A Writer's Process: Robyn Curtis

My poem Climbing Kimber has been through various incarnations, one a bit too flabby, one too pretty, too gritty ... yet there it has stayed, the sky, the moor, the grey stone and rich heather and peat.

Kinder Plateau is my second home - after the downs of the Isle of Wight - and there it was the sea that fed the steel clouds and wind. But now living further north, limestone gives way to granite and some days only the tops and edges above the Edale valley will do.

I often start poems with an image from nature, usually on a walk which becomes a slow process if it's one of those days when I am stopping to scribble in my notebook every ten steps! I carry a small notebook that slips into a pocket and a soft pencil. I have become addicted to 3B pencils and their feel on the paper so nothing else feels right, though in extremis anything that makes a mark will do.

Images sometimes spark a personal memory - more often provoke a feeling which can take shape in the image. Although the sense in my poems is often of sadness, it is rarely exclusively sad because making an image, especially from nature, both gives the sadness expression and surprises us with a deeper joy, from both being in nature and in the act of creating itself.

I didn't write for many years;  like many of us, not listening to myself in the throes of family and career.

But I careered out of all that a number of years ago and have been coming to terms with health limitations alongside a deep need for self-realisation - said so often but it's so true, that if you are not doing what you feel you are meant to do, or being who you are meant to be, how can you find contentment?

So here I am in a new way of life: kids left home, obliging husband who gives me all the space I need and carries my lunch and camera up the hills; I have the luxury of a room to myself at the moment but that could change soon with enforced downsizing. I feel I could do without almost anything except a big table covered with art stuff that I just play with and my own room, however tiny, for just being alone in.

I don't actually write much in this room. I type things, amend things, play around, lie on the couch, talk to the cats - and I find all that 'nothing' time is vital for any creative process to grind into action somewhere out of awareness.

Then the writing, first draft, amendments, better wording, next level of ideas - all tend to pop into my head on the train, in a cafe, in the bath - I am looking for a waterproof writing set up for making notes in the shower!

So this poem comes after some considerable heartache dealing with the fallout from loss and trauma,

and earlier drafts featured heavily the gravestone/gritstone and running dark streams ... but as it evolved the moorland birds and sky and the great freedom and hope they bring would not be left out and I was so happy to find that I did actually feel I could live in both places -the darkness we must all navigate at times as well as the airy and magical spaces of the world and when you are up high you can really be with the birds there.

Thanks to Wild Words for giving me the opportunity to share with like minded writers - I am quite a beginner tip-toeing into the world. Good luck to everyone. 

The Rain

We’ve never had so much rain here. It’s charging down the mountainsides and refreshing the parched soil.

We hope it may even put water in our well three years after it dried up completely. Everywhere new rivers are springing into being. Energised by the melt-water from the snow on the high mountains, they’re carving themselves paths through the trees, and cadging free rides down the mountain gulleys. On Sunday, with a gap in the clouds, a group of us went for a walk. I love to walk, but mostly I do it alone.  I’m used to walking being a time for contemplation, when I invite poetry to nudge at my thigh, or brush its wing against my face.

This walk was different. It was full of chatter and laughter. Not very surprisingly, given the noise level, there were no animals to be seen, and no poetry came to me either.

I didn’t mind at all. I revelled in the companionship and light-heartedness of the expedition. With each step water gurgled under the clay soil like the unsettled stomach of the earth. It gushed and trickled and fizzed its way between rocks. It laughed and chattered alongside us.

We’d gone with the intention to look for animal tracks. The ground is usually parched and cracking here, which invariably means a race to catch the prints before they blow away as dust. Not this time. The story of the previous 24 hours in the life of this mountain was stamped in the mud. Paths were etched across the land like the wrinkles on an ancient face.  Tracks were everywhere: criss-crossing, overlapping, accompanying each other, and wiping each other out too.  Deer, wild boar, badger, and fox, to name just a few.

This week’s writing prompt: Rain

Listen to the rain. Listen to how it sounds when you’re inside, on the windows, walls and roof. Go outside and listen to how it sounds when it strikes trees, rock and other surfaces. How does it sound under your feet, and on your head?

If the rain were a conversation, how would it be communicating? It might be shouting, or cackling, whispering, squealing or muttering. Perhaps how it feels is clear too. It might be calm, or angry, hopeless or joyful.

