The way people speak. Even if your words are passing directly from your internal world on to the page, you'll still have heard them in your head first.Read More
A year ago, a stooped 27 year-old man came to me for poetry tuition.
He had a mop of black hair and smelled of spirits. He came because his father had read my CV, and thought, that with my qualifications, I might be able to help his son.
Jed told me that all he wanted to do was to be a poet, but ‘nothing comes out right’. He didn’t care about my qualifications, but he liked the concept of writing ‘Wild Words’. He said it would be nice to feel like a wild animal when he wrote, but instead, he usually felt more like his little brother’s hamster, going round and round on its wheel.
As we talked, he asked me crossly why I hadn’t yet asked to see his writing, and motioned to the groaning backpack sitting at his feet.
But I didn’t need to look at his writing to understand what was going on, I only had to look at his body. His skin was sickly white. His hands were blue with cold, even though the room was warm. Sometimes, when he told me about the subject of his poetry, colour rose in his cheeks, but it was quickly followed by a deflation of his body, and a draining of colour. And then of course, there was the smell of alcohol.
He asked me, even more angrily, why I hadn’t asked him for the reasons for his ‘writer’s block’, the reason he couldn’t write well. I said that I was sure he already knew the reason, and that he’d probably already thought through it a thousand times, to no avail. I was going to try a different approach. He looked sceptical.
He told me the reason anyway. Apparently, his father was a well-known poet. ‘I’m scared that I will never write like my father’ he said. ‘And it’s seizing me up’.
I asked him then to remember a time when he did write well, when the words flowed.
He told me about a writing competition he had won when he was twelve. I invited him to close his eyes, to remember that experience, and to see how it felt in his body. He told me he felt a warmth, a relaxation spreading from his chest out through his limbs.
Next, I asked him to think about a time when he sat down to write but felt blocked. Where in his body was that physical sense of block? He told me it was in his stomach. At this point he started telling me again about his fears of not matching up to his father’s success. I told him not to think, but to just stay with his bodily experience. If he scanned his body, despite the feeling of block in his chest, was there a place where he still felt the warmth or movement from the writing competition experience? He said yes, there was. It was in his hand. I then got him to move his attention back and forth between his stomach and his hand, touching into the block, and then back again to a place of relaxation.
Through doing this in the session, and by practicing it at home, he gradually found that he could pick away at the edges of the feeling of block his stomach, and integrate it with the feeling of flow in his hand. Eventually that enabled him to find flow in the whole of his body. This process led spontaneously to writing ideas flowing from his body on to the paper. He was an unblocked writer.
The day this happened, he called me immediately. He was excited and laughing, but also confused. He told me, ‘I’m writing, the words won’t stop coming, but now I have another problem, I’m writing a comedy screenplay, not poetry. That’s not what I want to write. I’ve always wanted to be a poet’.
The psychotherapist Peter Levine has a saying- ‘The body knows’.
This is what I told him. Your body knows what it needs to say. From then, my work with Jed, which lasted six sessions, became about helping him to find his own voice, rather than meeting his father’s expectations, or trying to follow in his footsteps.
The Weekly Prompt
Write a 1000 word prose piece, or a poem, using the prompt ‘The Body Knows’.
As always, I’d be delighted to read what you come up with, if you’d like to send it to me.
This article was first published on the 29th November 2013
A talented student of mine sent me this wonderful poem. It’s a response to the weekly Writing Prompt, that mentioned the following quote from the Tomas Tranströmer poem ‘From March '79’ ‘Words but no language…language but no words’
In The Mouth
First it was like a mustard grain in the mouth
Then the size of pea rolling about in the mouth
Lost your words in the mouth
And found new ones in the mouth
Rattles on her teeth in the mouth
And soaks up her spit in the mouth
Their stories in the mouth
It’s the boulder in the mouth
As big as Dog Tor in the mouth
It’s grey and old in the mouth
Dressed in lichen and moss in the mouth
Spitting out a collective noun in the mouth
For language in the mouth
Val’s subject has really resonated with me, as last week I completely lost my voice for two days. I’d been struggling to express myself around a personal issue, when, quite suddenly, it dried up.
It was as if my body was saying ‘I’ve had enough of trying to make myself heard here, so I’m going to stop trying’. As someone who is usually able to mould and craft speech with ease, it was an interesting experience to be voiceless. Initially, there was a sense of peace in not needing to try and influence those around me via the spoken word. Then, my hands took over and conversed with gestures. We human beings are creative in finding routes to self-expression.
