A Writer's Process: Karen Lethlean

Karen was a runner-up in the Wild Words Writing Competition which closed in December 2015.

 

The process of creating the story Black, Red and Yellow began with a snippet I encountered while reading the work of a Sri Lankan writer, Roshi Fernando (author of Homesick).

Like trinkets a bower bird might collect the sense of remembering a trip back to a homeland stuck in my brain. But I had to find a way to make this piece mine. So after a recent trip to the Northern Territory the mesh of inland Australia was laid across those initial thoughts.

I was continually worried about the thought that my ideas belonged to Roshi Fernando.

So I needed to understand that while that trinket I first saw was written by someone else, I was not copying her, but instead using something glimpsed in a new and original manner.

A good analogy here would be that of a seamstress; she sees a design somewhere, goes out and buys unique fabric, puts the piece together and comes up with her own creation.

Being a writer means reading widely and I cannot help but be intrigued by things others have written. I am constantly making notes, putting little snippets away, and looking back later to find I cannot recall where they came from but that a tiny few words can later become an entire new story.

Working in a multi-cultural school, being aware and very interested in indigenous cultures did help the writing of Black, Red and Yellow.  I have long harboured the desire to find some Noongar blood somewhere in my family tree, so my curiosity is endless.

I also wanted to try and deal with the way children are often stereotyped, no matter what their cultural or racial group.

So giving Jenny a voice about the way she sees others and how she feels treated seemed to work. Even though with the ending and my title I cannot help but wonder if I have in fact stereotyped Jenny into becoming an artist in her adult life. Such are the concerns of a writer!

Having a very supportive husband, who settles my worries, who tirelessly does the housework and allows me time to hit the keyboard (even though I have installed a writing rule that when the lap-top needs re-charging I finish for the day) is a wonderful help to being about to work creatively. 

Resourcing The Writer

Six months ago, a friend who's a talented writer,  came to an abrupt halt halfway through writing an autobiography of his extraordinary life. I was disappointed. I wanted to read it!

Last night I tried to cajole him into picking up his pen again. To no avail. He was very straightforward with his reasons. 
 
‘You know what I’ve realised’ he said, ‘is that it’s too much effort. It takes too much out of me. It takes everything'.
 
I respect that. As someone who historically will always push forward with a project, regardless of whether ‘I have it in me’, it was permission-giving. I thought, how wonderful just to be able to put it down when it’s too much.

I thought about the reasons I've sometimes pushed on through, despite exhaustion. It's because I fear failure. I fear disappointing myself. I fear losing the sense of identity and purpose that comes with a project.  Those things can drive us on. They can cause us to lose touch with the inner wild animal, which functions 'attuned to its environment', not despite it.

Writing in this way is an addiction. It can sabotage health and relationships. One day I will start a 'Writers Anonymous' group, to support the many writers in that situation! 
 
It's important to realise that writing can be tiring work. The energy of hope, excitement, or fear around the process, as well as the extremes of emotions that accompany our character’s journeys, can take a great deal out of us.
 
It’s taken me years to learn the following lesson:
If we work, when we are not sufficiently resourced, then, when even small problems or stuck points come up, we will quickly reach overwhelm.

How do we recognise overwhelm? It's characterised by freeze, the inability to think and act clearly, indecisiveness. It also manifests as tiredness (the switching off from overwhelming emotion that we cannot manage). You know the point when you can't see the wood for the trees? That's a form of overwhelm.
 
What does it mean to be resourced? It means to do things that relax us, that nourish us, that make us feel happy, without feeling like we're 'wasting time'. 

Only when we are resourced are we truly acting in accordance with our needs as a human animal. It's only then that we will write truly wild words- connected, passionate, alive. 

Most of us can probably name the things that resource us, but nearly all of us underestimate how much resourcing we need, in proportion to undertaking activities which demand we face difficulty.

We need much more resourcing than we think, because we go into overwhelm much more quickly than we realise. The more resourced we are ongoingly, the easier it is to spot that things are 'too much' before they disable us.  We can then unwind them. That's much better than getting to a point of crisis management. 

