Puncturing holes in social norms

Is This an Illness or an Accident?
by Daniela Elza

Qualicum Beach: Caitlin Press, 2025
$24 /  9781773861630

Reviewed by Jessica Poon

*

At a New Year’s Eve party, where I was reasonably assured all the guests were lovely people well-versed in transcending the dreariness of banal small talk, a friend of a friend asked me, “What do you do?” I was, foolishly, unprepared for ordinary, soul-depleting dialogue. I was defensive and not nearly drunk enough. The subtext was “What are you worth? How do you live in this unaffordable city? Should I envy you or pity you?” A more charitable interpretation would be that she was feeling socially awkward and resorted to a familiar template; it’s entirely possible. As Daniela Elza says, “I know it is just small talk, so small it is not worth a second thought. I also know that language shapes us and when we keep repeating something over and over, we end up believing it.” In other words, when we lapse into uncreative conversational norms, we perpetuate them.

Elza’s essay collection, Is This an Illness or an Accident? is a wide-ranging, introspective essay collection that punctures holes in capitalism, small talk, and social norms. Elza writes about the nebulousness of belonging from the perspective of a “third culture kid”—she was born in Bulgaria, grew up in Nigeria, attended school in America, and now lives in Canada—the financial precarities and social interpretations of working (mothering, volunteering, writing) that isn’t recognized as work, the relationship between trees and language, the absurd impact of bureaucratic forms, the over-romanticization of travel, the lack of affordability in Vancouver, the evolution of her marriage, the vagaries of online dating, and the glorious superiority and family legacy of homemade yogurt.

Elza writes: “There’s a sense of guilt that comes with doing work you are not paid for, be it full-time parenting, volunteering or writing.” It’s almost as if unpaid work is not, in fact, actually work. As long as parenting is purely done out of love for children, volunteering a matter of altruism, and writing an endearing hobby that few people ever succeed in, no matter how laborious or tiring, it may not qualify as work—at least, not by a bank determining whether to give you a loan, or by fellow partygoers wondering where to place you in a hierarchy. Elza reiterates: “My identity and worth in the world seemed to be mostly defined by jobs that paid and, preferably, paid well. … Writing bought me daily delights and well-being. I was taking a risk banking on this attitude and was often made to feel a failure. On the other hand, friends with well-paying jobs envied me and wanted to give up their jobs to remember that sense of having purpose, to remember what meaningful and creative work looked like.” Given the prevalence and romanticization of starving artists, it’s no wonder that art tends to be poorly compensated, if at all. Once something is relegated as a passion, it ceases to be a “real” job; compensation becomes less than an afterthought. And then you have to explain what it is, exactly, that you “do”—because what you do, is equivalent to who you are.

I’m reminded of a German film. Afire, is a German film, about a writer and his friend, a photographer working on a portfolio for grad school. They plan to work on their respective projects to the photographer’s family home. The writer refuses to partake in anything—fixing a roof, going for a swim—because he has to work. He never says he has to write; he always uses the word work. But he doesn’t really ever get around to writing. He is the definition of bad vibes. He is easily distracted. At one point, his photographer friend finally says, “You keep saying ‘I have to work.’ But cooking is work. Fixing the roof is work.” It was more surprising than a jump scare in a horror film. Truly, I had never seen this type of labour described so earnestly as work before. Because we all know that work—or a job—means money. Which is probably why the writer, who isn’t writing, pompously declines everything and announces he must work. Saying you have to write is luxurious; saying you have to work is grounded in adulthood and capitalism. Meanwhile, the photographer is loose and artistically inspired as he does ostensibly Things That Do Not Earn Money; everything he does is potentially a source of inspiration or a time to free-associate. Many of you might be thinking: Jesus Christ, treat art as your hobby and side hustle! Get a normal person job! You still have real world responsibilities! (Indeed, part of my own brain is vocalizing the same brainwashed judgment).

And so, perhaps “What do you do?” eventually morphs to “How do you do what you do?” (The answer, I’m afraid to say, is a certain amount of optimistic delusion and probable financial precarity). Elza is not mincing words when she says: “You have to believe in yourself when no one else does … Delayed reward was what I had to get used to.”

After her marriage ends, Elza reluctantly succumbs—her choice of word—to online dating. Elza writes: “Why are we embarrassed to admit we are seeking a romantic partner? Sure, some people give online dating a bad name. … Why is it more acceptable to be depressed and lonely than to admit we are social creatures who need intimacy to thrive?” Her earnestness is a respite from cynical posturing. Though she does not wade into the answer of why it is more socially acceptable to be depressed and lonely—she is more focused on the possibilities of searching for intimacy—it would be difficult to overestimate the calamitous effects of widespread depression and loneliness, which, in any case, makes for a better meme (I only wish I were kidding). In an individualist culture where self-care means buying things to alleviate your insecurities, where it’s easier to anthropomorphize ChatGPT or Replika instead of arranging a time to meet with a friend or to afford a therapist, there exist two opposing narratives about singleness. Either it’s an empowering choice where you prefer it to all other alternatives because you’re a free spirit nomad, or you’re desperate and pathetic, in danger of owning cats or too many plants (both of which seem like a good time, but I digress). Both of these narratives about singledom neglect to mention large swathes of people who’d rather be partnered up, but, after seeing what’s available, prefer to remain single instead of continuing to cultivate hope. Depression and loneliness are far easier to manipulate and therefore monetize; it goes well with a side dish of irony. Intimacy, however, is a bleeding heart demanding more effort than people are willing to expend in their depleted states. Elza, fortunately, is not one to shy away from vulnerability, and is upfront about her quest for intimacy.

The final essay of Elza’s collection, “Making Yogurt Keeps My Hope Alive”, is ostensibly about the superiority of homemade yogurt; however, it’s also about family rituals, declining attention spans, the beauty of effort, and resistance. Elza is proud to share that her children refuse to eat inferior store-bought yogurt after growing up eating her homemade yogurt. Her now ex-husband “used to say he wouldn’t leave me because he was hooked on my yogurt. That was funny, until he did leave. Now he makes yogurt. See what I mean? Once you know the good of something, you replicate it wherever you go.” In these closing sentences, Elza brings a wry, understated despair of a long-term marriage ending, and then, instead of predictably dwelling in that uncomfortable melancholy, she reflects on one long-term, positive change she is responsible for in her ex-husband’s life—he makes his own yogurt.

Is This an Accident or an Illness? is a deep-hearted memoir full of uncomfortable reflections and questions, and while hardly overwhelmingly optimistic, there are grounded, practical ideas for local improvement and involvement—perhaps starting with your gut. Best read under a tree, if you can.

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Jessica Poon is a writer in East Vancouver. [Editor’s note: Jessica Poon has reviewed recent books by Andromeda Romano-Lax, Linda Cheng, Neko Case, Karina Halle, and Jen Sookfong Lee forThe British Columbia Review.]

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The British Columbia Review

Interim Editors, 2023-26: Trevor Marc Hughes (non-fiction), Brett Josef Grubisic (fiction)
Publisher: Richard Mackie

Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an on-line book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.

“Only connect.” – E.M. Forster