This Writing Lark

 

                                                         Awww… Shit.

                                                         This writing lark.

                                                         It’s like waiting all night in the freezing cold

                                                         eyes glued to the hillside

                                                         Praying for a glimpse

                                                         Giving everything

                                                         Everything-

                                                         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

                                                       winding away

                                                      Until it vanishes.

                                                      And,

                                                      heart sinking

                                                      I know.

                                                     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.

                                                                                                -Bridget Holding

So, What's It All About, This 'Wild Words' Thingy?

It can feel like it’s about…

…freeing the words that have been trapped inside us for decades, and having that conversation

…writing the novel that has the page-turning quality of a Dan Brown

…attaining guru status like Paulo Coelho  

…proving our worth to our father

…standing on stage at The Apollo Theatre

…becoming financially secure

…the world recognising the master songwriter we know we’ve always been

…writing the dedication

…choosing the text and art work for the cover

And, of course, that’s all part of it.

But the bigger thing rumbles underneath.

It’s the yearning to express that we carry round with us, like a wild animal howling through the dark wood.

Our heart aches- for what?

To find the words that can express the strength of our inner experience (imagined or remembered, owned or given to a fictional character) in words.

To feel. To find the channel for the upsurge of emotion.

To express it 

To contain it

Perfectly.

To be heard.

Doing the washing-up, sending a work email, bathing the kids, we sometimes find ourselves inspired by an idea, stopped in our tracks by an image, catching a glimpse of our wild words. The words that want to be expressed, the story that needs to be told.

Like those moments in the forest, on the trail of the wild animal, when we see an amber eye glinting in dusk light, a flash of a tail through the dew-filled undergrowth, a paw print in virgin snow... Tantalising… Calling us to come closer. Warning us to stay away.

 

The Process

There are as many different forms of words as there are creatures in the forest, squeaking, roaring, galloping, crawling, grunting wild creatures all, but whatever the form, the process is much the same.

It has two parts: which must be kept distinct if we are to avoid our human-storyteller-animal freezing (commonly know as creative or writer’s block).

Stage 1: The first draft. Written from instinct.

This necessitates trusting that we are all natural storytellers, and knowing that we’re doing something worthwhile (Don’t believe me? Read this.)

Write the draft straight through, from beginning to end, when you’re feeling fresh, and connected to the emotion of the narrator or lead character. (Struggling to connect to the emotions? Here’s a blog that will help.)

Stage 2:  The subsequent drafts. Here, welcome in the kindly critic.

Bring in techniques that will help you to express on the lips or the page, what you want to express. Use them consciously, precisely.  (Stick with Wild Words for 2017, and you’ll have all the precise techniques you’ll ever need by the end of the year).

After repeated use, the techniques of stage 2 will drop down into the unconscious, and become instinctual. You will find you increasingly use them in the first draft stage.

For those working with oral storytelling and communication:

The process is much the same. Stage 1 is saying what you need to say, without judging yourself. Stage 2 is consciously learning skills that enable you to do stage 1 more skillfully, appropriately and impactfully, the next time around.

Block to Flow

We yearn to express ourselves. However, what keeps our words caged is that we also fear it. We are terrified that if all that energy inside is let loose, it will rampage, destroying ourselves, or another.  Think of the tiger in the jungle. He’s such a majestic creature. We crave a sighting, but we are panic-stricken at the idea of looking him in the eye.

At Wild Words we don’t just unbolt the door of the cage. That’s not the way to the best self-expression. 

If we do that, more often than not, the words cower in the back of their cage, terrified by their change in circumstances. Then we’re faced with our stuttering self on stage, or days spent staring at the blank page. Or, we spit words that we regret, often at those we love most. There’s that tiger attacking the person who unlocked their cage.

And in people with a history of trauma, sudden release of energy can result in patterns of trauma being re-enforced. There’s that tiger attacking your very soul.

No, there’s an art to bringing the aliveness that lies within, out and into form. Rather than crank up the resistance, we work with respect for the survival strategies (those metaphorical bars) that have kept those words in, often for years, out of concern for our safety.

There are techniques, mind-blowing ones (start here) for tempting those wild words out, for opening up that pure channel of communication between our self, our character or narrator, and the reader or listener.

The Result

Then we find that our words are living, breathing, perspiring creatures, more vivid, engaging and vital than we could ever have imagined possible.

