Easing in slowly.....get back into the harness

I rarely throw myself into something that means a lot to me without thought, fear and meticulous planning and so it is with the degree. I wish I could. I wish I was one of those people that could walk to the edge of the metaphoric cliff and with only a glance about to smell the air and feel the light on my skin throw myself over. But I am not.

So the folder for Creative Writing 1 : Art of Poetry has been delivered and the first few pages have been read. The tutor has contacted and been replied to, Lesley Mountain - a former OCA student which is a comfort.

Last night I settled down at my desk, closed the blinds to the outside world, still light at this time of the year, and began to read. Befoe I knew it I had my nose pressed into the first exercise - do something with your eyes closed that you would normally have your eyes open for, observe it and then write down the experience. Even before I recognized what I was doing I pulled a sheet of white paper from my printer and took up a soft-tipped pen, closed my eyes and began to write.

It is something I have never done with my eyes closed - why would you? It seemed the most natural thing in the world. Walking round my office with my eyes closed was out of the question - I regularly walk around my house in the dark - insomnia's a bitch! So I sat with my head down and wrote what I felt and thought.

It was interesting. Strange and genuinely first time experience. I wrote it up in my notebook and put it aside; a short leap into the course and then a step back.

Tonight, I have done the next exercise; picking up an object and writing how it felt while exploring it with my eyes closed. I chose a bookmark, made of Tibetan silver, obsidian stones and hung with a small chain. I am a control freak (family and partner can attest to this) so getting someone else to chose the object was not an option. The strangeness of the object, something I carry with me everyday, was it's warmth; I expected it to be cold, and rough to the touch. At the moment I moved my fingers over it, it warmed, it's edges rounded, it transformed from the expected to what it was....

Maybe not being comfortable with poetry - I have been known to describe it as a "straight jacket" - will be a genuine exploration for me.

Luckily I have my guide and my senses; better carry my expectations lightly.....

Drifting......

Not a word; not a single observation or noted scene has been jotted down since my ending the course and waiting for assessment submission dates to come around. Stress at work could be blamed, the spectre of redundancy and the dip before moving onto the next course. But that wouldn’t be entirely true. It’s relief at the finish, fear of assessment and fatigue.

In a rush of optimism, I sent the application for the next course Writing 1: Poetry (40 Credits) and received an email telling me that the course materials would be dispatched after May 3^rd. I want to get on and push forward but part of my focus is on the calendar waiting for the day when the parcel can be sent in and then all matters are out of my hands – as far as the portfolio course is concerned.

I am taking Nina’s advice and reading as much as before, trying not to worry and snatching every moment to grab a page here or a chapter there, between living the life and working the work.

At 45 I feel the drip of time like poison. I want things to move faster but need to gather myself, finish the plan and then walk the walk and see if dreams really do come true. I have decided that this blog will continue with the next course and hopefully be of use in the habit and discipline of writing. After all it has got me writing again even if this is just a post about where I am with life and the anticipation of the coming work…

Runes, judgement and fear....or just tiredness!

So... I am working on my final course overview essay – not rushing, not working every night but returning and tinkering, fiddling and vacillating. I AM working. The completion certificate has arrived and I am relieved that the journey or this part is over. The re-writing of the assignment submissions is complete and I am forcing myself to be confident that I have done enough...

BUT - and there is always one of them lurking - I am not writing. I am collecting....names, snippets of observations or the odd idea of a few lines long; but nothing more is being written. It has happened before and I am wondering whether I should just chill rather than worry; because it is now, when the dust is settling, that I begin to doubt being able to take up again. I want to write - to get back into a project - but the umph! isn’t there yet.

In this off balance atmosphere, I took up something I set aside for over a year and asked a question. The Runes stones were given to me in 1987 and while I can read clearly for others – once predicting a lover for one friend and a baby for a work colleague – the readings for myself are always clouded. Hence, I only ask when it matters – never a frivolous act, to ask for answers you might not want to hear – “be careful what you wish for” my Grandmothers wise advice.

The reading was clear-ish; I get the symbolism of a fallow field in autumn and winter and how that prepares the ground before the warmth and fertility of spring - this being the judgment on my fear and the confidence that my writing energy will return; but the cold/logical side needs proof and reassurance.

I hope this is fatigue and that the visions, sparks and wincing flashes of characters and ideas have not deserted me…just until spring then.

Gear changing and gratitude for the tutor and journey...

The final assessment went in, with the usual angst and terror. It came back with all Nina’s encouragement, advice and observations. I have decided not to use the final piece for my course assessment for purely selfish reasons. I like the piece but I love the fourth one more; that was an endurance test of revising, editing and thinking. Nina was unrelenting in her advice to each inch of progress I made in the fourth assignment.