Write a poem or piece of prose about it. Write first from your own point of view as you listen to it, and then from the point of view of the rain itself.

This blog was first published on February 13th 2013

Competition Runners-Up Story

English Girl

by Lucy Whetman

 

From the moment I arrived in Greece I felt that I had come to the right place.

My cheap night flight to Athens reached Ellinikon Airport at dawn. It was overdue by several hours. Though ship lights had marked the distance to a black Aegean as the plane descended, by the time I walked across the tarmac I could see Mount Hymettos. The mountain’s wide-angle outlines ranged out against a warming sky: a horizon that seemed open with expanded possibilities and the freedom to learn. I had launched myself into a new life as an English teacher and now on this luminous September morning it was to start.

In the arrivals terminal I found George, the bleary, soft-eyed son of my soon-to-be employer.

“I’m sorry I’m so late,” I told him.

George bridled. “Why? It’s not your fault. It was the flight.”

“No, but…” I laughed. “I suppose it isn’t. You look tired though.”

He shrugged. “I will sleep later, it is not a problem. My father was here but he went home when we heard there was a delay. He has to work today.”

“You don’t?”

“Later when the school is open I will do something, but now no. I am the youngest son so I get to stay at home and do nothing.”

George’s smile said he was aware he was a Benjamin: the best-loved (and loveable) baby boy. Chubby and round-cheeked he may have been, but his swept-back hair held waves of grey.

“How old are you?” he asked, as if he read my thought.

“I’m 28. You?”

“Twenty-four. You look younger.”

“Yes? I probably act that way too.”

We reached a white saloon in the car park and stowed my luggage.

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” George asked.

“Two younger brothers. I’m the oldest but I’m not the grown-up and responsible one.”

“The black sheep of the family?” His eyes gleamed.

“Perhaps. I have to do things my own way.”

In the car George offered me a cigarette: Karelia, a Greek brand, and we cruised along the empty coastal highway past showrooms of illuminated chandeliers. I had not slept much either but it felt as if I was coming home after a very late night out. I felt buoyed up by excitement, hedonistic, liberated by the perspective on a new day from the other side.

The sun grew brighter and people began to move about the hilly suburbs, setting off from neat houses to commute. Towards the centre we passed through rows of still-closed shops with signs in unfamiliar script and high neoclassical facades of faded elegance, fronded mouldings and wrought iron. We came to Kallithea, the southern district where I was to live.

George halted the Alfa Romeo in a narrow street of balconied buildings, lined with bitter orange trees. We heaved my suitcases up marble steps and shuffled into the confines of the lift. Winding upwards a few floors, we stopped at George’s family apartment.

George knocked before we entered and I waited in the hall. After an interval of shuffling sounds and low voices his father appeared.

“Good morning,” he growled. “I am Mr Antonis Papidis, owner and Director of Studies of the Papidis School of Foreign Languages. This is my wife Vasso. We hope that you will perform your duties here in a professional and conscientious manner.”

“I’ll do my best,” I assured him.

Mr Papidis was small and puffy-faced. A sticky-looking wisp of his hair stood up like a wilted crest. Vasso stood behind him, primly coiffured in a peach towelling robe. We shook hands formally.

“I was at the airport with George for some hours,” Mr Papidis rasped. “But it was too late so I, urrrgh,” he waved a hand, “George brought me back. The other teacher Emma will not be here until the 20th so you will stay in our guest flat until she comes.”

“I thought that you needed us straight away.” Mr Papidis had been insistent when I spoke to him on the telephone that I should be in Athens by September the 10th.

“Commencement of lessons will be on the 21st,” he intoned, “Until then you may rest and make preparations. Call here after 9.30 this evening and we will go for dinner with my family.”

He held up some keys. “George, take her to the flat.”

Thus dismissed, George and I proceeded to the tiny garçonnière flat on the rooftop. It was as high and light as a mountain eyrie. Sun streamed in from the balcony through glass doors. George demonstrated how to switch on the hot water, ignite the cooker and haul the roller shutter. A bagful of essentials sat in the kitchen: tinned Nescafe and evaporated milk, sugar, bread rusks, foil-wrapped cheese and jammy biscuits.

“My sister Maria bought these. Maybe there is something you will like,” said George.

“This is everything I need.”

