A Writer's Process: Andy Stevens

Great! I’ve the whole day off to write.

I’ll open up Final Draft and finish that knock-out script I’ve been working on. In a few days’ time, I’ll send it off to the BBC Writers Room. That’s a mere formality though, isn’t it? It’ll get snapped up, they’ll appoint someone famous to direct the show for the telly - like Stephen Frears. I’ve got it all planned out – late night BBC4 slot at first then over to prime time BBC2. The Baftas and the Golden Rose of Montreux will follow then off to Hollywood to negotiate with Netflix to produce an American version with plenty of canned laughter!

I’ll make a coffee first though.

This coffee’s good. Those little pods that come through the post from that exclusive Coffee Club are wonderful. They give just the right amount of va, va, voom to get one started. You know what, while I’m savouring this coffee, I’ll log in to ‘BBC Listen Again’. I’ll quickly catch up with ‘In Our Time’ and ‘Round Britain Quiz’ to sharpen up the grey matter prior to opening Final Draft.

Wow, I actually got two questions right in ‘Round Britain Quiz’.

OK then, let’s get started! Oh, wait a moment, it’s 1100 now and I’m feeling a bit peckish.

I could kill a p-p-p-p-penguin right now. Let’s quickly see what’s in the biscuit tin. Good Lord, it looks like Mrs Draco has taken austerity to heart and expanded its coverage to include biscuit procurement – there are only bloody Malted Milks in here! Things will be very different once I’ve submitted this script. Until then, I’ll have another coffee and dunk this Malted Milk.

Right, OK, I’m back in front of the computer and ready to…blimey, there’s a Siskin on the feed station outside my window, I must get a picture of it for my year list.

Bugger, it flew off! If I want it to come back, I’ll have to fill up the feeders and hang some fat balls – it shouldn’t take too long.

I fed the birds but unfortunately Mrs. Beasley from next door heard me – she can talk the back legs off a diplodocus…and she did.

Oh dear, it’s lunchtime. I’ll make a cheese sandwich then sit back down at the computer.

There was something I needed to do today…what was it? Catch up with ‘Happy Valley’ on iPlayer? Or was there something else?

A Writer's Process: Bridget Holding

Written on 20th March 2016

Today has been a perfect writing day. In that I have arrived at the evening with a real sense of satisfaction. The poem may not be finished, but it knows where it’s going.

Writing on a Sunday is sometimes more productive than during the week. Probably because all those small administrative things that usually niggle at me, seem to have no sway at the weekend. It’s the day of rest after all. Not that writing is exactly rest. It can be hard work. But it nourishes me.

This morning I awoke without an alarm at around seven, and had the start to the day that is most conducive to my writing process. I lay in bed a while, seeing what was present for me in terms of feelings and body sensations. 

Today is the spring equinox, and I knew I wanted to write something on that subject. However, I know from experience that if I don’t let what’s already there be heard, then that will block other expression.

Sometimes I just brainstorm on to a piece of paper with words about ‘what’s in the way of my writing today’.  However, today, there was one strong theme.  Sadness. So I made a cup of tea, propped myself up with pillows, and wrote down the words that wanted to come from that place of sadness. I was blessed with a strong image, so that helped me to find a path of self-expression from the feelings.

Once I was up, showered and breakfasted, I looked at information on some of the themes around the equinox, on the internet. I always feel a little like this is not what a poet is meant to do, but I’m enjoying bringing some astronomy and physics into my poems on ‘the turning year’. I like that specificity. It’s grounding my work.

What really sets me on fire as a poet is building a path from the microcosm of the movements of my own inner experience (body sensation and feeling particularly) to the macrocosm of the movements of nature, or the universe, or other abstract themes.

Aristotle said (I’m paraphrasing) that ‘the greatest of thing of all, is to be a master of metaphor’ I aim at that. Why not aim high! So, I found in the information and videos of the earth moving round the sun, some movement words that allowed me to feel that rhythm in my own body.

Then I stashed some paper and a pen, and my phone, into my coat pocket, and went for a walk. I’m lucky enough to live in the foothills of the Pyrenees. I walked two hours up a mountain, which really feels like going into the wilds.  I tried to feel into my animal self. Not to think, but to stay with the embodied experience of walking, alert to my environment, taking in sensory impressions. As words came to me, I jotted them down. I returned with two pages of hand written notes on various facets of my subject.

