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.
Sunday, 22 August 2010
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Pretending....
Six months and seven days since my partner's Mum passed away; the marvellous, mighty Mo McKenzie. It's her birthday today and we should be fussing over her with presents, surprises, visits to my parents, glasses of rose’ wine and a meal out.
Instead, a friend, having recently passed a diploma in floristry, put together an oasis studded in perfect, blood red rose buds; Mo's favourite flower. I spend the morning cutting my hair, shaving and trimming my beard; I ironed my shirt, my partner's shirt and prepared myself.
It was overcast when we got to the gardens of the crematorium; the trees are waking up, putting out tender green leaves, some are in flower, holding back their foliage until the blooms have faded back; but it is the rose bushes. The beds, around the central area, which is crowded with purple-red heather and a single shining silver birch, are splashed with burgundy-green leaves from established rose bushes, pruned back ready to surge with life. The breeze is cold, more edged with winter than flushed with spring.
My partner picked the perfect spot to lay the oasis, out of the wind, within the bed of heather, so someone passing would come across it. We spoke aloud to Mo, wishing her a Happy Birthday, talking into the wind, which in life would've taken her breath away. It crossed my mind that it could not trouble her now; she was safe from the irritations of the world.
Then it hit me. A wave of coldness broke over me; the scene was bleak, the wind empty of her laughter, the world is somehow colder because of her absence.
I cried. Nothing extravagant or unseemly. Just a sob, tears pricking my eyes. We hugged and collected ourselves, gulping down the emotion, all too raw still, still bleeding.
We walked around the walls, looking at the black lettered plaques, reading the surnames on the memorials, Squibb, Comben and Stone; all local family names.
We go to celebrate her birthday, back to world where tears in a car park in front of Mo's favourite Tavern Restaurant would cause embarrassed looks. So instead of tears we toasted her on her birthday, talked about her last visit there, the fish dishes she always chose and loved so much; then we ate a good lunch remembering her cooking, her love of feeding us at her table and her pursuit of fresh Bass, Cod and Plaice.
Other diners made their way to their tables. Servers moved through the tavern, smiling, taking orders and clearing dishes. The table nearest the window had a young couple and their little girl at it. They sat relaxed and ate their food while the little brunette child happily played with her food and then climbed under the table to pretend.
She was in a tent, she announced, in a forest. Her Mum asked why a tent? Because of the wolves, they don't like tents. Ahh... the mother replied smiling at her husband. The girl pushed her parents feet one by one down on the carpet, narrating that these were the magic tent pegs to hold the tent down. Her eyes shine as she hears the growl of the animals prowling around the edge of her canvas; she squeals as her father's hand descends to play-pinch at the shoulder of her flowered dress. Recoiling, she leans against her mother's legs, throwing her arms back and joining her hands behind her mother’s calves. Her mum giggles, leaning down to coax her daughter out of her refuge and back into her chair to her meal.
"There were wolves," she says tucking into her meal, one chip at a time, lifting each with greasy fingertips.
"Were you scared?" Her Dad asks clawing at her shoulder, growling, making her giggle and recoil.
"No Daddy! I was pretending!"
Smiles bounce around the faces in the restaurant, knowing, glances exchanged with the happy parents.
I think about us sitting there; enjoying the food, the refreshing drinks and the anticipation of dessert, with the empty chair to my partner's side. We are pretending. We are walking around not thinking too hard in this reality; the first birthday without her. Pretending that Mo is elsewhere, shopping, at her little house, having an afternoon sleep or out for a paper. It is only standing in the winter breeze, the buds bursting on the branches, the leaves shuddering in the light that we cannot avoid the reality. Only there the pretending shatters, casting sharp edges and coldness into our hearts, provoking tears.
But for the moment we remember past birthdays, her love of fresh fish, the stories about the Old Country, her home, her Dublin, her trials and triumphs; and for this string of moments we pretend. The place is bare, the chair unmoved but she's away, at the bar getting a glass of wine, choosing a special from the smudged special board or powdering her nose.
Instead, a friend, having recently passed a diploma in floristry, put together an oasis studded in perfect, blood red rose buds; Mo's favourite flower. I spend the morning cutting my hair, shaving and trimming my beard; I ironed my shirt, my partner's shirt and prepared myself.
It was overcast when we got to the gardens of the crematorium; the trees are waking up, putting out tender green leaves, some are in flower, holding back their foliage until the blooms have faded back; but it is the rose bushes. The beds, around the central area, which is crowded with purple-red heather and a single shining silver birch, are splashed with burgundy-green leaves from established rose bushes, pruned back ready to surge with life. The breeze is cold, more edged with winter than flushed with spring.
My partner picked the perfect spot to lay the oasis, out of the wind, within the bed of heather, so someone passing would come across it. We spoke aloud to Mo, wishing her a Happy Birthday, talking into the wind, which in life would've taken her breath away. It crossed my mind that it could not trouble her now; she was safe from the irritations of the world.
Then it hit me. A wave of coldness broke over me; the scene was bleak, the wind empty of her laughter, the world is somehow colder because of her absence.