George left and I made coffee, boiling water in a slim briki pot on the gas ring. I drank it creamy and sweet. I floated in a pleasant limbo, removed from my old life in England and content to know that different experiences were coming. I looked out at the stacked-up homes of my newly acquired neighbours. Their balconies were bright with drying laundry and vibrant pink geraniums.

Mr Papidis might be a challenge but I had met slyer dogs than him. At least he barked to warn that he might bite. I was lucky. Native English-speaking teachers were in demand in Greece. By the fortune of my birth I could bring Mr Papidis valuable students. My future boss needed me as much as I needed him.

Before sleeping I meandered into the bathroom and peered through its window at the far Athens skyline. Above the concrete cubes floated a pale, flat rock crowned by a temple. I was astonished once again that I was living within view of the Acropolis.

A Writer's Process: Lucy Whetman

 

‘English Girl’ is part of a longer project about time I spent living in Greece.

When I read Bridget’s prompt for the competition I thought it summed up what this section is about. I reworked the piece in the light of the entry guidance about bringing in ‘the wild’ and that helped to strengthen it.

I like to write about real-life experiences because I want to understand why certain times and events hold such significance for me. Trying to create a coherent account of what happened, and why, forces me to make sense of it in order to communicate it in words on the page. With this story in particular I wanted to show the excitement of arriving in a new country and the way that an unfamiliar culture taught me to see myself and my life differently. From the moment I landed I began to change.

What gets in the way when I write is my own critical side.

My job is as a sub-editor means that this gets plenty of use, so it is challenging but fun to use a different part of my brain, to let go of any pressure to produce something that is ‘right’ first time, and be surprised by what does come out. When I look back at old drafts of this piece and notice how much it has changed, I may think that the latest version is best but I know that it would not exist without the previous ones.

If I get stuck when I am writing, I make myself stop and go for a walk or a bath. I love what pops into my head when I am no longer thinking about it.

What helps is useful feedback and any encouragement, especially from other writers. I like reading the work of other developing writers, particularly memoirists. Hearing people’s own individual stories written in their own words is fascinating.

I do not know what will happen next with this project.

The process itself motivates me. I want to find out what this memoir will become, and I enjoy the feeling that I am learning and improving as a writer.

At the moment I am altering the structure and the memoir is expanding. I have discovered that the main theme is not what I originally thought it was, which is great because the new theme is much better.

How To Write Your Memoir

These are my full responses to a series of questions asked by Susannah Hickling, for her article How To Write Your Memoir, published in Saga Magazine April 2016. Excerpts from these answers appear in the article. 

1.       What are the emotional benefits of writing a memoir?

Most of us, at one time or another, experience events in our lives that feel unfinished, traumatic, or are just highly emotional. At these times, energy can become stuck in our nervous systems. This can cause tension and ill health. Writing a memoir enables us to process that stuck energy and allow the emotions to move through and out. For that reason, telling our stories is profoundly liberating. Stories enable us not only to thrive in life, but also to survive.

Writing a memoir can also allow us to feel in control of, and gain perspective on our lives. It can give us a sense of closure close towards the end. Autobiographical work can ensure stories are not lost, and lives are not forgotten. It can pass information on to future generations, Our stories can entertain, inspire and motivate those around us, and those who come after us.

As well as that, simply feeling heard and understood is health-giving, to an extent that I think we are only just starting to appreciate. 

2.       To what extent can writing a memoir help you reassess your life or come to terms with an episode in it?

When we write we gain perspective on our lives. We come to understand our own motivations, and see how we have repeated certain patterns of behaviour over time.  This space to notice, is also space to both appreciate what we have achieved, and to decide to do certain things differently in future.

To some extent the stories we tell ourselves about our past lives are fictions. Our memories are very selective. Ever noticed how, if you ask three people to relate an event they were all present at thirty years previously, they will all tell a different version of the story?  This creative tendency is helpful to us, because it allows us, whilst remaining true to the events that have happened, to re-frame in a positive light, any event or person that we have had difficulty with in the past. We can also decide to appreciate ourselves, and the good intentions we have held through life.

3.       To what extent can it help to bring a family together or heal a rift?

In families, over time, so much can become ‘unsayable’. Unresolved disputes and points of tension, the longer they are left, because increasingly difficult to talk about, for fear of impasse, anger or upset. Small issues become magnified. Miscommunications that are not corrected, can lead to family members feeling misunderstood, or unappreciated.

