"Literature is an Essential Service" by Gracie Bialecki
France’s government mandated confinement lasted from March 13th until May 11th. If we left our homes during these two months, we were required to carry an attestation, signed upon our honor that we were outside for one of five government approved reasons—indispensable work, groceries, medical needs, caregiving, or personal exercise. In the city iconic for its sidewalk cafés, the streets became eerily quiet. Storefronts were dark, locked, or barred with hastily scrolled paper signs: Fermé jusqu’à nouvel ordre.
The accurate translation would be “closed until further notice” but like many other French phrases the literal translation also rings true: Closed until the new order.
During my two confined months, as I waited for further notice, I read twelve books—two paper and ten digital—and listened to four audiobooks. My first novel, Purple Gold, was published as an e-book exclusive, marking the joyful end to a years-long project. I worked fervently on my second book until it coalesced into a completed manuscript. In two months, I had four meetings between my two writing groups and became an official member of the literary association, Paris Lit Up. I had two video-poems published; pitched three essay ideas; gave and conducted an interview; and performed poetry on a livestream fundraiser for the Marine Conservation Society. In my two confined months, I also cried more than I had in the past two years.
At the start of confinement, reading was an escape. My bibliophilic panic as the bookstores closed was assuaged by an old Brooklyn Library card which gave me access to their digital collection via an even older Kindle Fire. I read Jenny Offill’s Dept of Speculation in frenzied chunks—62% in one sitting, the rest the next day, her form begging the tapping of pages, text slipping by. Later I devoured Writers & Lovers by Lily King, and was amazed it was over three hundred pages when I looked up the count on the internet. The only way to remember my favorite passages was to type them it into my computer before the novel automatically returned itself. Was this escape or was it an ersatz experience? There was no smell of pages, no tucking in my bookmark and seeing how far I’d come. And even with the blue-light filter, I was breaking my pre-bed screen-time ban.
Purple Gold was published by ANTIBOOKCLUB, the first in a series of e-book releases, and it may always be an .epub document and never a book I can hold in my hand. Its John Gall cover may never be printed, marked with water rings, or battered in a backpack, but it exists and people from Greece to the Bahamas are reading it with no shipping and minimal environmental impact. When ANTI’s founder, Gabriel Levinson, announced the release he wrote:
“After making the difficult decision to delay our fall 2020 releases… I needed to do something. Now more than ever we need new books to read. After all, literature is community. Literature is humanity. Literature is an essential service.”
Since then other smaller publishers, such as Bridge Eight, have followed his model. It’s an obvious answer to a financially and logistically difficult time, and it’s hard to argue against the practicality of the format even if I can still hear my former-self proclaiming: I read books, not screens.
This change in format was pre-existent, a continuation on a trajectory, much different from the virtual gymnastics social activities found themselves facing. The literary association Paris Lit Up usually hosts a weekly open mic at a bar in Belleville, and at our first confinement meeting, when we discussed how another group had transitioned to a live Zoom format, our Latin-speaking Oxfordian offered the word simulacrum. An unsatisfactory imitation or substitute. Was virtual better than nothing or were we merely deluding ourselves? Without getting too philosophical, we decided to post an open call for submissions and transitioned to a weekly compilation called PLU Presents, that would include videos of poetry, prose, music, and whatever else we received.
As it reaches its seventh and final installment, it’s difficult to call PLU Presents unsatisfactory. There are videos from artists around the world and sincere emails thanking us for what we’re doing. There are people who visited Paris and performed at the open mic years ago who can now participate even though there’s no stage or extended applause as performers weave their way to it. There are no crowded tables or red bar lights. There’s no getting there early for sign-up or talking to your favorite artists after. There’s just you and a screen.
And screens are not the same as life, even though I took my livestream poetry performance as seriously as any other. Days before, we had a sound check, tested my lighting, and talked through the technical details. I knew exactly where I’d stand and where I’d place my computer, and I sent an invite to my usual bcc email list with the time and details.
On the Sunday evening of my reading, I was nervous as we ate dinner feet from where I’d perform. It was Mother’s Day, and I ended a video call with my mom and grandmother to switch to the fundraiser, waiting in a virtual green room with the other artists. The organizer would be projecting our live Zoom segments onto a Facebook livestream, which meant all I’d see were a few other faces. As the screen flipped between the livestream and the Zoom room, I realized that I’d miss anticipated my timing and would be going on earlier than advertised. I shot off a few warning texts not understanding that it’s possible to rewind livestreams; they aren’t real time.
As my turn approached, I asked my partner Fred to sit behind my computer so there was one member of the audience I could address, but when I got into my newest poem—Some days after lunch I go outside to cry. Sit in the street with the sun in the sky—I couldn’t look at him. My voice cracked and I almost broke down. I was reciting the poem I’d written about my confinement to my partner who alternately made it wonderful and terrible.
Afterwards Fred hugged me while I contemplated curling up and crying. A few friends texted their congratulations, but I felt little of my usual post-reading joy. I’d dedicated my Mother’s Day performance to my mom and grandmother—they were watching from California, and it was the first time my grandmother had ever seen me recite. If my mom hadn’t been taking care of her, if I hadn’t agreed to a livestream, if the time zones hadn’t aligned, she may have died without seeing or hearing my poems. It was so easy to share it with her, to share with everyone watching, and still, I have no desire to continue performing virtually.
In the past two months, I agreed to every meeting, event, video conference, blog post, and call for submissions I came across. There were new opportunities, new art forms emerging, and channeling my energy into productivity became as necessary as the serotonin bump I got from running my kilometer loop or contorting my body into yoga postures. Since I was laid off my copywriting job and have no children, I was able to organize my weekdays around nothing but my own work. As much as this gave me a sense of control and accomplishment, I was still filling a void. Deep down, I was waiting for it all to be over and for the new order to begin.
Three weeks ago Macron approved the start of a gradual de-confinement. We are no longer required to carry attestations and the shops are slowly reopening. Cafés and restaurants offer take-out with tables pulled across their entrances and hostess stations that barricade instead of welcome. There are fewer and fewer paper signs in darkened windows, but theaters, cinemas, music venues, museums, and the library, where I used to write, all remain closed until further notice. The plants which surround my improvised office corner are thriving, and next week I’ll print the draft of my new novel—a physical manifestation of a year and a half of ideas and energy.
I’m writing this on a Friday afternoon, and soon I’ll bike across Paris to walk with a friend in the Bois de Boulogne. I’ve been up since eight—yoga, meditation, fruit, tea, writing. Would I have spent my day the same way last May or would my morning routine followed by nature and human interaction not felt so desperately necessary? Is this a simulacrum of a summer Friday or simply my life? I’ve been waiting for the new order, expecting it to be a different version of what I knew. But I’m already living it, and each day I’m shaping what it will be.
Gracie Bialecki is an author, performance poet, and co-founder of New York City's Thirst storytelling series. She lives and writes in Paris, France.