They rise up through our body, dance off our lips, pour onto the page.

They live fully, broadly, and deeply. And so do we.

Then we have, indeed, cleared a path through the woods to becoming the next J. K Rowling, Kate Tempest, or whoever it is who lights our fire.

And you know what we find once we’ve tracked down our wild words?

That the only thing that really matters is the feeling of being a free, roaring creature, more alive than we’ve ever felt before, roaming our vast territory…

Writing Competition Runner-Up: Bob Woodroofe

There have been all sorts of influences that led to the poem ‘Chettywynde’.

"I’ve walked plenty of paths and explored lots of different ways on the journey through life itself and my own personal one. I suppose it all started when my life was derailed by divorce.
At the time my then teenage daughter gave me a copy of Robert Frost’s poem ‘The road not taken’ which was very astute of her. My poem’s title, although it’s Anglo Saxon, I found in ‘Songlines’, Bruce Chatwin’s book about the Aboriginal dream time. Kim Taplin’s ‘The English Path’ is full of a host of references to the way that people have looked at the ‘path’. The literature is littered with the phrase ‘Solvitur ambulando’ translated it means ‘Work it out by walking’ which sums it up nicely. The poem I submitted is only the current version, one of several that have been created and developed over time. A previous version was slanted towards what many perceive as the right way, the pursuit of monetary wealth, and my subsequent abandonment of that in search of an existence closer to the land and to nature. The road less travelled you might say. No doubt there are others versions still to come."

Bob was runner-up in the Wild Words Summer Solstice Writing Competition, in 2016. This is his poem. 

Chettywynde*

Words are but steps on the page,
just one begins a lifetime’s journey.
Press your pen to the paper, let it flow
on till you reach the end of the line.

A single step, press your sole
to the ground, raise it, lower it,
again, again, feel the earth,
the blade of grass, grain of soil.

Listen to your heart’s beat
let your feet follow the scent,
track the spoor that leads ahead.
Mark your steps in the morning dew.

Be scared, feel the adrenalin rush.
That pulse of energy from the earth,
wild river in flood, forest fire raging.
Take the chance, run, run for your life.

Yes, you will stumble, down you will fall.
Heed the path’s call, haul yourself up,
brush off the dirt, ignore the hurt,
struggle on, even if you have to crawl.

Against the flow, the way you want,
stride out, keep on along the trail
The faint track, the winding path,
not hollowed by the feet of time.

Take time to stop and stare,
explore, ramble where you will.
See the sun rise, watch it set,
When weary, rest, then travel on.

Go walkabout, follow your dream,
lose yourself, then find your way.
Till you find that place, your home,
peace, at the end of the road.

Sense when the end is in sight,
when the journey is finally done.
Then the words no longer flow
and the poem of life is over.

*Anglo Saxon for the winding path

Website www.greenwoodpress.co.uk

Mushrooming Words

We head into the dark centre of the forest, where even the intense sunlight of Southern France can only sometimes penetrate, freckling the ground.

The tall, skinny pines wave wildly in the wind. Underfoot is a spongy layer of pines cones, decaying leaves and the bristling shells of last year’s chestnuts. Everything is mud brown, except the swathes of green ferns that fill the clean mountain air with a smell like freshly cut grass.

To find the small, early season Girolle mushrooms, I will have to learn how to really SEE. The more I can see, the better I will write. I clamber over fallen tree trunks. Creepers lasso my feet. The ferns give way under me and I sink into the swamp. The pine branches that I grab for are hollow, and break off in my grazed hands. There’s an area of newly crushed ferns the size of a large pig. The Sanglier (wild boar), have been there.

There is no sun to steer by now and I am disorientated. It’s difficult to scan the ground and stay in touch with my companions at the same time. I lose sight of them, and the sound of them fades away too.

Fear spikes me. Then I hear the screeching, the rasping of wild creatures.

The fear is terrible for a moment, but there is no-where to run to, so I just stay put. I listen to the sounds, increasingly awe-filled.

After a time something shifts, and I realise I’m doing what I went there to do. The wildness is no longer ‘out there’. I’m no longer pushing it away. And what I’ve experienced I will be able to express later in words. A human call rescues me, reassures me. Apparently the noises are just the stems of trees rubbing against each other in the wind. I’m almost disappointed. Back to the treasure hunt.