I shall return to the final assignment in the near future once the final assessment notes have been decided upon.

I have been thinking about what the course has taught me and what I can carry forward to other projects and challenges. This is the most difficult part of any of the courses, being able to put into words how the experiences, dramas and difficulties have shaped you. Life encroaches and distorts what you write, how you write and even the act of writing or wanting to write reflects back onto your life itself so that some experiences become observational fodder when you should be just in the moment without the dark-half taking in every detail, hearing every word or catching nuances that can be stored, emphasised and manipulated later. My partner describes every course as having a moment where I “changed gear” and accelerate. To my mind in this course I know it was the third assignment, Mixed up, a wholly course inspired piece.

There was something immediate about an exercise where a repetitive action would be described; I saw myself and my best friend mixing cement - I the youth and him the almost a man figure. Both stripped to the waist, shovels in hand, dust rising and the sun beating on us. The only problem I have is once I have written and in some case re-written and re-written a piece, give it a few months and I cannot recall all the details of what I have put down. I can read the piece again, months and years later as if someone else sweated through the creative process. My habit now, thanks to this course and previous courses, is that I am an immediate writer; pulling out my notebook at the most inopportune moments or disappearing off to the toilets to jot down a spoonerism from a relative in a restaurant.

The course or more importantly Nina, my tutor, has taught me that while I can jot down the ideas, see how it unfolds into a story, the elements that gravitate onto it throwing the narrative this way and that, I must not be precious about taking a sledge-hammer and smashing it into bits to create a more believable, fascinating and fantastic story. It’s a lesson of getting over myself; not viewing a finished piece as perfect, a character too essential or a vision unable to be discarded.

Would I do things differently? Yes - I would have a blog that asked questions after every assignment or even better, every exercise so I could track my way minutely. Maybe I shall make this an element of my next three courses.

For now I have to write my overview, tracking my modifications, explaining that change of gear and justifying my growth. I am lucky. I have enjoyed this course despite real life changing mine and my partners world beyond recognition; survived a very real crisis of confidence when stress could have stopped me going further - thanks to this blog keeping me writing - and, most of all, having a tutor who nudged, suggested and worked like mad to fuel and direct me.

Towards the end and hard to bring it in....

I am working on my final assignment. My tutor has given me a generous extension, for which I am grateful because it's not coming easily. I almost feel like I am afraid to take the final step towards finishing and the dreaded assessment.

But could that be it? Surely I want to get this done? I have my idea for the anthology of my stories and how they fit together; not in a coherent, structured way in the sense that they tell a single beaded story but rather they explore my feelings on loss, bereavement and how characters cope with their own particular losses. Essentially, how they triumph, pick themselves up from the floor, or get up from their knees and lift their chins ready for the all important first step...

I always come here before starting to crash on with "getting on with it". It's a warm up. It's also a place to exorcise my ghosts, think openly about my process and to explore in words....thinking on the page.

So today I am avoiding the pile of ironing, the dusting and the usual displacement activities.

A break.....and a break through?

There are times when I lose my focus, drift away from writing and have those guilty times languishing in front of a movie late at night or a documentary rather than writing; waking in the morning with dark circles and regrets. The past two weeks have been a complete detour. I haven't touched the last assignment re-write and, very unlike me, have only read Nina's (my long suffering tutor) assessment twice.
I began to doubt my resolve to continue; which is strange because the moment my degree is threatened by life, the turmoil of unseen situations or constraints of time I become angry and difficult. My partner and I started our annual two-week break away from the laboratory and office and still the impulse to write did not push its way to the front. Then I got scared.

Yes, I am reading the recommended short stories from Gotham Writers' Workshop Fiction Gallery and loving them...but no impulse. The last assessment seems to block my path to the next piece of writing. I hate the word "block" especially how it links itself to "writers'" in the minds of all of us who do and those who don't.
So we went to Hampton Court Palace, my partners' birthday trip. I could observe, photograph and write about the architecture, paintings, furniture and weight of history but it wasn't that that caught my attention. We had pulled out of Weymouth station at 6.55am with only two others in the carriage with us; the air conditioning/circulation was working and we were regretting leaving coats/fleeces behind. Stop after stop and gradually the seats filled up with commuters, students and families. Before we knew it most of the seats were taken and I was amused by how quiet we all were; reminding me of a Doctor’s waiting room. I slowly became aware of a muted conversation rising from the seats directly across the aisle. My partner sat nearest while I occupied the window; I instantly regretted my snatching of the view as the interior held an opportunity. I leaned forward, glancing at the two men opposite; my partner smiled at my antics knowing that I was listening and watching, pen poised above my notebook, fighting with the rocking of the carriage.

