Reactionary Review: Swift by Melinda Ferguson
I don’t need to read Melinda Ferguson’s latest pity porn memoir “Swift” to know it’s shit. The promo interview headline in last week’s Business Day says it all. Look it up, I’m not going to give them the fucking clicks. And no, I didn’t bother to read the interview either.
Ferguson’s reason for existence seems, from a literary point of view, to be to triumph over adversity. There was Smacked, then Hooked, then (I think, maybe?) Bamboozled. Now there is “Swift”, the amazing story of how she fled to her holiday cabin in the wood and saved a bird while, unbeknownst to her, the love of her life died alone at home. I know this from an FB post from late last year. We were treated to this life tragedy live on social media, and then now three-ish months later she’s swiftly processed and written a fucking book?
Yassis.
The thing about life is that it is absolutely chockablock full of random tragedies and traumas and minor triumphs. My mother, estranged, has fucking dementia and I’ll probably never get to talk to her again to tell her I love her, and also I saved a bee with a saucer of sugar today but I’m not going to shit out a memoir about it same day delivery.
Maybe there’s more to this book that I know. I have not read it. I will not read it. I give two fucks about an old white lady who saved a bird in her holiday cottage.
The astonishing speed in which Ferguson shits out pity porn with redemptive endings, by her own pen or through her imprint, whatever the fuck it’s called, is what, well, astonishes.
People go through shit every day. They deal with shit ALL THE FUCKING TIME. Some of them might save small avian creatures along the way, some of them might run over their neighbour’s dogs. Have you taken a moment to look around at any major intersection lately? Been in line at any public health service ever? There is a tone deafness in having the time and the platform to carve meaning out of what happened exclusively to you, and taking it on a publicity tour.
I’m not saying that Ferguson didn’t go through this shit, I’m not suggesting that there is anything suspicious about the speed of her process of tragedy – I might be suggesting that the speed of her processing of this tragedy might be the actual tragedy, but I need some time to process this.
What the fuck is so special about Melinda Ferguson? Why does she get her picture in the paper? She has had to deal with loss? Big fucking whoop.
There’s always another tragedy and triumph around the corner. The triumph is not the end point, there is no great epiphany in any of it, it’s fucking relentless. We make the changes we can, we do the next right thing or not, and so on. The point of loss is not to triumph over it for fucking clicks. And no, I can’t make any sense out of any of it myself. Most people do not get a moment to stop and give themselves a pat on the back for processing even the most basic daily traumas. So can we stop fucking triumphing over adversity already, please.
Maybe Ferguson’s next book can be about how she triumphs over the adversity of being a very average writer, and learns to interpret whale song.
PS: Melinda, I am sorry for your very personal loss, I wish you strength and long life.