When we write a memoir telling our view of events, in an honest and non-conflictual way, this can help others to understand our position. It can correct myths, and connect disparate pieces of information, to give others a broader, more balanced view of events.

Having a shared history of events to be celebrated, and mourned, can help future generations to take what is useful into the future. It can also enable them to put down disputes and ways of behaviour that have been passed from one generation to the next, but are unhelpful.

While revealing previously untold information can sometimes cause distress amongst family members, it is more often a source of relief to all involved. To keep secrets takes energy, and involves living with a level of fear. To give up those secrets is liberating.

4.       What practical advice can you give about how to approach writing a memoir? What are the really important things people should know before they begin? How should they go about assembling material? What research should they do?

Do the research to find out the facts that you need to know to tell the story. And no more. Research can be never-ending. Don’t drown in it!

When writing a memoir, it’s easy to get overwhelmed by the sheer volume of documents, and other source material. It’s sometimes hard to know where to start, and how to structure material. In order to avoid this, chunk the process down.  Before you start writing, decide how long you want the finished product to be. You might even like to write a two-sentence summary for each chapter.  Come to your writing desk each day knowing which piece of the story you are going to work on, and how long you will work for.

The easiest way to tell an effective story, that hooks the reader, is this: Choose a lead character (it may be you), through whose eyes you will see events.  Decide what they want to achieve (money, happiness, a relationship, family, work status etc.) Follow them through, on a journey to achieve that goal. Have the reader learn information through their eyes. Finish the story when they achieve, or fail to achieve their aim.

Be realistic about how much time you have to give to the project. Underestimate, rather than overestimate. You want to build your confidence over time by succeeding in the tasks you set yourself.

The primary reasons people read (whether we realise it or not), is in order to feel. To engage a reader, you have to be able to put emotion on the page. In order to do that, you first have to be willing to re-live those emotions yourself.

Be aware that writing about emotional events, particularly distressing ones, can be challenging. Take it slowly, and be kind to yourself. Notice if you have trouble making contact with upsetting memories, as this might affect how well you can write them. If you can’t bear to think about something, you are probably not yet ready to write about it.

If the material is challenging, and you feel that the emotions are likely to overwhelm you, bring in a writing tutor, editor, or understanding friend to support you.

Remember that even when writing about real-life events, you will most likely need to use your imagination to write them in the most impactful way. Creating or changing small details of events or characters is not ‘lying’ if it serves the interest of the wider picture, and deeper themes of the story, and makes it a better read.

Be sensitive to how others will feel about what you write, but remember, you are not responsible for the feelings of others. If you suspect sadness, distress or anger is likely to be directed your way, that’s not a reason, necessarily, to decide not to write the book, or to avoid describing certain events.

5.       What should a memoir writer definitely NOT do or include?

Try not to over use phrases such as ‘I remember’, or ‘when I was young’.  They are clichés and send the reader to sleep!  

Don’t tell the reader too much information. Instead show it through dialogue or action. Write so that the reader can visualise the scene.

It is not advisable to write from feelings of unresolved anger, or jealousy. Don’t write if you are motivated by revenge. If you are antagonistic, that will result in equally antagonistic reactions.  Whilst you must be true to the reality of events, it’s helpful, wherever possible, to resolve personal internal tensions around family situations before entering into the writing. It can help to bear in mind that no-one is perfect, and that we all want to be happy. We all do the best we can in life, given our emotional and practical resources at the time. The process of research can be useful in this respect. It can help us to understand what motivated others. In general, the more we understand people, the more we come to have sympathy for them. The events do not change, but our relationship to them does.

6.       How might the process differ between writing for personal reasons and writing for publication?

You may have to provide more contextual information for a public that does not know you personally. Also, the emphasis may change. A wider public might be more interested in your family’s role in historical events, while the immediate family might like to know about the details of relationships, for example.

It can sometimes make us feel vulnerable or exposed to write about personal issues, or to show our emotions. This may be amplified, the bigger the intended audience is.