I found the silence restful- for the first day, that is. But then I started having to cancel meetings. My computer provided an outlet for my growing frustration as I stamped each word hard into my keyboard. I was suddenly struck, as if I’d never realised it before, by the immense value of being able to write. That ability to express on the page released a sense of relief akin to a mute given a blackboard and chalk (please forgive the stereotype).
Now my voice is back, I’m trying not to forget what the words mean to me.
The Weekly Prompt
Our bodies speak in so many more ways that just via our mouths vocalising. Write about a time when your body, or a certain part of your body, communicated to you- for example through pain, absence of pain, movement, stiffness etc… What was it trying to say? You might also find it interesting to write a monologue from the point of view of a part of your body. You might be surprised at what it communicates.
This article was first published on 21st May 2013
Photograph courtesy of Peter Reid.
Being ‘a writer’ is a funny concept. I am certainly a communicator, an expresser, a wordsmith, a purveyor of poetry…
but putting pen to paper, (or fingers to keypad), is most definitely an afterthought, a documentation, of my process, rather than the process itself.
Words emerge in my brain, they linger there and tangle themselves up, repeating. Usually on walks, when there is a rhythm to meter-by and a safe-space for mental foraging.
Partly, I think it’s a bad-habit; one that comes from a need to be distracted from presence or engagement in the moment; an absenting, that keeps me meditatively consumed with the puzzle of listing rhyme possibilities… But it’s also a tool for healing and processing, allowing new conclusions and perspectives to emerge, just by having an openness to which words arise and fit. I have often surprised myself with revelations of awareness, just for the sake of a punchline, the right metaphor or simply the right sound.
For me, it’s a game something like intellectual Lego.
I will get interested in some accidental phrase I overhear; “oh look, that’s been randomly abandoned” “it’s spread over various areas”; and that is all I need to set off… it’s something about my auditory tendancy, my capacity for memorising, and a love of playing with sounds and meaning; each phrase a conundrum of how to place the most pleasing phonics in pursuit of the underlying conveyance. And whaddya know, when I shared them, people seemed to like it! It was never intentional.
If you gave me a desk and an empty page I really wouldn’t know where to begin. Or, if I consciously wanted to work through an issue via poetry, my efforts would most likely be scratchy and unfinished cliché; doomed to get eternally-filed with other tedious and well-intended homeworks. My poems happen to me, like a hiccup. Before I can devise or command them. In this way they are like the mythical lightning-bolt of inspiration, and I envy those writers who have the craft at their own behest, able to produce in alignment with purpose or demand. I have had many a moment of inadequacy in my own workshops, when the work that comes to me under the pressure and limitations of exercises I myself have set, is so blatantly not representative of the public-face of my work...
So yes, come walking… share with me your most-satisfying juxtapositions of syllables…
but when I start glazing over and mumbling to myself, just don’t expect me to maintain a coherent conversation. Im probably thinking about ‘hoover manoeuvres’ or ‘runaway onions’ and apparently, that’s an artist at work.
As a writer, I’ve often asked myself: how can I get the maximum aliveness into a product that sits flat on the page? It’s not an easy task. (Here’s a poem about my sometime frustration in this respect.)
Stories are alive. They are ever-evolving creatures. In my experience, they often resist being reduced to a ‘definitive version’. At a certain point, we usually just have to make a deal with our subject matter that it’s time to part ways. Then we take courage in both hands, and let go of the re-writing.
I’d long suspected the value of looking at how words are used in language, and stage performance, and then find ways to transfer that power on to the page. So, I watched a range of spoken-word stage performances, as well as listening to conversations in the street, with that lens in mind.
Now I understand much more about how writers can learn from spoken word poets and oral storytellers, and vice versa. And how invaluable that learning can be.
Certainly, there are fundamental differences between language and writing. They are different creatures, rather than (as used to be assumed) one just being the descendent of the other. When we speak to someone, there’s a limit to how much information they can process in any one instant. If they’re reading a text we’ve written, there isn’t the same problem. They can take time to unpack and digest. Language therefore, tends to come in bite-sized fragments, with the written word in general being more elaborate, embedded, and closely packed.
Who is better at what?
Spoken-word sometimes lacks durability, complexity, subtlety, and beauty of form. I’ve found that spoken-word artists on the Wild Words courses revel in taking the range of tools and techniques that writers have, and applying them to the creation of a spoken-word-baby-to-be. They enjoy mining the written words alone, to get maximum impact into them, before the extraordinary power of performance is added. They record, on paper, their spoken word gems for posterity.
