If you can’t say anything nice about someone, perhaps it’s best to say nothing at all
Published 19th Oct 2026, 06:01 BST
BBC Scotland has announced a forthcoming two-part documentary, centred on the life and times of JK Rowling. The response has been predictable: feminists and women’s rights supporters have fretted it may be a ‘hit-job’ or as lopsided as a Pink News editorial.
Gender-identity activists have snarled, conspiratorially, from various social-media bubbles, that she must be paying the BBC to make a ‘puff-piece’, as – I promise I’m not making this up – her sales have ‘taken a hit’ in recent years.
Rowling could quit writing books tomorrow and remain financially comfortable for the rest of time; that’s the case even with her enormous, enduring, philanthropic commitments. Leaving that aside – plus her sales remaining buoyant – a key point of challenge has been the producers’ stated plan to explore her ‘contested legacy’ as a ‘polarising figure.’
As writer Polly Clark noted, ‘How can you have a legacy, contested or otherwise, when you’re very much alive?’
JK Rowling has said repeatedly she doesn’t think about her ‘legacy’ anyway. A sensible stance for any writer, but worthwhile for everyone, public figure or not. The sorry reality is none of us get a say on how we’re remembered after our small slice of forever is over. I tend to content myself with the knowledge - as poet Paul Birthill imagines will be etched on his gravestone - that I’ll be ‘sadly missed, by some.’
Due to the ghastly immediacy of social media reaction to breaking news – and though few of our obituaries will hit the headlines – some of us already know our demise will be greeted, at least in part, with online glee.
‘Good riddance, TERF b---h’ is the milder end of what I foresee for women like me should the reaper come tomorrow. Though barely well-known, any ‘gender critical’ (oh, how I loathe the term, really) writer finds themselves a routine target for some peoples’ bad days online.
We won’t be here to see it. Our friends will, with the hurt and anguish we’ve had watching zealots responding to the tragic deaths of women with views identical to Rowling’s or ours.
Perhaps most ugly were dancing skeleton memes and abusive mockery slung at For Women Scotland, after one of their founders, young feminist activist and satirist, Magdalen Berns, died of a brain tumour aged only 36 in 2019.
The online derangement following the death of prominent figures, meanwhile, has become like watching the digital equivalent of the Two Minute Hate. Speaking of George Orwell: he has been ‘polarising’ throughout the decades too. He was a ‘divisive’ figure to many – and across the political spectrum – in his day.
Despite it all, his imaginative literary creations led to the descriptor ‘Orwellian’ being rolled out – with varying degrees of accuracy – to describe everything from the invention of CCTV, the bastardisation of language in modern warfare, to worries about digital ID and curbs on free expression. Every writer would love to think their wares will retain relevance decades later. In truth, the celebrated of the day may become the forgotten of tomorrow.
Take the case of feminist pioneer Mary Wollstonecraft, whose death was followed by posthumous scandal and an immediate shattering of her reputation.
An ill-advised account of her life was published by her grieving husband, William Godwin – which included details about her love affairs, suicide attempts and other deeply personal matters - shocking late 18th century opinion. Her reputation would only be restored over a century later by Millicent Fawcett and other women writers. Ms Wollstonecraft, of course, wasn’t aware of any of this.
I’ve an allergy to cruelty amongst the living about all but the worst of humans in the immediacy of them meeting their maker, passing into stardust, or going to the Good or Bad Place - delete according to your belief system. Alas, the digital world makes seeing this a regular occurrence.
After the recent death of columnist Rod Liddle, friends of his were mocked after expressing their grief online, for not remembering the ‘worst’ of him. These caricature presentations of the man were fired at those who genuinely knew him as a full person they’d broken bread with – not as his rabblerousing, provocateur, writing persona.
Meanwhile, the ‘worst’ of the man was being determined by people who knew him solely on the basis of his scandalous, easily misinterpreted – particularly if shorn of full context – political satire and fiery opinion columns.
At the risk of getting headmistressy: if you can’t say anything nice about someone, perhaps don’t say anything at all. If your fingers are getting twitchy, and you’re just burning to send a mocking tweet to someone who’s just lost someone close to them, I advise imagining the offline equivalent of what you’re about to do. That sphere is where the best values to live by tend to be, after all.
Would you rock up to a funeral to mock weeping mourners while revelling in their loved-one’s death? Righty-o. Then, don’t be psychotic towards those expressing grief online either.
The truth is, famous, infamous, or living a quiet life, it’s friends and family, knowing us best, who determine our true legacy. Memories of our small kindnesses – and flaws – will endure, before flickering out of those minds too.
I’ve a feeling JK Rowling’s imaginative literary creations, like Orwell’s, will endure for decades. But, as the author herself advocates, why dwell on that, when there’s living to be done?
When the emptiness feels too vast to dwell on, in those late-night panics we all have about our mortality, we can rest assured we’ll be remembered well, in the hearts and minds of those who love us. It’s comfort enough – whoever we are – to know, we’ll all be sadly missed, by some.