I cried. Nothing extravagant or unseemly. Just a sob, tears pricking my eyes. We hugged and collected ourselves, gulping down the emotion, all too raw still, still bleeding.
We walked around the walls, looking at the black lettered plaques, reading the surnames on the memorials, Squibb, Comben and Stone; all local family names.
We go to celebrate her birthday, back to world where tears in a car park in front of Mo's favourite Tavern Restaurant would cause embarrassed looks. So instead of tears we toasted her on her birthday, talked about her last visit there, the fish dishes she always chose and loved so much; then we ate a good lunch remembering her cooking, her love of feeding us at her table and her pursuit of fresh Bass, Cod and Plaice.
Other diners made their way to their tables. Servers moved through the tavern, smiling, taking orders and clearing dishes. The table nearest the window had a young couple and their little girl at it. They sat relaxed and ate their food while the little brunette child happily played with her food and then climbed under the table to pretend.
She was in a tent, she announced, in a forest. Her Mum asked why a tent? Because of the wolves, they don't like tents. Ahh... the mother replied smiling at her husband. The girl pushed her parents feet one by one down on the carpet, narrating that these were the magic tent pegs to hold the tent down. Her eyes shine as she hears the growl of the animals prowling around the edge of her canvas; she squeals as her father's hand descends to play-pinch at the shoulder of her flowered dress. Recoiling, she leans against her mother's legs, throwing her arms back and joining her hands behind her mother’s calves. Her mum giggles, leaning down to coax her daughter out of her refuge and back into her chair to her meal.
"There were wolves," she says tucking into her meal, one chip at a time, lifting each with greasy fingertips.
"Were you scared?" Her Dad asks clawing at her shoulder, growling, making her giggle and recoil.
"No Daddy! I was pretending!"
Smiles bounce around the faces in the restaurant, knowing, glances exchanged with the happy parents.
I think about us sitting there; enjoying the food, the refreshing drinks and the anticipation of dessert, with the empty chair to my partner's side. We are pretending. We are walking around not thinking too hard in this reality; the first birthday without her. Pretending that Mo is elsewhere, shopping, at her little house, having an afternoon sleep or out for a paper. It is only standing in the winter breeze, the buds bursting on the branches, the leaves shuddering in the light that we cannot avoid the reality. Only there the pretending shatters, casting sharp edges and coldness into our hearts, provoking tears.
But for the moment we remember past birthdays, her love of fresh fish, the stories about the Old Country, her home, her Dublin, her trials and triumphs; and for this string of moments we pretend. The place is bare, the chair unmoved but she's away, at the bar getting a glass of wine, choosing a special from the smudged special board or powdering her nose.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
... a change of gear....then an explosion....
Sometimes we get stuck; in life I mean. Our intentions are fine and sharp, the energy is there and all the conditions appear to be in your sails and urging you forward; but you don't move.
My car is nothing special, just an ordinary family saloon bought for the practical reasons of aging parents, an aging spine - don't you love that cracking sound as you descend into bucket seats in most sporty jobs? - and of course the sensible reason of more reasonable insurance, petrol consumption etc. Lately, over the last month, it has become resistant to my right foot. It seemed lazy, slow to respond and reluctant to lift its skirts and power away. I told myself it was my imagination. Then I reasoned that as I am getting older surely I would feel the opposite and think I was going too fast rather than dawdling? I put this thought to the back of my mind.
The same was true of my writing. I felt like I was pootling along, no injection of inspiration, no pulling out and powering away to overtake that pedestrian, plodding feeling. So, I carried on. Assuming that things were right for now, this was a process, you had to empty before you fill up again....did I need an MOT?
I took an extra day off from work. I would drive my partner to work, do the chores and spend the afternoon working through my third assignment.
I got up at the ungodly hour (ungodly when you are meant to be off work!), drove my partner to work, came home and put the washing on. Then I got as distracted as possible with a little gardening. Well, actually it was moving pots about, pulling up the odd weed and looking at my solitary blueberry bush and the buds growing on it. I was in short avoiding working on my writing - AGAIN!
I made a coffee; switched on the computer, checked my emails, read the news, checked my emails again and then put up the word document and went to get a fresh cuppa.
I returned to the screen. Put up the net radio player and picked out six programmes to listen to then clicked on the first. Then the phone went. The partner had got his yearly leave allocation, had an extra day and recklessly had taken it; he was heading home. I sensed escape.....
Picking him up I suggested a walk in the sunshine - shame to waste it after the forecast had been so bad. Live now, you’re a long time dead etc etc. We headed out, my partner reluctantly, an afternoon rehearsing on the violin, drinking coffee and smoking the odd cigarette sounding more attractive than a walk.
We drove through the country lanes, my foot went down and the car laboured along. I ignored it. We wove through a little village and climbed one of the steepest hills in Dorset. The car behind closed on me; I shoved down a gear and applied the right foot. The revs went up and not much else happened. The car slowed. The man behind closed in and then in a flash of foresight backed off. I shoved down a gear and had nowhere to go but into first, marvelling at the steepness of this mountain hugging road; it had been this difficult the last time we came this way, right?