Manicured fingers hold an expensive ballpoint pen as he draws on the 99p Pukka Pad. The suit is expensive, as is the haircut, cufflinks and fake tan; flawless. Half turned in the trains’ seat, angling the pad to his friend; he draws an oval, nothing too accurate, then bisects it and writes a name in the upper part.

“He,” he says tapping the last letter of the name. “Is not up to the job, his vision is limited; he would be more interested in this.” He scribbles in the lower part. His companion is also suited in the same grey colour, wearing a long sleeved polo shirt underneath; he nods. The companion crosses his legs, retrieving his own pad from a satchel hidden on the floor between them; his pen is a fine point BIC. He writes a name on the top line, drawing an arrow forward and then adding three more words followed by the initials of the words and underlining them.

“He,” tapping the pad, “should not be involved in this...” He emphasised the this part, elongating the word into almost a hiss and subtle lifting of his shaved chin. They nod in unison, like displaying cranes.
The carriages rattle and rock crossing the point’s; snippets of their conversation cross the aisle get broken up. There is a screech of metal sliding against metal, and then swaying.

“...this is a potential game- changer....”

“...I can’t get involved here due to my contacts...”

The train settles and we accelerate. I drift forward again, concentrating on listening; casting my ear and excluding other sounds around me. I catch a smile from my partner and pretend to read the underground map on the opposite wall and the “two attractions for the price of one” offers.

“With this,” Cufflinks writes on the pad, arrows out of the bubble and links it into another. “HE wants a piece of the final set up...whatever that will be.” Polo shirt nods, chewing his bottom lip and tapping his pad; I glance at him as he compares his findings with Cufflinks. They talk about the “Europe imperative” and “managing change”, “personality problems” and “ego challenges”.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen welcome to the 6.55 from Weymouth terminating at Waterloo, stopping at.....” the drivers’ voice is easy, blanketing the murmurs of the occupants as he reads through the stations; Cufflinks and Polo shirt huddle closer and the rest of the conversation is lost to me. Woking becomes imminent so we rise to leave.

As I pass, I look down to their pads; there is no danger at being caught, having that uncertain, questioning look from the observed catching the observer. I see that both pads have been started on their first page; bought specially? They are a mass of names, bubbles and arrows pointing at titles, names and initials. Both of them wear aftershave, clouds of it lifting from them in a plume of odour sucked up into the ventilation above. I wonder why I didn’t smell it before, but realise it has been mixed with all the other smells being blended through the train.

I smile to myself as we make our way along the platform. My partner turns – why am I smiling at listening to that management bollocks? I say it was fun, which gets me a blank stare – seriously? No – fun because I felt like listening and watching. A breakthrough, or confirmation that with the summer break and sudden stop, removal of office work pressure and petty annoyances, that the habit and passion for collecting, wondering, speculating has not been derailed.

Torch....

I haven't posted for a while and when I thought about putting something here tonight I thought about my reasons or excuses. I could say the myriad of birthdays, my parents’ 45th wedding anniversary or work but it was my fourth assignment and the tussle I have had with it.
The object was to drag out an old piece, revisit it and bring to bear all the experience and advice from the tutor. I found it hard work. It was a piece I had written a year before for a competition as an object lesson in having the courage to submit it - without expectation of anything coming of it. It was an exercise. So I wrestled, cut, re-wrote and dragged it out to look at it in harsh light. It was hard work, it wasn't creative in the sense that the story was known to me, not an exploration. By the time I submitted it I was exhausted, unsure and strangely worried. I hadn't written in my notebook for weeks, nothing in my diary and nothing here....
Then Nina came back with her assessment and I was deflated; everything she said was true, reasoned and right. Her comments always cut through and get to the nub of the piece and its impression it will have on a reader - and thank god for that! The main comment was that it was a short story burdened with a heavy overcoat – spot on. It’s a comment a couple of tutors have made on previous courses and something I have to battle against.
HOWEVER, the emotional, knackered side of me - my doubting side - was de-motivated. I brooded for a couple of hours, which is part of my process after an assessment has arrived. I emailed Nina about what was wrong and how I felt; had I made a mistake, should I have taken up another story? As usual Nina gave encouragement with a single comment – “Some stories just take a lot of redrafting whilst one searches with a torch for the right way to approach the telling of it. Others seem to flow down onto the page as if they were a gift from the gods.”
In those two sentences, she managed to put everything in context. I am learning and this is one of those stories that I need a torch for.