It's here I think, we can support our fellow writers. What gifts can you offer a colleague or friend who writes? It's not necessary to be in the same room, or even the same country to offer another person something that nourishes them. You can offer virtual gifts. We're writers, we know the power of the imagination!

Sometimes I put little gifts on to the Wild Words Facebook page. A picture of a flower. A photo of a mountain view. I do this with the sole aim of resourcing my fellow writers. 

What could you offer another writer today? A pair of soft slippers? A sheepskin blanket? A heart meal? The sun through their office window?
 
Close your eyes. Imagine you're receiving these gifts. Do that strongly enough and it has the same effect on your metabolism as if you were receiving them for real. 

Conversely, what would you like to ask for from another writer today? What virtual gift would bring that edge of overwhelm down, just enough, to keep you writing? Just enough that ultimately, you'll be able to deliver to the world, the invaluable gift of your story. 

Happy writing today. 
 

The Monthly Writing Prompt

One of the greatest gifts you can give your reader, in this modern, fast-paced world, is a sense of relaxation and nourishment. It gives the story breathing space, and the reader time to reflect. It acts as a springboard for cranking up the tension later on in your story.

What small details can you bring into your story or poem that achieve that? These are the same kind of things that you might like to offer yourself or your fellow writers to resource them. Some ideas might be: a beautiful sunset. The touch of a warm gentle hand. A smile. The sound of laughter. 

Make sure, as you write these small events, you really feel them in your body. Revel in the experience :-) 

A Writer's Process: Jenny Alexander

My older sister killed herself when I was 23 and I always knew I’d want to write something for young people about suicide.

My first thought was that it should be a Young Adult self-help book, as I’d already written 8 self-help books for children, but my agent couldn’t get a publisher on board with it. She suggested I might write it as a novel instead.

I finished the first version of my novel, Drift, more than 10 years ago, and several publishers expressed interest in it, but they all eventually decided that the story was ‘too quiet for the market.’ They said it needed a ‘strong hook,’ that is to say, to be out-of-the-ordinary in some striking way.

But my reason for writing it in the way I had was because I wanted to help other survivors of sibling suicide to feel less alone in that already extraordinary grief. The whole point of my book was that it should feel real; it should feel like any young person’s life, suddenly disrupted by something that could happen to anyone.

I knew I had written a good book and I wasn’t willing to compromise it by sexing it up, so I shelved it and tried to forget about it, but it wouldn’t go away.

So when I got a new agent a few years later, I sent it to her. She liked it, but told me she found the most dramatic passages weirdly unmoving.

I realised then that I’d been unwilling to feel the kind of emotions I’d felt when my own sister killed herself; by creating a protagonist who was emotionally numb, I’d hoped to be able to tell her story without feeling the raw pain of her situation.

I rewrote the whole novel, this time fully inhabiting the main character, and it was the hardest rewrite I’d ever done, but the experience broadened my reach as a writer. Where previously I had invariably used humour in stories about difficult subjects such as bullying, now I found I could lay down that armour if I wanted to. It felt brave.

My agent sent the revised version out to publishers. They still found it ‘too quiet’ so I brought Drift out myself on September 10th 2015, to mark World Suicide Prevention Day. I later realised that my choice of publication date was almost exactly 40 years to the day after my sister’s death.

Drift has received wonderful reviews so far and has just been included in the list of books recommended by Cruse, the UK’s largest charity for the support of bereaved children, young people and adults. When I saw that on their website, I felt I had done what I set out to do.

http://jennyalexander.co.uk/young-adult

 http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/191030008X?keywords=jenny%20alexander&qid=1453380135&ref_=sr_1_6&sr=8-6 

Unexpected Encounters: The Stag

I’ve been thinking about unexpected encounters. 

The other evening, at dusk, I was driving along a small road at the bottom of the mountain, when I came upon a deer skittering down the road. And not just a deer, a half-grown stag with antlers so hard and heavy they seemed strangely at odds with his fragile legs, and lithe body.