I ate lunch and took a siesta. Sleep for me, is like a wave clearing the beach. When I awoke I was in my body, and ready to go back to the poem.

I’ve been happy with today’s poem from the beginning. It found a form and shape immediately. I knew the pace, where to put the reader’s attention, the outline of it, from the outset. So today has been about filling that outline in.

This afternoon’s work (I meant to work two hours this afternoon, but worked four) has been about two things.

First, I’ve been doing small physical movements to feel deeper into the moments of movement in the planet I describe in the poem. Sometimes I might, for example, repeat a small tilt of my hips, which mirrors the tilt the earth makes in my poem at the equinox, perhaps fifty times. The words rise up from that embodied experience. If I am patient enough to wait and be with it.

The second thing I did this evening, when I had a good-enough first draft, was to consciously bring all the senses into the poem- I want the reader to smell, touch, taste, hear, and see the colours. That took some time. And some thinking myself back to the experience of walking this morning.

And then there were some internet facts to check too. Quite a few as the poem seems to be expanded to a story about three countries (not to mention the planet as a whole!)

Although I was hoping to write this poem in a day, it’s not finished. As quite often happens, it’s turning into a longer poem than I had intended, and is taking longer than I hoped.

It’s hard work too. Somehow I forget that between writing each poem.  Stringing words together on a mountain top, is really just the beginning of the day.

I realised at the end of this afternoon, that I need to bring the spring mountain flowers more alive to the reader. And the sensory impressions aren’t quite there. To do that I might have to walk back up the mountain again sometime this week, and bring some back.

I’ve going to put it online anyway. We are writers sharing the process, after all.

I’ll sleep soundly tonight.  In touch with the wild.

You can read my poem 'Spring Equinox-March 2016' also on this blog.

Spring Equinox- March 2016

Today,
the Earth raises her chin,
and puts an even face to the sun.

Drops her tailbone to feel
the straightening of her spine
As a plumb line hanging in infinity.

Raises herself on curling toes
locks her eyes
throws out a leg,

And pirouettes.

She’s up on her points
suspending time.

All that idle talk about our sun,
that ‘rises in the east, and sets in the west’
Is only true today.

Only today,
her spinning is a pause
in which
the earth resets itself

And day and night sit evenly on the scales.

**

Here,
in France,
it’s still a forlorn sepia world
I walk out into.

Prehistoric
Of lichen and moss and rock
Cold, hard things.

Leaves cling to petrified trees
like rags on a beggar.
Hollow, flaking branches
Perish to dust on the ground.

The sticky mud coffins the winter damp.

But still,
there’s a warm tease in the breath of wind
that catches my cheek,
and ruffles my hair.
Lavender and thyme on her breath
A whisper of  seduction.
A promise of life.

Until,
slicing through like a blade
chill air from the poles
breaks up the party. 
Snapping
Leave it out. Leave it out. We’re not there yet.

The equinox tussle.

**

And the Earth?
She turns us so fast that we are paralysed.
Caught in the spell of this day.

**

But I know
that Nature. The Artist. 
Besotted by colour,
is preparing her paints.

Mixing great vats of them.

On the mountainside I see
She has spattered
a dash of violet here,
jonquil yellow there.
Sprayed pink and white
through the hedge.

Tenderly blotted each spilled drop with a cloth
Fanning it out to the petal whorl.

Grape hyacinch here,
march marigold there.
And the cherry blossom
running wild in the hedge.

**

A Japanese man I meet buying bread
holds his breath as he tells me that
the whole of that nation
hangs on news
of the sweep south
of the cherry blossom front.

Broadcasters agitate over
first petals sighted
in the north of the country.
Five to six flowers opening
On sample tree fifty-three

Poets sits at the trunks,
hog-bristle brushes poised,
Lips parted to receive
the seventeen sounds.

**
At dinner,
an Indian friend
sighs, doe-eyed, over memories
of crowds gathering in Mumbai
dizzy with expectation.
Clutching plastic zip bags
gaudily coloured powders.

Young men pacing
like athletes on the blocks
tying handkerchiefs into triangle masks
flexing their throwing wrists.
And arching their backs
to relieve the growing pressure
in their groins.

**

And then what?
The spell of the day cannot last forever.
The sap will rise. 