Depending on your audience, you always have a choice as to what you reveal and what you conceal of yourself and those you know, or have known. You can still be honest and authentic in your writing, and tell a great story, whilst deciding to withhold certain pieces of information. A good example of this is Helen MacDonald’s Book ‘H is For Hawk’.  She tells an impactful story about grief over the death of her father, whilst maintaining her family’s privacy by not talking in depth about the dynamics within their family. However, if there are certain facts, episodes or people you do not wish to mention, you need to think about how to set up the story, to still satisfy the reader.  They must not be led to expect the revealing of information that doesn’t happen. This leads to very grumpy readers!

Above all, tell a story that you feel passionate about telling, the one that you can’t stop thinking about, the one that needs to be told. 

A Writer's Process: Ann Palmer

Decades ago, I initiated the teaching of Creative Writing at several Colleges of Adult Education. My two qualifications: a primary teaching certificate and publication as a children's short story and article writer.

Back then, no guidelines existed for Creative Writing teachers.  Fortunately I like experimenting with creativity.

My reasoning was that the first word of the course was creative and all my students could write anyway. I ordered thirty books on Creative Writing from the States and quickly became fascinated by right brain led methods.

One student, a rocket-scientist, (really!) doodled all over his file while I talked. Eventually I asked Mark why he doodled. Mark told me it kept him switched on in boring lectures! That is, it kept his whole brain engaged; the doodling ensuring his right brain was activated.

A few years after this, I wrote my book on Creative Writing – 'Writing and Imagery: How to deepen creativity and improve your writing'. 

I had to change my pen-name to A.J. Palmer, the male look-alike, as the publisher believes male authors carry more academic credibility than women!

Today I am an eco-lyricist. I put eco-lyrics to well-known and much loved songs, carols and hymns. As my EcoCarols project had attracted global educational interest, I decided the next stage was to work up a musical script. It was to consist video-clips to expand on the lyrics of fifteen EcoCarols.  I knew how to do this.

On a playwriting course, we were asked to produce fifty action images to kickstart the creative process. So the method was familiar. Yet, for a whole year I put off doing it. The fact I had written a book on the power of imagery as a fantastic aid in the writing process (backed up by the experience of a rocket scientist who went on to earn a six figure sum for his fantasy trilogy) didn't seem to make any difference. Unsurprisingly, the longer I put it off, the bigger the block became. I willingly tackled other writing projects, rather than face that big block!

So, my advice is a threesome. Stay open-minded. Draw or otherwise engage your right brain. If a block feels big, remember the adage: the bigger the block, the greater the breakthrough.

It's a lesson I am relearning right now!

                                                                                                         http://www.gaiadancebooks.com/

The Fly

So, as everyday, I’m sitting in a room, inside my house, and my mind is inside that other box that is my computer.

There are three levels of separation between me and the world. The walls are white, textureless, the floor is equally flat.

The desk is polished wood. The books are ordered on the shelf. The extractor fan in the kitchen has been on, so nothing smells of anything anymore. The double-glazed window is closed. Outside, who knows what temperature it is. The front door of my house is locked. Nothing can get in, or out - not even noise.

This is my controlled environment, where I bring life to my characters and their world, where I CREATE. Except I don’t.

I stare at the flat white walls, drum my fingers on the smooth polished desk, scuff my feet on the varnished floorboards.

And then, the final straw. God only knows how, but a fly gets in, and flies around. Except, (in retrospect) it doesn’t just fly. It completes a slalom course across the room. The buzzing powers in and fades as it flashes and jerks its way towards me. It zigzags, sketching a circle around me, then it careers straight at me and whispers in my ear. It smells of dog shit and rancid oil.

It distracts me. I try to ignore it and get on with my work.

Now it steers a straight course for the window, and accelerates, a Kamikaze pilot on a mission. It hurls itself against the glass, and rebuffed, soars upward, arcing. Close to the ceiling it cuts its engine, and drops towards the light. The silence of the drone.

This time I am ready, hate-filled, with a rolled up copy of the previous draft of my novel. They make hollow contact. The fly spins, and slides inanimate down the windowpane.

What a relief. Now I can get back to being creative-not.

This sad story happened some time back. These days I’m beginning to learn that are many more original and impactful words for ‘fly’, but only if we can learn to see the fly, so to speak. I wonder how many thousands of times I’ve killed the teacher of vitality and creativity because I thought the answer lay somewhere else?