In the moment before he noticed the car he seemed mysterious, and spirit-like. I stopped and watched him, spellbound.

Once he’d seen me, he changed. His body tensed, and he veered sharply off the road, heading for the safety of the trees. He didn’t see the fencing. His leg caught, and he flailed, before finding his feet again, and bounding off down the tarmac, panic-stricken.

I crawled the car after him, at a non-harassing distance. Soon he found an exit off the road, and was gone.

Moments of great writing seem to come to me like that deer. They arrive only occasionally, unannounced, and they take my breath away. I never want them to leave.

In order to get them to stay, I try to wrestle them into submission. But the struggle changes their shape, and they no longer hold the qualities that I wanted on my page: that mystery, that lightness, that fragile elegance.

So, how can we allow our words their freedom, but still keep them on the page, and serving the needs of our story?

The short answer: First we have to create a space for those unexpected words to arrive into. Then, we have to follow them as the crawling car followed that deer, keeping them in heart and mind, but not influencing their behavior unduly.

And the long answer, well, it would need much longer, and, for now, will have to wait.

This Week’s Writing Prompt

Spend a period of time outside, with a notebook and pen. If it’s warm enough, stay in one place. If not, go for a walk. You’re looking for anything that, for you, embodies the qualities of ‘mystery’,  ‘lightness’, or ‘fragile elegance’. When you find something, write a poem, or piece of prose about it.

The Wild Words Facebook page accepts guest blogs. Why not post your creative response to the prompt there! 

This blog was first published on February 22nd 2013

A Writer's Process: Barbara O Donnell

Writing started out as a way of processing my teenage world. 

I’ve been keeping a journal off and on since, and find it useful.

These days, writing is imperative. I work full time, running two operating theatres, at a major London teaching hospital. Since I no longer work unsocial hours, I’m able to schedule writing time somewhat more, though I don’t necessarily write every day.

I used to think that you had to be struck with a flash of inspiration in order to write anything worthwhile.

Now, I’ve learned that the flash is only about the initial idea and it doesn’t always come.

When it does, I get it onto paper or the notepad app on my mobile.  At first it appears like a lot of scraps, but they can often become something cohesive if you can find the patience to sit with them, by leaving them aside for a while. I have found missing verses to a poem this way.

Initially, I use paper to brainstorm ideas, especially for poetry. Lots of notes in margins, redrafting using numbered drafts. Words and punctuation appear and sometimes sound different on a piece of paper in your hand versus read off the computer screen.  The space around the words can be as important as the words themselves, especially in poetry.  A computer screen can dull the edges.

In 2015, I made the exciting jump from poetry and journal to non-fiction, interviews, flash fiction, opinion pieces and editing. The next task is learning to distinguish what form would best fit a piece that I’m brewing. 

Working as an editor on the alternative Irish Arts website, The Bogman’s Cannon, has been invaluable both for creative community and learning.  

Another helpful strategy, has been finding a friendly mentor, someone you can bounce ideas around with and who may agree to look at your work, paid of course.  A good editor will see your internal narrative and help guide both individual pieces and work as a whole, in the right direction.

When looking for inspiration, I try not to restrict myself to any one medium. The Artist’s Date is another layered idea that can bring many rewards.  See a textile exhibition or a play. If you are a traditional form writer, see some slam poetry.  Do the opposite of what you might normally do.  I don’t have any formal tertiary education in writing, but this is no barrier. 

Do workshops, make friends, carve out time where you can to be creative and find your voice.  

Sherlock Holmes

Blocked writers are often surprised when I don’t immediately ask to see examples of their work, in order to ascertain what is wrong, and what needs solving. My approach to bringing writers from block to flow, begins with the body. The body gives me all the clues I need. One of my heroes in this respect is Conan Doyle’s inspired detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  He is a master of observation. In the story The Adventure of The Stockbroker’s Clerk: -

‘I had never looked upon a face that had such marks of grief…of a horror, such as comes to few men in a lifetime. His brow glistened with perspiration. His cheeks were the dull, dead white of a fish’s belly and his eyes were wild and staring…He looked at his clerk as though he failed to recognise him.’