WRONG! The car coughed and the muffler, behind and underneath my partner's seat exploded with the sound, but not the fury, of a bomb! The car lurched forward; the man behind dropped back, hidden momentarily in a black cloud, courtesy of my bucking Ford Focus that now sounded like a tractor. Our molars rattled with the vibration and I switched off the radio in the hope that this would lessen the overwhelming sound bouncing around - even opening the windows didn't help, just made us realized how much sound was now clearing the hedgerows and no doubt sending pheasants flapping into the next county.
We pulled into a lay-by. I climbed under the rear of my now quicker, but audible from space, vehicle. It looked as though I had run over an animal; there was hair bursting forth from a metal box along the exhaust pipe. I pulled at it and it came away in great handfuls. Had I hit something? I looked back along the road but as the - almost - take off point was over a mile away it was unlikely to help. It was hair. The muffler as my helpful exhaust fitter told me had ruptured and burst forth with it's sound-dampening hair.
"Bet she lost power just before?" He said with a chuckle, adding, "bloody hell look at that, burst right along the side..." He’ll be telling he grandchildren about this moment I thought to myself. He ran his fingers along the jagged wound and playfully pulled a few handfuls out for his own amusement.
£99.90 lighter we drove, seemingly silently away from the tyre and exhaust site.
We drove radio on, along the same lanes; the sun was now brighter and the countryside more spring like. We went for our walk, after driving up the same hill where the explosion had happened. I kept looking in my rear view mirror expecting the previous driver to come up behind me again to see if a repeat performance might be in the offing; he didn't and there was no animal, minus some hair, laying on the verge. We enjoyed our walk, talked about the pretty village of Little Bredy and contributed to the very English church.
Once home the violin came out, coffee made and I went back to my office to find my computer on, blinking at me, accusingly.
Two hours later I had re-written the assignment twice. The wonders of a change of gear and explosion underneath you!
Would seem that was all it needed.
My car is nothing special, just an ordinary family saloon bought for the practical reasons of aging parents, an aging spine - don't you love that cracking sound as you descend into bucket seats in most sporty jobs? - and of course the sensible reason of more reasonable insurance, petrol consumption etc. Lately, over the last month, it has become resistant to my right foot. It seemed lazy, slow to respond and reluctant to lift its skirts and power away. I told myself it was my imagination. Then I reasoned that as I am getting older surely I would feel the opposite and think I was going too fast rather than dawdling? I put this thought to the back of my mind.
The same was true of my writing. I felt like I was pootling along, no injection of inspiration, no pulling out and powering away to overtake that pedestrian, plodding feeling. So, I carried on. Assuming that things were right for now, this was a process, you had to empty before you fill up again....did I need an MOT?
I took an extra day off from work. I would drive my partner to work, do the chores and spend the afternoon working through my third assignment.
I got up at the ungodly hour (ungodly when you are meant to be off work!), drove my partner to work, came home and put the washing on. Then I got as distracted as possible with a little gardening. Well, actually it was moving pots about, pulling up the odd weed and looking at my solitary blueberry bush and the buds growing on it. I was in short avoiding working on my writing - AGAIN!
I made a coffee; switched on the computer, checked my emails, read the news, checked my emails again and then put up the word document and went to get a fresh cuppa.
I returned to the screen. Put up the net radio player and picked out six programmes to listen to then clicked on the first. Then the phone went. The partner had got his yearly leave allocation, had an extra day and recklessly had taken it; he was heading home. I sensed escape.....
Picking him up I suggested a walk in the sunshine - shame to waste it after the forecast had been so bad. Live now, you’re a long time dead etc etc. We headed out, my partner reluctantly, an afternoon rehearsing on the violin, drinking coffee and smoking the odd cigarette sounding more attractive than a walk.
We drove through the country lanes, my foot went down and the car laboured along. I ignored it. We wove through a little village and climbed one of the steepest hills in Dorset. The car behind closed on me; I shoved down a gear and applied the right foot. The revs went up and not much else happened. The car slowed. The man behind closed in and then in a flash of foresight backed off. I shoved down a gear and had nowhere to go but into first, marvelling at the steepness of this mountain hugging road; it had been this difficult the last time we came this way, right?
WRONG! The car coughed and the muffler, behind and underneath my partner's seat exploded with the sound, but not the fury, of a bomb! The car lurched forward; the man behind dropped back, hidden momentarily in a black cloud, courtesy of my bucking Ford Focus that now sounded like a tractor. Our molars rattled with the vibration and I switched off the radio in the hope that this would lessen the overwhelming sound bouncing around - even opening the windows didn't help, just made us realized how much sound was now clearing the hedgerows and no doubt sending pheasants flapping into the next county.
We pulled into a lay-by. I climbed under the rear of my now quicker, but audible from space, vehicle. It looked as though I had run over an animal; there was hair bursting forth from a metal box along the exhaust pipe. I pulled at it and it came away in great handfuls. Had I hit something? I looked back along the road but as the - almost - take off point was over a mile away it was unlikely to help. It was hair. The muffler as my helpful exhaust fitter told me had ruptured and burst forth with it's sound-dampening hair.
