The Rain

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

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

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

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

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

This week’s writing prompt: Rain

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

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

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

This blog was first published on February 13th 2013

Unexpected Encounters: The Stag

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I’ve been thinking about unexpected encounters. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Week’s Writing Prompt

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

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

This blog was first published on February 22nd 2013

Clarity of Ideas

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I’ve been wrestling with Instinctual Creativity.


It's the synthesis of the Wild Words ideas, moved out of the realm of writing per se. A path to tracking down your vibrant, creative self.
 
I began yesterday with a raft of doubts and questions that were blocking my writing. Questions about where to go with the very rich material. Questions about the many layers of the psychological approach. Questions about how to market it.
 
Then Charles Davies took me through a process called Very Clear Ideas.
 
He proposed that I immerse myself in visualising a scenario in which I was in a place, time and psychological state where I was writing in exactly the way I would like to. Where it was flowing.  
 
I’m in a café, with the buzz or people around, but people speaking in a language I don’t understand so that the content of their conversation doesn’t disturb me. I have a cup of tea. I’m warm. I’m in a comfortable chair. I have limitless white paper, and a fine, scratchy, pen that never runs out. No one invades my space, and there is no threat of that.
 
Then he asked me a series of questions to which I gave yes or no answers. This process was repeated several times, focusing on different questions. Unravelling, clarifying, understanding.  Always answering from an embodied place.
 
I had three important realisations…
 
- I remembered that I am a natural storyteller. I know when an idea is absolutely right. And I know when it’s not right, even though I don’t always know what is wrong.
 
-I discovered that I am scared. Facing fears is a central message inInstinctual Creativity. Yet, I hadn’t realised the level of my own fear. (Isn’t it so often easier to have perspective on the stuff of others, than on our own stuff!)
 
-And horror of horrors, despite my best attempts to fool myself, I found that I was ambivalent about writing this particular book, at this particular time.
 
Even though these weren’t all messages I wanted to hear, overall, I felt a profound wave of relief wash over me. At least I now knew what I was dealing with.
 
I closed my eyes and returned to my warm, buzzing café, with the comfy chair, the scratchy pen, the reams of white paper…
 
I’m sorry to say that hot on the heels of the relief, came a dispiriting sense of loneliness. The very comfort and security afforded by envisioning holding my creative space so successfully, gave way to a profound sense of isolation. I was too alone in that writing space. Perhaps that was the source of my ambivalence?
 
Then phrases arose from a very deep place.
 
I need my writing subject to respond to me. I need the writing of my book to be a conversation with another, with my subject- the wild animal.
 
I pride myself on writing with an attitude of openness to what comes up. So, it was news to physically experience that I hadn’t been doing that, and that was the reason I felt blocked.
 
And with that, the isolation, as well as the ambivalence about the project, evaporated away.  There was a whole hearted YES. Yes, I wanted to write it. Yes, I needed it. Yes, I dreamed it. Yes, I demanded it.
 
Now this is what I have on my wall beside my desk:
 
Connect with the wild animal. Communicate. Listen. Allow it to speak.  Respond. Record.  Don’t force words into its mouth.
 
 
Find out more about Very Clear Ideas.
 
Also, from this month’s blog posts: The Importance of Feeling

 

The Monthly Writing Prompt


Visualise the following scenario: You are in a place, time and psychological state where you are writing in exactly the way you would wish to. It is flowing. 
 
Write about that. Make use of all your senses to describe what you experience. Where are you? What are the smells, tastes, sounds, smells, texture and colours? How does you body feel?
 
When you next come sit down to work on you poem/novel/short story or article, take a few moments to recall that scenario, before you begin your writing. Then hold it in the back of your mind, as well as in in your body, as you work. 

 
 

The Turning Year Prompt
 

I don't know about you, but in the winter, more than ever, I find myself dying to get out into the fresh air and connect with the environment through writing wild words.

These are the key dates this month:
-Full Moon Monday 22nd February 2016. Known as 'the snow moon' or 'hunger moon'. 
-New Moon: Wednesday 9th March 2016.

Being A Better Boss

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The editor and writer.jpg

When I write, I divide my inner world in two. There’s the writer, and there’s the editor. Often they have an employee-boss working relationship.


The writer writes from passion, from the whole body experience of the material, from the instinctual.
 
The editor ensures the writer’s health during the immersive process, keeping me on track, despite the many doubts and uncertainties. It keeps me safe when I’m lost from the ‘real world’. The editor is the inner voice that reminds me to get up and go to my desk. It encourages me when my enthusiasm flags. It keeps perspective on what’s being written, so that an authoritative and balanced opinion can be offered. It uses the carrot or stick approach, depending on what is needed to get the job done.
 
Mostly, these days, the editor knows to keep quiet as I actually write. As in any workplace, conversations happen in the kitchen as I (we) wait for the kettle to boil.