Those who work only with the written word, can sometimes struggle to unleash spontaneity and aliveness on the page. Writers easily lose touch with their embodied experience, without which, in my opinion no story can flourish. The utilisation of body-awareness and physicality, is something that performance poets often excel at.
Writers learning from performers
Over time, writing has become increasingly distanced from its roots in oral storytelling.
For example, when first introduced, the hierarchy of punctuation marks on the page seems to have been thought of as representing pauses of different lengths, that is, as reflecting purely phonetic facts.
It was recording what master storytellers did in front of their audiences, to raise tension, and set up patterns of tension and release. They paused their speech at key moments in a story, or use a drum roll of other musical instrument, clap their hands, stamp their feet, or changing position on stage.
Writing, gradually, over time, honed its invaluable ability to display the logical structure of a passage, independently of how it might be read aloud.
Remembering it’s roots, it seems to me an interesting experiment to do as a writer, to take a step back into the history of writing, and think about how we might rediscover how to create pauses, and therefore raise tension in a story, through punctuation.
And punctuation isn’t the only way to do it. When we use language on stage, or in everyday life, it is always accompanied by gestures, mannerisms, movement and changes in facial expression. So, when we write a piece of dialogue, and want to create a dramatic pause, describing physicality is often the best way to go.
A major aspect of spoken language that there is no satisfactory way to put on to the page, is intonation, or pitch. The intonation in someone’s voice contains vital information about the mood, and intention of the speaker. The best we’ve managed to come up with on the page, is the of use punctuation to partially convey those things. When, in linguistics, the speaker’s voice rises,
a question mark (?), or exclamation mark (!) is the equivalent on the page. When a speaker’s voice falls, the equivalent in writing is quite often a full stop (.)
On Wild Words courses I have an ‘experiment’ I like to suggest to writers. Us writers can be a timid, body-static lot, but I’ve often suspected that inside most writers, is a frustrated performer trying to get out. So, with the upmost respect for your love of sitting quietly in your room and imaginative space, how about trying the following, just to see what happens?
To see the Prompt, you'll need to sign up on the Wild Words website homepage to receive the Monthly Newsletter.
Connected to this fascinating subject (and I’m rubbing my hands in anticipation), is a discussion on the links between embodiment, music, the sung word, and the written word. But that’s for another blog…
This writing lark.
It’s like waiting all night in the freezing cold
eyes glued to the hillside
Praying for a glimpse
to stay awake
to stay still
to bear the freezing ground
the rocks that grate my backside
Then suddenly finding I’m awake,
and it’s light
and I hadn’t even realised I’d fallen asleep
and my eyelashes are ice,
and my vision is blurred
and there’s a dark line in the snow
Until it vanishes.
They’re the tracks of The Cat
he’s passed by in the night
It’s all been for nothing
Fucking for nothing.
That’s what it’s like---
to look, at these ink marks on the page.
And be so damn brimful of disappointment
for what yearns to be spoken
that I cannot find a way to say.
In ‘The Poetic Principle’, Edgar Allen Poe says,
I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty.
Poets out there will probably feel comfortable with that definition. Prose writers perhaps less so. But the line between poetry and prose is a blurred one, and those of us who write prose would also do well to embrace it.
Virginia Woolf describes how,
A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it ...
Our job then is to transfer that life, movement, and rhythm into words on a page, that others may know it.
Gerard Manley Hopkins, in his journal, presents us with a fine example of how it reads when you do it well. This is his description of the movement and rhythm of a wave.
Aug. 13 — Heavy seas: we walked along the sea wall to the Kennaway Tunnel to watch them. The wave breaks in this order — the crest of the barrel 'doubling' (that, a boatman said, is the word in use) is broken into a bush of foam, which, if you search it, is a lace and tangle of jumping sprays; then breaking down these grow to a sort of shaggy quilt tumbling up the beach; thirdly this unfolds into a sheet of clear foam and running forward it leaves and laps the wave reaches its greatest height upon the shore and at the same time its greatest clearness and simplicity; after that, raking on the shingle and so on, it is forked and torn and, as it commonly has a pitch or lurch to one side besides its backdraught, these rents widen; they spread and mix and the water clears and escapes to the sea transparent and keeping in the end nothing of its white except in long dribble-bubble strings which trace its set and flow.
Wild words indeed.
Wild words have a broad range of expression, and vocabulary. The verbs are strong, and varied. They mostly stand alone.
