, Baby One More Time, which my dad caught me dancing to as a young teen. Research suggests that people who suffer from dementia are able to reconnect with themselves when they hear important songs from their past and, although I am no doctor, I am sure there is something in this. Listening to songs from long ago helped me go back to those places, to that time and to those feelings (it also helped with the playlist for my upcoming wedding).
I’m sure I have learnt a lot from writing my autobiography, some of which I can articulate, but most of which I might never be able to. Writing about something that happens to you is a bit like having it recorded and watching it back. It can look and feel very different from the way it did when you were living it. Suddenly, the entire scene becomes clearer, a different vantage point offers itself up to you. You can then, if you are lucky, understand more easily why people reacted in a certain way.
It helped me understand why my parents didn’t do certain things, like embrace me for who I was straight away, or why they did certain things, like not let go of me, when it was the easiest route out of the problem we faced. This perspective becomes possible because in the recording of it, through writing it down, those things aren’t happening
to you any more, but to another person that you once were.
As well as the opportunity to reflect carefully, what really stays with me about writing is the transcending power of stories, especially in our divided times. Tell someone that homophobic and transphobic hate crimes have more than doubled in the past five years (they have) and they will listen. Tell the same person that you know at least two close friends who have been the victim of hate crimes (I do) and they can more easily empathise. But our stories don’t have to be about violence and victimhood. (But if they are, so be it.) The famous and wonderful writer, James Baldwin, was once asked by an interviewer, “When you were starting out as a writer, you were a black, impoverished homosexual. You must have said to yourself ‘Gee, how disadvantaged can I get?’”
His reply? “No, I thought I hit the jackpot.” The queer community is rich with characters and experiences that others would be privileged to learn from. Society’s image of an artist, whether it’s a writer, a singer, a painter or a poet, too often lives on a pedestal. As long as it remains there, we risk missing out on the most important art that we need today. However your creative side manifests itself — and we all have one — being a member of our community means you deserve congratulations because you’ve hit the jackpot. The only question that remains is how you plan on using it.