This is a vividly described, and extreme example of a human being in shock, paralysed, ceased up, blocked. Block is a continuum, and this is an extreme presentation of it. But wherever the writer is on that continuum, that is where the work begins.

Read the story at:

http://web.archive.org/web/20081002094602/http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/toc/modeng/public/DoyStoc.html

The Weekly Prompt

As you write, chart your physical responses to what your imagination throws up. When there is fear or excitement, you’ll become activated. You’ll probably notice that your heart speeds up, colour drains from your face, there is a tingling in your limbs. As the fear or excitement recedes, your heart will slow, colour will return to your face, your limbs will be cooler. Try not to always write from a place of activation. Too much unrelieved activation can lead to block.  The cycle of speeding up and then slowing down is important for sustaining your writing energy. 

First published December 5th 2013

A Writer's Process: Kriss Nichol

Kriss is the winner of the Wild Words Writing Competition which closed in December 2015. Here she talks about her creative process.

I write because I have to and am particularly interested in human nature, human existence and our relationship with the natural world.

I love the process of writing, of creating spaces between the words that allow creativity to take form and I love the intensity, when everything in the cauldron comes together and sparks a chain reaction. 

In 1997 I gave up my career as a teacher and senior manager of community education in a high school in Northumberland and set off to Nepal to work as a volunteer for VSO. This was to be a life-changing experience and provided me with the material for Magic Happens in the Dark. It is an autobiographical account, but the first problem I had was to present the ‘facts’ in a way that fit the brief.

When writing about events that happened within a different cultural setting and norms, the challenge was to convey and explain these without ‘telling’ all the time.

I therefore selected a couple of scenes to convey the alienation I felt first as a foreigner, then as a woman working in a hostile male environment, and finally as a woman whose sexuality was being suppressed by the culture.

I decided to open the story with a short description of the view from my flat and the longing for companionship then to move to the beheading and boiling of animals, a daily occurrence, which was woven into the theme of the story to be picked up later with the hot wax. The beheading also raised questions about male and female roles in that society that were then brought up in the workplace, enabling me to show scenes of the caste system and hostile male environment. There is also a ‘caste’ system amongst the westerners who worked there, as shown by the affluent wives of Embassy officials in the hotel, and a ‘no touching’ code of practice that has its effects on the main character in sexual repression.

In order to make the issues ‘real’ for the reader I had to find the right ‘voice’ for the main character and it took me several attempts till I was satisfied.

I also used sensual imagery, the fecundity and lushness of vegetation as a metaphor for her feelings.  This then led into the character’s slumbering, where the mistake is made, and culminated in her eventual awakening.

The Winter Solstice 2015 Competition Winning Story

Magic Happens in the Dark* 

By Kriss Nichol

(*From The Tree of Knowledge by Eva Figes)

Evening is the time I like best, when the night’s darkness still feels clean. My flat overlooks broken-down shacks that operate as shops during the day. By night the shacks are illuminated with kerosene lamps and smells of cooking fraternize with those of dust and baked earth, licking my nostrils, tantalizingly evocative of closeness and companionship. I scald with longing.

            Some neighbours tether a goat or boar outside before they ceremoniously behead them, the meat sold to supplement family incomes. Each day I see animal carcasses dropped into a cauldron of boiling water then scraped to remove the hair. After, they’re displayed on their backs, legs open to reveal the testicles—only the male of a species is ever killed.

I ask Santosh why.

            ‘Females are sacred, Madam, they are givers of life.’

I almost laugh, but cultural sensitivity prevents me. I know how women are treated here.

            We are joined by Vishnu Kharki, who glares at us from the doorway and Santosh scuttles away. Kharki stands, arms folded, sour-faced, trying to project the impression that I’m his secretary; in reality I’m here to train him. I’ve seen him before, looking at me, his eyes brooding darkness. Each time I catch him he quickly looks away, his documents suddenly needing intense scrutiny.