"Bet she lost power just before?" He said with a chuckle, adding, "bloody hell look at that, burst right along the side..." He’ll be telling he grandchildren about this moment I thought to myself. He ran his fingers along the jagged wound and playfully pulled a few handfuls out for his own amusement.
£99.90 lighter we drove, seemingly silently away from the tyre and exhaust site.
We drove radio on, along the same lanes; the sun was now brighter and the countryside more spring like. We went for our walk, after driving up the same hill where the explosion had happened. I kept looking in my rear view mirror expecting the previous driver to come up behind me again to see if a repeat performance might be in the offing; he didn't and there was no animal, minus some hair, laying on the verge. We enjoyed our walk, talked about the pretty village of Little Bredy and contributed to the very English church.
Once home the violin came out, coffee made and I went back to my office to find my computer on, blinking at me, accusingly.
Two hours later I had re-written the assignment twice. The wonders of a change of gear and explosion underneath you!
Would seem that was all it needed.
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
Revelation after an admission....
I have not been here for a while. After finally admitting to my partner that I had a blog on the net and then refusing to allow it to be read, I did not feel like coming here.
In the last week or so my lack of motivation with my blog has occupied me - why?
Then there was a party, a fortieth. My partner and I turned up after he had played a concert as lead violin and had had to perform a solo; we were dragged through the door with all the guests waiting for him to play. As he prepared, running up and down the scales at a breathtaking speed I began to look around the room.
There was the birthday boy, Steve, a cross between Jon Bon Jovi and Heathcliff, horribly passionate about music, a inveterate collector and a good man; his partner, Andrina, at his side, a rock-hippy-chick, cool lady and wonderful singer. Her sons had played their guitars, keyboards and sung into the microphone/speaker set up to much applause. Nathan will be a star, the music he writes and his voice are amazing, but that is for another time. At the fringes, were the friends; all had some musical talent or other. Even Steve's parents play.....and then there was me.
Standing apart, watching and listening; surrounded by people who could display their talents without blushing.
It hit me why I didn't want to let anyone within my circle of friends or my partner read what I put here. It’s because this isn't me; at least not the me that I am with them. Here I am a different me. I fear that if they read any of this, the observations, misgivings and the doubts that the form that they see would come into question and suspicion.
I am a spy, a sneak, a fraud. An observer who at some point might, could put down what happened, who was there and what he saw. Can you be natural with someone who you know notices every change in your face, each hesitation in your voice and will fabricate/speculate your motives and explore all possibilities....ever tried to feel innocent after being introduced to a Police Officer?
You feel sweaty, your smile fixes, you comment on how difficult a job it is, how interesting it must be and finally how you couldn't do it yourself. All the time remembering that you did thirty-five in a thirty zone that morning, your road tax might be due but for some reason the date escapes you making your palms sweat and didn't you have that black pen from your work desk tucked into your pocket? You intend to take it back and every ounce of willpower is brought to bear to prevent you confessing.
Writing changes how they see you. I am guarded. At the party, no one asks me what I do or if I play a musical instrument, (I don't!). When one of the guests asks me how my degree is going I smile and say something mundane....changing the subject briefly before excusing myself for a top up of my wine. I saw a puzzled expression from the enquirer and later my partner would tell me how he was quizzed, well away from the others, as to whether I was "still writing".
While skulking in the kitchen I remembered the incident of the poem.
I was fourteen and, as fitting for that terrible age, I was confused, angry at the world, frustrated and above all an insomniac. My average night was three hours long. In the wee hours I would put together poems, notes, anything in fact to take my mind away from the silent house and lack of anything interesting to do, (this was pre-twenty four-hour television or the internet). In fine weather, I was often walking at four in the morning around the lanes and fields where I live...my dog loved these delicious adventures.
I wrote constantly and secretly. Then Mum found a folder stuffed full of poems and read them. That night the sisters were sent to bed early, going suspiciously without protest. I was called into the lounge, the television was switched off and I had a sinking feeling that I had done something terrible; I sifted my memory for recent involvement in murders, thefts, international money laundering...
The poem they read aloud was about death; a suicide. Standing in the small hours, holding a long thin carving knife to my belly, staring out into a clear night, over the black fields and hedgerows I had imagined the slow insertion of the metal. It was written like an escape, a purgatorial, painful, corrupt body being skinned of the undeniably perfect spirit; ending with the blade dropping a moment before the body. The shade lifts free and travels into the moonlight and freedom.
My Mum was horrified in that calm way that only Mothers can do. My Dad let her do the talking, glancing at me. I explained it was like acting, putting on a character and walking about the room imagining how to move, talk, think....it took an hour for them to understand or at least believe that they shouldn't contact a doctor and have all the sharp objects locked away.
I waited and, dwelling on the sideways glances that I received for weeks after and the constant enquiries "how are you feeling?" - "everything alright today" - weighted with worry - I destroyed all my poems. It is that feeling that makes me not reveal my blog to my partner or anyone close.