This article was first published on September 20th 2012

Winter Solstice Writing Competition 2015: Runner Up

Black, Red and Yellow

by Karen Lethlean

When she was eight, her father had taken her ‘walkabout’ in the outback. He had taken her by herself, and she remembered the glory of being completely his, and him being completely hers. She did not remember why he had chosen her, and why he had left her sister behind.

They had taken a late night plane. Before too long they were landing in Alice Springs at dawn: she did remember him carrying her off the plane and camera, which he carried as close to his chest as he carried her: he put her down on the tarmac to take a photo of the rising sun He turned to her and said – what had he said?

For you to remember.

As they drove a wide, new highway away from the airport toward town buildings appeared to nestle in a folded hillside, rather than stuck out like in the city.

She had never been anywhere so hot, confusing when she’d left inner Sydney in chilled rain.   Neither could she recall being awake so early in the morning.

Of that trip, all she remembered were scattered moments of joy: meeting cousins who played and laughed in just the same way as her friends at school, yet who sounded truer, more real, and who looked beautiful, despite being brown.

At school class mates had said, ‘you will be the fast runner, you can’t be pretty or smart because you are an aboriginal.’ With an emphasis that made it sound like ab-bow-riginal. As if Jenny might have to bend like a bow for shooting arrows, or be tied in knots like a hair-bow.

In ‘Alice’, and the even smaller towns, settlements, whatever they were called, long legged, straight white teethed girls could easily have strutted down modelling cat-walks. You could play sport just for fun, chase a ball, and run the dry creek beds without straining to be better than everyone else.

True, there were frightening locals who gathered in shouting groups on some street corners. Who didn’t seem to pay attention to rubbish her teachers would have said, ‘needed to be picked up.’ Those people seemed to use words like sharp objects, or were flopping their thin limb around in unfriendly gestures. But even in Sydney there were people like that she knew to avoid.

Everyone seemed to be called ‘Uncle or Aunty’ even if they weren’t. Some were trouble, some could do tricks like making their thumbs disappear, or coins come out of your ears. And all their faces were varying shades of brown – from tan to blue-black-brown. No matter what skin, Jenny stood among them not apart from them.

If she was not playing with cousins Jenny was sitting in her father’s lap as he relaxed on a cool, wide verandas, and gazed out at a shimmering place that was just called “country”.

Safe within this family she would listen to a mix of language that to her ear resembled a jumble of sounds rather than words. Jenny had no idea her father could speak another language.

Sometimes she would doze off and would wake to find everything cloaked in gentle darkness. But no matter, the heavens were alive with Guy Fawkes Night sparklers, ‘they’re what the stars look like away from the city,’ her father had assured.

Out here her father seemed to have gained a straighter, stronger back, more powerful arms, and insights to all sorts of secrets Jenny would never have guessed. Not least of all was how he seemed to know the way across dusty tracks.

A few of the places where they had visited ‘the mob’ were dry and dusty, some houses burnt, graffiti covered, with scabby looking dogs who wandered about aimlessly. Except for fewer dogs, she’d seen worst in Sydney.

Jenny was surprized to find some fridges in the store behind strong wire frames and chained closed with padlocks. Even once, in the town, a policeman near the counter had scoured at her like her father was doing something wrong by getting out a cold drink.

It’s his job to make sure I aren’t buying booze to take into dry settlements, or give to under aged kids. Had been her father’s explanation which, to Jenny, explained nothing.

One night, they were coming home late, and she was talking to him, she remembered, but he was quiet, listened and laughed at whatever silliness she was saying. He looked out of the window into the dark night, and then cried out suddenly. Finally he said, ‘do you like it here?’

Her father then swerved and stopped, leaped out of the car, his hand outstretched to her, and she knew that hand would always be there as an offering. ‘Come darling,’ he said. She slid into the dark, the back of her knees sliding across the sweaty, dusty seat.

He stamped about, bear-footed. His bird like steps lifted dust from the ground. Jenny had never seen her father dance.

See if you can catch the land, keep it inside, and take it up into your heart through your feet, my baby.

While Jenny thought she’d never heard of anything quite so silly. How could you make something go to your heart sucked up from the souls of your feet? Here, she loved him, for those words.

If she’d been able to put it into an envelope and post it to her adult self, anytime in the future when she opened it red dust, dark skies and burning fires would have fallen out.