Editor: So how did that go for you this morning?
Writer: Not bad. Bit lacking in motivation. But it’s moving forward.
 
 Or,
 
Editor: I see you’re feeling tired. How are we going to manage that? Perhaps a twenty-minute nap now, would, overall, result in a more productive day?
Writer: That’s not a bad idea.
 
Or,
 
Editor:  You’re nervous, because you don’t know where to go with this scene, but how about, instead of a fifth cup of tea, we just get something down, and then make some hot chocolate as a reward?
Writer: Well, if we must. 

The reality of being a writer is that there is often no one else to read and comment on our work.
 

When you don’t have an external boss, then creating a kindly internal boss, has benefits.

 
This is how it came about...As a university tutor of creative writing, I have offered feedback on thousands of stories, poems and biographical pieces. What I’ve found is that, quite often, the receiver of the feedback had already spotted the strengths and weaknesses in their work. But they’d felt they needed an expert to confirm it.
 

The bottom line is that we don’t trust ourselves.


We don’t trust that we know how to tell stories innately and instinctually.
 
I decided, with my own writing, to have confidence that I knew. I saw for myself that when I trusted my whole body sense, my gut instinct if you like (as opposed to a dis-embodied, thinking-mind opinion) that I too, almost always knew what was needed to make it into the best piece it could be.  It was, what I now call the internal editor, who piped up in spirited fashion with those spot-on answers.
 
Generally, I consider my workplace team to be a successful one. We get things done. But this January, the writer has been dragging her heels, and threatening to strike. In response, the editor has come in harshly, in order to keep me at my desk.  They have been reactive towards each other, and that’s resulted in the writing feeling, at best, like trudging through thick mud.
 
The disharmony has not been pleasant. I’ve also been aware that the writer’s behaviour probably represents an organic need that is not being heard. I believe we ignore those messages at our peril. So, with workplace relations turning increasingly sour, I decided, yesterday, to be a better boss to myself. I called the two of them in a room (metaphorically speaking), and we talked.
 

I asked the writer- what do you need that you aren’t getting?


The writer spoke. At my insistence, the editor listened.  She said,
 
The editor is judging, and editing with every sentence. My words are juddering and stilted. It’s cutting off the flow. I want to be told that I’m doing a good job, that I’m doing well, that I’m a good writer. And I want the editor to stay quiet, until the first draft is done. Then, we can look together at how it’s working.
 
The editor agreed to pull back a little, and to be more validating, in return for an immediate return to work. Now, I’m pleased to say, we’re back on track.
 
 

The Monthly Writing Prompt


Write a dialogue between two characters. As I’ve done, you can use your own creative process to inspire this. You might be surprised what comes out!
 
You can also write a fictional story, about a parent/child, or employer/employee interaction.  
 
 

 

What Are We Frightened Of? Part 1

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When fear attacks...

When fear attacks...

This month so far, I’ve read three draft autobiographies. Each one has left me awe struck at the author’s bravery, their determination to recover from emotional and physical hardship.

Each of them has been trying to convey a life of great profundity and richness, of wild passions and strong desires.

In each one the wildness has been there, somewhere behind the words, struggling to be heard, roaring in its cage. In each one, to a greater or lesser extent, the writer has been afraid to release it. As we all are, some or most of the time.

Take this example:       I was walking along the street; my heels click clacking on the concrete paving. I smelt exhaust fumes. I heard horns, engines revving in traffic. Then I saw him, the ONE, the only person I hoped never to see again.       ‘Hello’ he said.       The next day I remembered back to that encounter….

Cutting away from the action in this way, just as the tension, emotion, or drama rises, is one strategy that us writers employ (usually unconsciously), to stop ourselves from having to make contact with memories that are just too hard to face, emotions that are too painful to feel again. Because what happens if we feel that deeply? We implode or explode, we destroy ourselves, or others, don’t we?

So, to be a freer writer, and a more liberated person, try this:

Always move towards events that carry emotion, tension or drama. Write them out fully. Linger. Let the reader feel.

Don’t cheat yourself, or them, of an opportunity to feel deeply, to process those emotions by letting them move through the body, and swell and dissipate in their own good time. Cutting to the next scene is for mundane events, events that are not significant to the emotional journey of your hero.

Learn to notice when you cut away. And when you’ve learned to spot it in your writing, try to notice it in your conversations, and in your thoughts too. What’s in the white space between your paragraphs? Write and let me know, please.

This blog was first published on October 22nd 2012

 

 

 

Writing outdoors

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At the slightest excuse I unchain myself from my desk, break out of the building, and write in nature. I love to write outdoors because, in the act of writing about it, in the words of American poet, E.E. Cummings, the world becomes ‘mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful’. There is no better feeling than when words canter on the broad savannah, dive deep in the dark ocean, and swoop in the vast blue sky. 

Why are you a writer-in-the wild?

Please write and tell me about it.