Here I can be angry, depressed, and dangerously silly or just plain bored. If they were here, I would be inclined to write for them, because of them; concerned that a comment might cause a serious conversation or the hateful "I never knew you felt that way".
Once I had revealed that I had a blog and then said no to my partner I felt guilty coming here.
The party distilled this and showed me that I hide. Of course I wonder what they would think about my writing. But, as yet, I am not brave enough to allow them to see. To me writing is a solitary, silent, private activity where, if you keep in mind that someone will read it you begin to write it for them...rather than to explore for yourself.
And I have too much written to burn all my work again and start again because the monster and angel I can be might shock someone.....
In the last week or so my lack of motivation with my blog has occupied me - why?
Then there was a party, a fortieth. My partner and I turned up after he had played a concert as lead violin and had had to perform a solo; we were dragged through the door with all the guests waiting for him to play. As he prepared, running up and down the scales at a breathtaking speed I began to look around the room.
There was the birthday boy, Steve, a cross between Jon Bon Jovi and Heathcliff, horribly passionate about music, a inveterate collector and a good man; his partner, Andrina, at his side, a rock-hippy-chick, cool lady and wonderful singer. Her sons had played their guitars, keyboards and sung into the microphone/speaker set up to much applause. Nathan will be a star, the music he writes and his voice are amazing, but that is for another time. At the fringes, were the friends; all had some musical talent or other. Even Steve's parents play.....and then there was me.
Standing apart, watching and listening; surrounded by people who could display their talents without blushing.
It hit me why I didn't want to let anyone within my circle of friends or my partner read what I put here. It’s because this isn't me; at least not the me that I am with them. Here I am a different me. I fear that if they read any of this, the observations, misgivings and the doubts that the form that they see would come into question and suspicion.
I am a spy, a sneak, a fraud. An observer who at some point might, could put down what happened, who was there and what he saw. Can you be natural with someone who you know notices every change in your face, each hesitation in your voice and will fabricate/speculate your motives and explore all possibilities....ever tried to feel innocent after being introduced to a Police Officer?
You feel sweaty, your smile fixes, you comment on how difficult a job it is, how interesting it must be and finally how you couldn't do it yourself. All the time remembering that you did thirty-five in a thirty zone that morning, your road tax might be due but for some reason the date escapes you making your palms sweat and didn't you have that black pen from your work desk tucked into your pocket? You intend to take it back and every ounce of willpower is brought to bear to prevent you confessing.
Writing changes how they see you. I am guarded. At the party, no one asks me what I do or if I play a musical instrument, (I don't!). When one of the guests asks me how my degree is going I smile and say something mundane....changing the subject briefly before excusing myself for a top up of my wine. I saw a puzzled expression from the enquirer and later my partner would tell me how he was quizzed, well away from the others, as to whether I was "still writing".
While skulking in the kitchen I remembered the incident of the poem.
I was fourteen and, as fitting for that terrible age, I was confused, angry at the world, frustrated and above all an insomniac. My average night was three hours long. In the wee hours I would put together poems, notes, anything in fact to take my mind away from the silent house and lack of anything interesting to do, (this was pre-twenty four-hour television or the internet). In fine weather, I was often walking at four in the morning around the lanes and fields where I live...my dog loved these delicious adventures.
I wrote constantly and secretly. Then Mum found a folder stuffed full of poems and read them. That night the sisters were sent to bed early, going suspiciously without protest. I was called into the lounge, the television was switched off and I had a sinking feeling that I had done something terrible; I sifted my memory for recent involvement in murders, thefts, international money laundering...
The poem they read aloud was about death; a suicide. Standing in the small hours, holding a long thin carving knife to my belly, staring out into a clear night, over the black fields and hedgerows I had imagined the slow insertion of the metal. It was written like an escape, a purgatorial, painful, corrupt body being skinned of the undeniably perfect spirit; ending with the blade dropping a moment before the body. The shade lifts free and travels into the moonlight and freedom.
My Mum was horrified in that calm way that only Mothers can do. My Dad let her do the talking, glancing at me. I explained it was like acting, putting on a character and walking about the room imagining how to move, talk, think....it took an hour for them to understand or at least believe that they shouldn't contact a doctor and have all the sharp objects locked away.
I waited and, dwelling on the sideways glances that I received for weeks after and the constant enquiries "how are you feeling?" - "everything alright today" - weighted with worry - I destroyed all my poems. It is that feeling that makes me not reveal my blog to my partner or anyone close.
Here I can be angry, depressed, and dangerously silly or just plain bored. If they were here, I would be inclined to write for them, because of them; concerned that a comment might cause a serious conversation or the hateful "I never knew you felt that way".
Once I had revealed that I had a blog and then said no to my partner I felt guilty coming here.
The party distilled this and showed me that I hide. Of course I wonder what they would think about my writing. But, as yet, I am not brave enough to allow them to see. To me writing is a solitary, silent, private activity where, if you keep in mind that someone will read it you begin to write it for them...rather than to explore for yourself.