            ‘The Minister requires a report on the data from the last field trip. I’m going out; have it on his desk in the morning.’ His smile is malignant.

             ‘The data you wouldn’t let me see? The report that you wanted to write?’

            He laughs. ‘You misunderstood me. It is imperative it is on his desk in the morning.’

            ‘Then you have a lot of work to do,’ I say to his retreating back, the buttoned brown jacket straining over his spare tyre, his trousers slightly too short, wafting with each step. He ignores me. I grab my bag and pashmina, leaving the building with fists balled tight.

After a couple of blocks I’m outside the Shangri-la Hotel and beauty parlour. Since I arrived in Kathmandu my hair has grown shaggy. It sticks to my brow in curls and wisps rise in the humidity. My leg, bikini line and armpit hair have also flourished in this new environment. Suddenly I feel indistinct, an undefined, amorphous blob in the shalwar kameeze I wear for ‘decency’. A sandwich board at the entrance boasts special offers for beauty treatments and, deciding on some pampering to re-connect with my feminine side, I go in.

            I’m taken to a screened-off area at the back of the salon where two other women, wives of American Embassy staff, are lying on beds having foot and leg massages. Pop music is playing as I strip down to bra and pants, acutely aware that my functional underwear is showing signs of repeated hand washing and compares unfavourably with the Americans’ sexy, satin Wonderbras and skimpy briefs. The women look away, treating me with all the courtesy of a slammed car door, as I’m led past and positioned on a table next to them. Then the waxing begins.

            After the first strip is wrenched, thousands of tiny red pinpricks appear on the surface of my skin. They sting and itch, and with each application the wax gets hotter and hotter. Afraid my legs will suffer first degree burns before they’re finished, I empathize with the poor beheaded animals in buckets of boiling water.

            When it’s finally over I’m massaged and oiled, small fingers rubbing and soothing my most intimate creases. I grow hot, chest tight, and have difficulty controlling breathing. Oh, God, no. On this table, with those movements, my body is responding, speaking to me in ways I’ve forced myself to forget. I check furtively, my cheeks burning; no-one seems to have noticed. Eventually I relax, surrendering to the wash of eroticism.

            As I’m ushered to a chair positioned beside a window overlooking the exquisite gardens at the rear of the hotel I feel myself floating, my body just a whisper in the draft from overhead fans. Banana trees stand side by side with persimmon, apple and pineapple. Water fountains are being cleared of leaves and the swishing sounds of twig brushes, called besoms back home, hang gauzily in the afternoon sun. Birds and fruit bats wheel in the sky, flirting with the air in their aerial acrobats, rifling fruit on branches. Beguiled by the scene I am only just aware of being asked what hairstyle I want. I reply in Nepali, then drift off, back to the beauty of the garden.

The following morning I arrive early, slipping the scarf from my head as I sit down.

‘So sorry, Madam; has family member died?’

Santosh has brought some lemon tea and he and the other peons are bunched in the doorway, staring at my head.

            ‘No. Why?’

            ‘Madam... your hair.’

            Static between us holds like a web, swaying precariously.

            I start to laugh. Santosh’s worried face only makes me worse. At the Shangri-la I used the Nepali word for ‘shaved’ instead of ‘short’ and the hairdresser used a number two razor. Giggles bubble up from my belly and out my mouth, popping in the sterile, male atmosphere where a shaved head is a sign of respect for the dead.

            At that moment Kharki pushes through to discover the source of hilarity. The sight of his face, simultaneously a picture of horror, disbelief and disgust, sends me off into more gales of laughter. The men in the doorway look at each other with consternation and I border on hysterical.

This is my epiphany, the decisive moment when perspective is finally restored. I feel lighter, more alive; a lot more than my hair has been shed. With new-found awareness I appreciate the privilege of living at the top of the world, in a country of beauty and contradictions, having the experience of a lifetime.

Magic happens in the dark, when you’re not looking.