**

There comes a moment
when the Earth feels the strain,
and the position can no longer be held.
She must adjust her line.

She releases her cramping leg
tilts her back
raises her face imperceptibly towards the sun.

With the pouring out of daylight
All hell breaks loose on the earth.

**
In France,
fierce heat on mountain tops
melts snow.

The run-off swells streams,
reanimates the bodies of animals
sending them scampering
beside themselves
senseless.

In Japan,
a cascade of burgeoning blossom
awakens cries of delight.
The newscaster skips
and the haiku poet trembles
as he hiccups the words
“This dewdrop world
Is but a dewdrop world
And yet —” 

**

In India,
with the whistle
and jeer
and surge of the crowd
paint is scooped, slung- shot, wrist flicked
tipped, and blown.
It cakes laughing mouths
clogs ears and nostrils
coats skin that it will take a month to scrub clean.

Scarlet, gold and indigo explode in the sky
like fireworks
then drop silent as falling stars.

A world bursting into bloom.

**

When daylight fades on the equinox dance
the sap keeps rising
and rising.
Life turning over
to reveal her dark underbelly.

In France,
in my dusky garden
stray cats screech
and fight to the death
for the right to force themselves on one another

In Japan,
a man stabs his neighbour
to possess number thirty-three.
The most beautiful cherry tree.

In India,
In the shadows
Gangs of young men
Fuelled
Pant crimson like dragons.

Young women, rainbow-dyed
sense danger
scuttle indoors
Pull bolts.  And huddle.
As the pack
stealing permission from the festival
howls in pursuit.

Laughing and cursing,
shoulders batter front doors
To gain entry.
To claim the predator’s prize.

**

A Writer's Process: Sophie van Llewyn

I love to write on the huge couch in my living room, with my computer in my lap, reclining my back on the multitude of soft pillows .

However, that isn’t really an option any more since I became pregnant , so minor adjustments have had to be made.

When do I write? Being a doctor, my schedule is quite chaotic. During vacations, I write 4-6 hours per day, but when I have to work, I am only able to write on week-end for a few hours.

I find writing a very rewarding experience and sometimes I manage to enter that state when I am ‘on a row’ and the ideas keep flowing. I often try no to be over-conscious about my writing and let my unconscious do the job, too, with very surprising results. Not once had I looked at the computer in front of me after committing something to paper and wondered ‘Where did that come from?’

The greatest surprise was the ending of my novel.

First of all, my leading character ended up in a totally different place than what I had expected as I began to write the book, and second , she did something which I didn’t entirely approve of.

I had invested certain qualities and features in her, and at some point in the story, she began doing whatever she wanted and not what suited me. However, this only made me happier with the final result. My character was so strong and came to be so alive in my mind, that she actually did things her way, in the end.

I sometimes find it difficult to choose the perfect words in order to convey an idea I have in my mind.

At times, I feel that the words I have written don’t accurately express the idea I had formulated in my head. I encounter this difficulty most often when I am confronted with descriptions, landscapes, interiors, dress or countenance. I often find that the words on the computer screen don’t do justice to the Idea as I saw it with my mind’s eyes, and I find that incredibly frustrating.

I should probably mention at this point that English is a foreign language to me,

but if you would ask me now if I find it hard to write in English, I would say no. I believe that writing in my maternal language would be just as hard/easy (it is all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?)  Of course, it was difficult in the beginning, I really had trouble with the phrasing, but approx. 200,000 words later, I can’t say that I find it straining anymore. I have read somewhere , years ago , that people express themselves with far more clarity in a foreign language, because they have to search more consciously for their words. I can tell you now, from my own experience, that the statement is true.

sophievanllewyn.wordpress.com

Learning From Salvador Dali

I’m lucky enough to live just two hours from Figueres, birth and death place of artist Salvador Dali.

The other weekend I visited the museum he created (he’s buried underneath it!) I’ve never been particularly inclined towards his work, but I was converted. His draughtsmanship, as well as his sheer range of output, was extraordinary.

Although he wasn’t a writer per se, I learnt a lot about writing that day.

Dali knew his art history. He charted the development of certain images and themes through time. He took classic works and twisted them around, or added unlikely elements. Something provocative, or modern, or so mundane it was shocking.

Take, for example, his painting entitled Copy of a Rubens Copied From a Leonardo.