And I have too much written to burn all my work again and start again because the monster and angel I can be might shock someone.....
Monday, 11 January 2010
Over writing and self-pressure.....
So I confessed all; after days of agonising, thinking, drafting the words then deleting them. An email to my tutor, Nina, told her that my second assignment wasn't ready, wouldn't be ready and was falling apart at the first draft writing stage; and I mean the first draft.
Every time I sat down, candle lit, radio burbling away via the internet and with the partner safely tucked into bed it all fell apart. It is as though the characters in my head simply walked out of the room on me. I tried several scenarios, starting points and changes in the plot line. I re-wrote the back-story. My main character, a male, was a retired postal worker, shop keeper, farmer etc but no matter how I approached it it all dropped away leaving me hanging in mid-air.
I put everything aside and stepped back. For a few days I thought about stopping the degree completely. This filled me with dread. The thought of all I have learned and experienced coming to nothing felt so wrong.
So I did what felt right. I walked away from the writing and immersed myself in Christmas and the New Year. I have continued to read, that's something I will do until my dying day.
After the decorations were down and I was back to work I emailed Nina and confessed.
It is strange feeling that you are letting down someone you have never met, going off course. She emailed straight back assuring me that I was not the only one and an extension would be fine. It felt like a weight had been shed; two days later the main character became a retired teacher and he, Albert, was born into one thousand words in a single sitting. I could see him, feel his bad knee, a rugby injury, and know that he didn't take sugar.
At the next sitting I got scared at two thousand words - it was going too fast, too much detail, out of control after writing nothing; so I put the piece aside for a few days to let it fallow.....something I love doing because it becomes someone else’s writing and you can see the obvious easily. But also a scary moment, because then you get the "what if I can't see what happens next and they've left again?"
Tonight, I returned to my Albert and his dog and now I am overwriting; going well over the words limit because it feels right. At the point I have stopped, he should be delivering his decision to his daughter, who sits with him in his little thatched cottage, but he isn't. He's sipping his tea, deliberating, being his own man; character. So I have put him aside so that at the next sitting he'll be ready to finish the story and so will I.
Overwriting and honesty seem to be the lessons from this piece; write until the story has finished THEN edit it down to the word limit (or at least close too). Funny how things come along, and with the frustrating, difficult and painful a lesson. Confess as early as possible to your tutor, even if you haven't met them, as soon as possible because the worst kind of pressure can be self imposed and cut off the flow completely.
Every time I sat down, candle lit, radio burbling away via the internet and with the partner safely tucked into bed it all fell apart. It is as though the characters in my head simply walked out of the room on me. I tried several scenarios, starting points and changes in the plot line. I re-wrote the back-story. My main character, a male, was a retired postal worker, shop keeper, farmer etc but no matter how I approached it it all dropped away leaving me hanging in mid-air.
I put everything aside and stepped back. For a few days I thought about stopping the degree completely. This filled me with dread. The thought of all I have learned and experienced coming to nothing felt so wrong.
So I did what felt right. I walked away from the writing and immersed myself in Christmas and the New Year. I have continued to read, that's something I will do until my dying day.
After the decorations were down and I was back to work I emailed Nina and confessed.
It is strange feeling that you are letting down someone you have never met, going off course. She emailed straight back assuring me that I was not the only one and an extension would be fine. It felt like a weight had been shed; two days later the main character became a retired teacher and he, Albert, was born into one thousand words in a single sitting. I could see him, feel his bad knee, a rugby injury, and know that he didn't take sugar.
At the next sitting I got scared at two thousand words - it was going too fast, too much detail, out of control after writing nothing; so I put the piece aside for a few days to let it fallow.....something I love doing because it becomes someone else’s writing and you can see the obvious easily. But also a scary moment, because then you get the "what if I can't see what happens next and they've left again?"
Tonight, I returned to my Albert and his dog and now I am overwriting; going well over the words limit because it feels right. At the point I have stopped, he should be delivering his decision to his daughter, who sits with him in his little thatched cottage, but he isn't. He's sipping his tea, deliberating, being his own man; character. So I have put him aside so that at the next sitting he'll be ready to finish the story and so will I.
Overwriting and honesty seem to be the lessons from this piece; write until the story has finished THEN edit it down to the word limit (or at least close too). Funny how things come along, and with the frustrating, difficult and painful a lesson. Confess as early as possible to your tutor, even if you haven't met them, as soon as possible because the worst kind of pressure can be self imposed and cut off the flow completely.
Sunday, 27 December 2009
Images, echoes and Angels.
It has been a hard Christmas. My partner and I went to my Sister's for the day; my Mum and Dad, Uncle (yes a strange one as tradition requires), my two nephews and my Sister's partner.
The meal was sumptuous; ginger-bread stuffing, a revelation! Heaven when eaten with stuffed leg of turkey and my partners Port and chestnut sprouts. We talked about cooking, food, tradition and family. My partner lost his Mum and my Sister's partner lost hers this year. Each time I looked to one of the chairs around the table I expected Joan to be sitting there smiling and tucking away a huge plate of food; her gaze straying to the dessert.
