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I couldn’t sleep last night, my mind hurtling into hyperdrive, bothered by my thoughts. Foremost amongst them: “Do I even exist?” A strange question, but one borne of a strange year, in which all previous suppositions have been thrown into disarray. Early morning, I tapped these sentiments into my phone:

Right now, I feel like the universe is pranking me, but it’s not funny anymore. I’m just freaked out.

On the last Sunday in November a year ago, I was found hammering a chapter outline for a new novel into my laptop. It was completely spontaneous, for until then I had been happily working on another novel altogether. All of sudden, this tale seemed urgent.

Set just as lockdown restrictions were being lifted in 2021, it tells the story of the son of the two main protagonists in an earlier novel embarking on a journey to understand their past. I subtitled it, “a tale of love and forgiveness”.

The following weekend — a year ago, as it happens — I’d be driving out to the south west to stay with my parents. My excuse: to flee the increasing agitation within. In the back of my mind: that desire to write in peace.

And so it came to pass. After a freezing saunter up along the canal to Bathampton and back with my parents, and a delicious evening meal, I settled down in the spare room of their basement apartment beneath the city’s grandest thoroughfare and spent the evening tapping out my first draft.

I have never drafted a novel as quickly as this one. For some reason, it seemed imperative, and just came flowing out of me. Perhaps it came from my subconscious, and letting it out was cathartic. By the time I drove back home to my family the following day — very late, thanks to the closure of the M4 near Swindon — I had a complete first draft.

For the next three months, this would become my primary free-time writing project. Everything else would have to wait, including the novel I had been working on throughout October and November. On weekend evenings, as my family sat down to watch their Turkish dramas, I’d plug headphones into my ears, blocking out all noise with orchestral Coldplay, settling down in a corner to write.

It was all going well until February: until the actions of those fictional characters had me reflecting on my own life. In the novel, the lead character sets out trying to track down a relative he didn’t know he had, and in doing so discovers a whole cast of of characters from his parents’ past. In turn, that leads on to contemplations of forgiveness.

It seems writing this fictional tale inspired me to contemplate the same: to apologise for my own mistakes long ago, and to seek forgiveness if I could. It started with me just splurging remorseful sentiments into my blog, thinking an angel might carry my words afar. It ended with me seeking out those old faces, much like the young man in my novel.

And — bham — there they were, only… their being there would blow my mind. Hence last night’s restlessness: that feeling that the universe is pranking me. Whereas months ago I sat up in amazement at all I discovered, now I just feel sick. But perhaps that’s just the verse that reverberated in my soul all night long, daily ringing ever truer.

We will show them Our signs in the horizons and within themselves until it becomes clear to them that it is the truth. But is it not sufficient concerning your Lord that He is, over all things, a witness?

Quran 41:53

So yes, I get it. The universe isn’t pranking me: it’s shaking me to my core, and for sure I’ve been shaken. Last night it had me questioning my own existence, wondering if any of this is even real. But of course, it’s real alright. It’s just that real is far more surreal than even the most far-out fiction. For sure, it’s going to take a while to digest.