He brings his characters into contact with energy and fearlessness. Oh the humour! The reverence and irreverence! Delightful. Shocking. Dali broke the mold. He did something different. And that woke people up. It set them talking. It still does.

Wouldn’t it be fabulous to achieve that with words?

For writers, as much as artists, the first task is to know and appreciate our heritage.

The skilled masters of our craft are our roots. It is from that stable base, that we can reach for newfound heights. First, we learn from them. We copy their style, content, and themes. Then we move away from them. It’s something like growing up and leaving home.

The second task is to ask ourselves: What can I do with my writing subject that hasn’t been done before?

How can I turn this subject or theme around? How can I look or speak from a different place?

In my opinion, it’s a mistake to believe that the route to doing something new begins, or is primarily about, looking for ways to confront, challenge or conflict with others’ views or work. That might be a byproduct, but it’s not where we should put our creative focus.

Instead, the journey begins, ironically, with that which we think is known and therefore not worthy of our attention. Ourselves.

Consider: what is the roar inside that needs to be heard? What needs to be said? By me. In this moment.

Ask yourself: How can I be myself without shame or apology? How can I step outside the box? How can I think what I’ve been taught is unthinkable? What will support me to say the unsayable?

When we write from that source of authenticity and power, we challenge the status quo without fear.

We can withstand any criticism, because we’re being carried along by something so fundamental, that we will never doubt its ‘rightness’.   

The Monthly Writing Prompt

There’s a picture, by Salvador Dali, entitled Bed and Two Bedside Tables Ferociously Attacking a Cello.

Take courage and inspiration from it.

Choose a scene you’ve already written, a narrative poem, or an event from a screenplay or novel, for example.  Alternatively, write a new scene.

Then, re-tell that scene from a previously unconsidered point of view. Purposefully choose something wacky. The bed in the love scene, the pet hamster in the cage that witnesses a world event, or the sun shining on the fields of your seventeenth century manor house. How does it change your view of your characters and events? What do you learn? Have fun, play and explore. 

Wild Words: What Are We Frightened Of?

The important thing to know is, that just because you think you want to free those wild words, doesn’t mean there won’t be whole raft of ways in which you will unconsciously try to avoid doing that very thing.

Cutting away just as tension, emotion or drama heightens is one example. And there’s a whole sub-category of ways in which you will try to sabotage your relationship with me in our group or individual sessions. Don’t worry, I won’t take it personally.

We think we want to live and write in a way that’s unfettered, spontaneous, more instinctual, but it’s an unfamiliar way of being. Human beings, in general, cling to what is familiar, even if it’s unpleasant.

We’re frightened of the unknown. Added to that there’s the terror we feel when getting in touch with those strong emotions is offered to us as a possibility.

Be reassured, I will never go storming in and strip away the strategies, the defence mechanisms that you’ve unconsciously spent years erecting. I will never force you to face what lies behind. Freeing the tiger that way, might mean the tiger turns around and eats you, or me, or us both. No, we must be much cleverer than that, like a good tracker. A good tracker understands and works with his environment; he doesn’t see it as an enemy.

It may be that some, or all of your strategies no longer serve you well, but it’s important to acknowledge that your body and mind are doing the best they can to keep you well and safe, within the range of possibilities open to them.

So our starting point is to respect our own creativity, strength and resilience in this respect. It’s easy to be clear about what we have to gain by freeing those wild words, but it’s what you have to gain by NOT freeing them that is keeping you stuck. That’s what we need to work to understand. What is it that you have to lose?

This blog was first published on October 31st 2012

Competition Runners-Up Story

Climbing Kinder

by Robyn Curtis

 

I head for the gravestone edge

grit-faced, looming

over broad-shouldered hills that hug

the sling of the valley below.

past a carcass washed-boned,

 a whorl of sheep's wool on wire

past incipient bilberry, pink and raw

I strike out for base-rock; I want to lie

on autumn-warm slabs

before the purple heather darkens

with slick rivulets

of peat-brown age

and crows pick over my white bones;

a corkscrew thorn drills the earth

a handhold, a crook for a pilgrim

climbing into the sky.

And when at last I lie, pressed

against sun-kindled granite,

I will know

I have been something after all -

one who can keep the darkness warm

and still ride the lark's phrases.

A Writer's Process: Robyn Curtis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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