Then as we relayed out into the bright sunlight on the decking outside, for some to enjoy a cigarette and others fresh air, I expected to see Mo standing there in her red blouse, the one with a Chinese style collar, flashing Christmas badge on her breast, trim leg trousers she loved and smart shoes with the buckles, smoking, smiling and laughing.
I felt that we were gathered more closely. Two of the three centres of our respective families gone. We are gravitating into my parents, the Universe resetting itself, as naturally as water flooding or tide falling.
We pulled crackers, laughing at the jokes, ate a full feast, talked of those elsewhere and drank good wine. We went round the table listing what our gifts were; prompting each other with mock offence when a speaker forgot a stocking filler here or a joke present there. We exchanged gifts, watching the nephews, one 22 and the other 10, getting excited at a bottle of good whisky, DVDs and a full Lego collection - the Police Station series - respectively.
The crowning moment was the simplest gift of all. A tasteful wooden frame, wrapped in tissue paper and passed to my parents. My Mum unwrapped a picture of herself, my Dad and the Angelic Joan smiling out on a shared holiday. The tears flowed from my Mum, without sobbing, her chin crumpled up, eyes reddened and she took the tissue from me that I had carried for this very moment. When she handed the frame to my Dad he smiled, water pricking his eyes and fought himself every inch of the way. I handed him a tissue, he took it without looking up. When I drove them home later Mum commented she was the only one who cried and my Dad agreed; pride and amnesia being his refuge, despite all the tears shed, unashamedly, so recently at funerals.
My partner sat for hours with the two nephews building Police cars, motorbikes, vans and finally the station itself. The adults chatted, smoked, drank and remembered. I felt like I had reached the age where I was a spectator; unable to actually enjoy and live in the moment. I could watch over them and enjoy the pleasure of others, more innocent maybe. Of course, it might have something to do with the control freak in me - the fact that through all the pleasure and excitement I was the only one who carried tissues, knowing that tears would flow and guessing where they would be shed.
My parents safely driven home; Dad's pain endurance taken to his limit so Mum could enjoy a few vodkas and the relaxing atmosphere; her knowing that we were all keeping an eye on him. I return to find my partner still building and playing with my nephews. On the television there is a home movie playing a previous New Years Eve party - the theme being Musicals - there is Les Mis characters floating past the camera, followed by three Pink Ladies from Grease and on and on. The camera swings around to a curly haired mother superior sitting on a chair, a huge crucifix hanging from her neck and a novice Nun sitting at her feet. It was Joan, smiling as always, supported and surrounded by her mad, singing and daft family; they urged her to start singing but after the first verse they all joined in with "How do you solve a problem like Maria". She giggled, laughed and beamed through the song, her round face glowing in happiness and pride. We all watched and at the end my nephew waved at his Grandmother.
The next disc was my Sister's fortieth celebration. Groups drank, sang and laughed in the shadows and pools of light; people waved when challenged by the camera, poked their tongues out and generally played the fool - it was a great night.
Then there in the dark a huddle of four figures around a central table, light bouncing of half full glasses. My parents, conspiratorially leaning over their drinks, were deep in conversation, sharing secrets and laughter with Joan and my partner's Mum, the Mighty Mo. The camera swept past, moving to catch everyone in the room. It was a glimpse of Mo's profile, her eyes gleaming with mischief and the silhouette of her hair, greying but a luxurious mane which swept back from her face and curled to a stop at the nape of her neck. I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand, swallowing hard. My partner called out "there's the Mrs Woman, My little Mommy Bear" his affectionate name for her. It was Christmas Day and we had seen Joan and Mo despite everything.
It was magic. Echoes of happier times. Dressed up, together in laughter and smiles, with celebration and love tangible in the air.
At home later I sat alone in the dark watching the news; the tree lights making the room twinkle while the awfulness washed over me. My partner in bed, a nightcap easing him into sleep. I was sober and thinking. Not a good state to be in when you are an insomniac.
Both women had their own versions of faith. To think of them standing at the bar, with the others we have lost this year comforts me, blasphemously being served their favourite tipple by a bearded youth. But I think that they believed that we are the Angels here. Sometimes we stretch our wings, lift our faces and fly, even for a few moments; we smile at someone and help to lift a great burden, reassure a stranger of a hinted at insecurity enough to sway them back to laughter or stop to watch someone safely make their way to sanctuary, down some steps or through a doorway, curling wings around them just in case they fall.
We should see every old lady as our Grandmother, each Woman as our Mum, every human being as someone to protect, help and gift. So naive in this dark and sinister world! Thoughtfulness and living in the moment would allow us time to see this; to regard each person we see as someone we care for.
That old cliché of "how would I like someone to act if that was my Mum who had fallen" means a lot - we all know what we would expect and want. Maybe that's how people like Joan and Mo see Angels and live in the moment.