Several times in the next three hours I trumpet with joy one minute, only to deflate the next.

I find a mushroom whose stem excretes milk. There’s another one that under its fleshy umbrella is flecked with red, like spilt wine. But both of these are dangerous, not to be touched.

Then, at last I spy Girolles, their sandy yellow canopies blossoming out of the moss. And the elation answers all the fears. When I eat one it tastes, surprisingly, of pepper. I take the harvest home with me, and later, the vivid experience of the day works its way through me and out, weaving itself into words.

A Writer's Process: Riham Adly

It’s not an easy thing, writing in English in a country like Egypt.

The urge to write started when daddy got sick with stage 3 pancreatic cancer. The urge to read started when daddy passed away. I was living in Dubai. The tragedy forced my family to return to Egypt, my supposed home.

The cultural shock was massive. It was hard adapting to the pollution, the incessant car horns, and a purely judgmental society, which doesn’t welcome anyone veering off the stereotype. It’s been 20 years now since I came back, so has anything changed? I’ve been through two revolutions. Presidents ousted and presidents elected. Did things get any better?

I decided not to ask myself this question and instead throw my mad jumble of passion and fear into writing. I had a setback for some years when I started dental school; I had tried to fit in, by hiding what I really loved because it was looked down on and considered silly. To write stories is to be silly.

It took me another 4 years to start writing again after graduation. I attended a writing class in Cairo, and for once I didn’t feel like an alien.

I let the words flow, and got to know my muse. She was wild, unkempt in her ways and even a bit sly.

She got carried away sometimes trespassing into restricted zones. I had to keep her in check, every once in a while. I had a young adult manuscript ready. I asked my creative writing instructor to provide feedback and edit. She agreed to do it for a fee, which was fair enough, and after weeks of  being milked dry, and spending hundreds of  Egyptian pounds, I was told that my work was rubbish and not worth wasting time on.

My writer friends call me Rose, friends I got to know through winning the “MAKAN AWARD” local writing contest in Egypt. Roses are a symbol of love, and sensuality, but also a reminder of change. A bud blooms beautifully, only to lose its petals and shrivel into the earth. Its scent meanders through memory like the sweet surmise of a soliloquy spoken in the darkest of silences.

Today after years of struggling with life’s duties and heart’s desires, I proudly host my own book club in Cairo.

I’ve managed to publish more short stories online and a short story collection is on the way.

Roses are my companions. I buy a bouquet every week, to grace the ornate vase on my vintage writing desk, also adorned with painted roses. I jot down ideas in floral notebooks, and seek inspiration from a Kashmiri floral tapestry hung on my sky-blue walls. I can’t have a private garden here in Cairo, but only I can control my present and my future. 

I must travel long to find my true self and true voice, but it’s worth every tear-stained moment, and every crippling bend in the road.  

Creative Creatures

The first step on the journey to finding our storyteller-hero, our writer in-the-wild, is to realise that throughout our lives, like a great artist, we are continually making creative choices.

Our lives are like clay, malleable and full of potential.

The force of the imagination in the human being is not to be underestimated. As Jonathan Gottschall remarks in his book ‘The Storytelling Animal’, human beings have no trouble at all making things up, i.e. telling stories. In fact, we have trouble not making a narrative out of anything and everything we come across!

Creativity infects everything. 

Let’s look at the example of deciding to write an autobiography. Ever noticed that in the re-telling of a past event, those who were present can have completely different memories of what happened? In the very act of making memories we select and edit the material of our lives. And when we write down our life story, we necessarily re-edit our already creative memories, to make the narrative work.

It’s not only in re-viewing and recording the years of our life gone by, that we make creative choices. We do it in every new life situation we encounter. We always have a choice as to how we think and act (even if the range of choices available is not necessarily what we would wish). We can realise this, take responsibility for our choices, and thereby feel in control of our life, or, we can see ourselves as a victim of life events over which we have no control. The former gives us strength and health. The latter brings fear and ill health.

Our ability to make choices in our life as a whole feeds in to how well we make choices during the storytelling and writing process. It also gives rise to the evidence observable on the page, and the clues held in the tone, vocabulary, grammar and rhythm of our spoken words.  When we make pro-active choices at appropriate times in the storytelling process, we come closer to behaving like the truly wild animal, responding appropriately to its environment. We become better speakers and writers. Writers-in-the-wild.