When describing a person’s passage down a street, that person doesn’t just run, they canter, charge, and gallop. When describing their conversation, they don’t just talk, they squeak, they howl, and they rant. Strong verbs rarely need an adjective. Adjectives are used with great prudence.
As living, breathing creatures, Wild words are flexible and malleable. The wild storyteller plays with rhythm for strongest effect. A rhythm can be said to be a ‘regular recurrence or pattern in time’.
Wild words have rhythms, as varied as the gaits of the numerous wild creatures.
Rhythm can be achieved in many ways: including by choice of sentence length, by use of white space, by assonance, resonance and rhyme.
The basis of their rhythm is iambic, the di-DUM di-DUM di-DUM that spoken English has always moved to. The wild storyteller knows that when these rules of internal rhythm are broken without good reason, the result can be clotted prose, writing that does not flow.
Wild words play skilfully with listener and reader expectations, noting the effect that a change of rhythm has on those receiving the story.
The Monthly Writing Prompt
Write about water: the sea, a lake, river, pond, or rain storm. Describe it, in poetry or prose, with precision. Look closely, and be curious. Can you reflect and heighten all its varying moods through the use of rhythm in your words?
Last week a quote jumped out at me. I sent it whizzing through cyberspace to land on the Wild Words Facebook page.
Collect moments, not things
As it zipped away, I remembered that a few days earlier I had done just that. I’d collapsed in a café, over looking the sea, in Collioure, France, with a friend, at sunset. Warmed and salted and satisfied. Eighties tracks on a crackling sound system, and the smell of gin and tonic. We watched boats tethered, tossing on the vast Mediterranean. On impulse we asked the waiter for paper and a pen. He tore off a duplicate sheet from his order pad and presented it with a flourish. We fired off a list of memorable moments from the day.
As we scribbled down those moments, I remembered that I used to do that, when I was travelling in Asia, aged 19. Sunburnt and grubby, eating slippery food in seedy dives.
Europe, Asia, Africa too. The moments I’ve recorded have become doubly etched on my memory. They flash into view again now. I feel happy as I recall them.
Wild moments. Why ‘wild’?
When a memory takes us, neurons fire, and neural pathways connect. We live it again, no less vividly than the first time. Smell, taste, colour, sound, touch, texture, sensation in the body. And movement. So much movement.
I think of Mary Oliver’s ‘Instructions for living a life’.
Tell about it.
That’s the simplest and most effective recipe for writing poetry I’ve come across.
I also think of the haiku form. Nature writing in brief.
For words to live, breathe and jump off the page, we first have to discover, or re-discover, an attitude of wonder and revelation about the world around us.
Japanese haiku poets were masters of that. The 'aha moment', is a very short, fleeting moment, in which a human being catches a glimpse of what we could call'world harmony'. Life reveals itself in all its glory. Haiku’s power stems from revealing links between largely uninflected images. They allow us to make metaphorical connections, to join one realm of our experience with another. In the following three haiku by Basho, the less abstract (cherry flakes, caged cricket, wild geese) enables us to know the feeling tones of the more abstract (relaxation, loneliness, grief).
If I’d the knack
I’d sing like
cherry flakes falling.
caged cricket dangling
from the wall.
lost in cloud.
Interested in mastering ‘Haiku Techniques’? Jane Reichhold’s article is very helpful.
In my days as a short-film writer and director, David Mamet's book, On Directing Film was my bible. Mamet’s theory, based on Eisenstein's montage model, is simple; good film is ‘a succession of images juxtaposed so that the contrast between these images moves the story forward in the mind of the audience’. The shots make the scene. The scenes make the film. Full stop.
Each moment we record is a pearl. String them together and narratives emerge.
Never mind a poem, string enough of them together, and you’ll have a novel or memoir.
There were 242 words in my list of 14 moments from that day by the sea. Another 364 of those days, and I’d have a full-length manuscript.
One year. It could be that easy. Do your sums.
At the end of each day, write a list of nourishing, inspiring, connected moments. Explore- what is it that enables their aliveness? That way, learn to write wilder words. And learn to appreciate life more fully too.
Try stringing 3 pearl-moments to make a haiku.
Three lines of 5,7 and 5 syllables. Within the three lines, express a strong emotion. Then, juxtapose it with a natural image that stands as a metaphor for that emotion. Instead of directly stating the emotion, you can also contrast two images to create an emotional affect, (as, for example, in the first of Basho’s haiku above).
You’re warmly invited to share them as guest posts on the Wild Words Facebook page.