The meal was sumptuous; ginger-bread stuffing, a revelation! Heaven when eaten with stuffed leg of turkey and my partners Port and chestnut sprouts. We talked about cooking, food, tradition and family. My partner lost his Mum and my Sister's partner lost hers this year. Each time I looked to one of the chairs around the table I expected Joan to be sitting there smiling and tucking away a huge plate of food; her gaze straying to the dessert.
Then as we relayed out into the bright sunlight on the decking outside, for some to enjoy a cigarette and others fresh air, I expected to see Mo standing there in her red blouse, the one with a Chinese style collar, flashing Christmas badge on her breast, trim leg trousers she loved and smart shoes with the buckles, smoking, smiling and laughing.
I felt that we were gathered more closely. Two of the three centres of our respective families gone. We are gravitating into my parents, the Universe resetting itself, as naturally as water flooding or tide falling.
We pulled crackers, laughing at the jokes, ate a full feast, talked of those elsewhere and drank good wine. We went round the table listing what our gifts were; prompting each other with mock offence when a speaker forgot a stocking filler here or a joke present there. We exchanged gifts, watching the nephews, one 22 and the other 10, getting excited at a bottle of good whisky, DVDs and a full Lego collection - the Police Station series - respectively.
The crowning moment was the simplest gift of all. A tasteful wooden frame, wrapped in tissue paper and passed to my parents. My Mum unwrapped a picture of herself, my Dad and the Angelic Joan smiling out on a shared holiday. The tears flowed from my Mum, without sobbing, her chin crumpled up, eyes reddened and she took the tissue from me that I had carried for this very moment. When she handed the frame to my Dad he smiled, water pricking his eyes and fought himself every inch of the way. I handed him a tissue, he took it without looking up. When I drove them home later Mum commented she was the only one who cried and my Dad agreed; pride and amnesia being his refuge, despite all the tears shed, unashamedly, so recently at funerals.
My partner sat for hours with the two nephews building Police cars, motorbikes, vans and finally the station itself. The adults chatted, smoked, drank and remembered. I felt like I had reached the age where I was a spectator; unable to actually enjoy and live in the moment. I could watch over them and enjoy the pleasure of others, more innocent maybe. Of course, it might have something to do with the control freak in me - the fact that through all the pleasure and excitement I was the only one who carried tissues, knowing that tears would flow and guessing where they would be shed.
My parents safely driven home; Dad's pain endurance taken to his limit so Mum could enjoy a few vodkas and the relaxing atmosphere; her knowing that we were all keeping an eye on him. I return to find my partner still building and playing with my nephews. On the television there is a home movie playing a previous New Years Eve party - the theme being Musicals - there is Les Mis characters floating past the camera, followed by three Pink Ladies from Grease and on and on. The camera swings around to a curly haired mother superior sitting on a chair, a huge crucifix hanging from her neck and a novice Nun sitting at her feet. It was Joan, smiling as always, supported and surrounded by her mad, singing and daft family; they urged her to start singing but after the first verse they all joined in with "How do you solve a problem like Maria". She giggled, laughed and beamed through the song, her round face glowing in happiness and pride. We all watched and at the end my nephew waved at his Grandmother.
The next disc was my Sister's fortieth celebration. Groups drank, sang and laughed in the shadows and pools of light; people waved when challenged by the camera, poked their tongues out and generally played the fool - it was a great night.
Then there in the dark a huddle of four figures around a central table, light bouncing of half full glasses. My parents, conspiratorially leaning over their drinks, were deep in conversation, sharing secrets and laughter with Joan and my partner's Mum, the Mighty Mo. The camera swept past, moving to catch everyone in the room. It was a glimpse of Mo's profile, her eyes gleaming with mischief and the silhouette of her hair, greying but a luxurious mane which swept back from her face and curled to a stop at the nape of her neck. I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand, swallowing hard. My partner called out "there's the Mrs Woman, My little Mommy Bear" his affectionate name for her. It was Christmas Day and we had seen Joan and Mo despite everything.
It was magic. Echoes of happier times. Dressed up, together in laughter and smiles, with celebration and love tangible in the air.
At home later I sat alone in the dark watching the news; the tree lights making the room twinkle while the awfulness washed over me. My partner in bed, a nightcap easing him into sleep. I was sober and thinking. Not a good state to be in when you are an insomniac.
Both women had their own versions of faith. To think of them standing at the bar, with the others we have lost this year comforts me, blasphemously being served their favourite tipple by a bearded youth. But I think that they believed that we are the Angels here. Sometimes we stretch our wings, lift our faces and fly, even for a few moments; we smile at someone and help to lift a great burden, reassure a stranger of a hinted at insecurity enough to sway them back to laughter or stop to watch someone safely make their way to sanctuary, down some steps or through a doorway, curling wings around them just in case they fall.
We should see every old lady as our Grandmother, each Woman as our Mum, every human being as someone to protect, help and gift. So naive in this dark and sinister world! Thoughtfulness and living in the moment would allow us time to see this; to regard each person we see as someone we care for.
That old cliché of "how would I like someone to act if that was my Mum who had fallen" means a lot - we all know what we would expect and want. Maybe that's how people like Joan and Mo see Angels and live in the moment.
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