Our words are like clay, equally malleable and full of potential.

It’s time to stop thinking of them as flat and unmoving on the page, or as lacking grace, flow and passion when they leave our mouths. It’s time to start regarding them as wild animals in the woods, clay in our hands. They are a physical substance that can be bent shaped moulded, and toyed with until a powerful form arises, seemingly of its own volition.

Writing Competition Runner Up: Robyn Curtis

Through The Wood

Don't fear this wood

though its thin growth shivers your skin;

these mists and whispers,

this slightness is your own voice;

 

it doesn't matter

what shape, what leaning, each leaf, tree

what weeping, what bright blazing -

each has his own mould;

 

once you too were floating spores

settling on the skin of ripe fruits

like a balm or an irritation,

a bloom or a pallid woe;

 

briar can cling, entwine with runners

but puts her own roots in the soil;

a seed falling on good ground doesn't need a gardener.

 

***

 

so take wing with the linnets in the evening;

settle on a branch

fly off

tap tap the earth where you will

perch on the shoulder of another

they will be pleased to hold your weight a while.

 

And if there's bleeding from thorn and bramble

walk right through

like a dreamer

it's only pain leaving -

 

only listen to your forest sounds,

your special friends trust

that your bird-tongue

speaks your truth.

 

This poem came through several incarnations – I knew I wanted to write about a transformative process and that it had to be in nature.

I also wanted a mythological feel and was thinking of Persephone – but it didn’t really come to life until I put my own self into it. I also wanted it to be a kind of help, a teaching, that it is OK to go into the darkness when you have to. Resisting is not going to get you through to the other side. And the other side is more of a self not tossed around by the needs and wishes of others, but a self who can know pain, be OK that it hurts but also know you can be as light as a bird once you know that you are really free in your soul. Sounds a tall order! But I find the more I am in nature, the more I am helped to see the way through difficulty – not by avoiding but by being part of our world in all its pain and glory.

It's really just about becoming oneself, I suppose – sounds easy! But for many of us it is far from easy. It’s worth the walk in the woods though – there is so much to learn. Autumn's my favourite time of year, September, colouring up and ripening and the air moving. It’s been a hard summer, grief coming unexpectedly in the middle of holidays. So I welcome Autumn even more than usual. The house martins have flown off leaving a strange quiet round the house. Harvests are in and the fields and hills losing their August gold as we all start to think about preparing for winter in a slightly leaky house. It’s gathering time and a good healing to collect wood, light fires, share some cosiness with our loved ones.

And out with the notebook and wait to see what comes along. 

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to share my poem and thoughts on WildWords and, as Winter moves in, I hope you've all had a fruitful Autumn. 

Writing Competition Runner Up: Nina George

I am a writer. This has been difficult to say and own about myself, submitting my writing to Wild Words is me stepping into this place.

I have followed the blog for some time; the writing intrigues me and, no brainer, anything “wild”. I liked the fact that you were asked to submit at solstice, I am a pagan so this was good for me. I procrastinate so deadlines are also good for me. The best thing was that I loved the prompt/quote. Travelling had long been my “thing” when I was younger, and travelling inward also, now that I am older. I felt claimed by this and knew I would have something to say/write about this.

I always at least start, if not write all, of my first drafts in pen on paper. This way, I can write anywhere and capture those moments the awe (inspiration) strikes and I don’t have to have my computer nearby. Writing on trains, waiting in airports, snatched moments or sitting outside.

I also love the way that I can write really fast – on the edge of the subconscious maybe – and interesting stuff can come out this way.

I write quickly, trying not to overthink things too much, to see what happens. I use an ink pen whenever possible as this means that I can write really quickly. I love the feel of an ink pen on the paper as well.

I don’t edit too much as I am drafting, unless it is very obvious to me or just isn’t working. As this subject “spoke” to me, the words came relatively easily. Editing the word count though, was a whole other issue. When I had typed out my draft, I had nearly 1,500 words. And I liked them all. I determined to use this as an exercise in fearless editing. I know I can use many words to wax lyrical, being precise is not usually my art.

It felt, at times, like slash and burn farming, but I tweaked and pulled at the piece.

Tried to strike that knife-edge balance between brutal and careful. Second draft made it to 1,236. I took a deep breath and went back in. Third time I got to under the 1,000 mark. I took a second deep breath and sent the piece off.