For the Darkest Day (2015)

 

Those who say they don’t believe in ghosts,

don’t know how it is,

to sleep a night as clear as day,

where you are held in warm arms,

and heaved on a chest of laughter.

Only to wake in a cold, empty bed.

And the terrible, surreal dream of her vanishing,

Those who say they don’t believe in ghosts,

don’t know how it is,

to open your mouth,

and for her voice to come out.

For her muscles patterns to move

your fingers.

For her posture to slip inside your core,

until you are suspended,

as if from a coat hanger.

Those who say they don’t believe in ghosts,

don’t realise that the dead are not only around,

but they hijack your body,

whilst simultaneously being so utterly absent

that you feel you will rupture with the pain.

A Writer's Process: Jill Adams

I like to write with a fountain pen in a favourite notebook/diary in the most informal relaxing place I can find, either curled up in an armchair or at my dining table during the winter and in the summer outside on the patio or by a pool on holiday.

I write something down almost every day even if it is just some dull old fact about the weather as this is the time for me when any creative thoughts are freed to fall onto paper.  The ideas that grow from this daily focus that I like are transferred to a larger notebook and then if I still like it and the idea has 'legs', then it is typed into my laptop, printed for satisfaction and filed.  There are lots of ideas that just don't get beyond the first scribble. 

I also keep a tiny notebook in my handbag for moments I feel a need to record experiences with a few keywords, for example, whilst waiting for an appointment. This notebook is also used for messing around playing hangman with my daughter.  I feel under-dressed without a notepad and pen!

To compose a poem it is usually a fairly quick gathering of a scene or event that I've noted in my diary.

This is an exciting experience, not nerve-wracking or relaxing but exhilarating. I don't write poems in an exact rhyming form, but I let the words launch themselves onto the page in a totally random way that I cannot give reason to. 

The time it takes to collate a poem can be perhaps just a couple of hours for the initial raw draft to become a 'completed' piece.  Then the idea is left to brew for days or weeks.  If after this time the poem still provides me with satisfaction, I'll read it aloud to some long suffering member of my family and edit out the frayed bits.  

Even though a sense of finish comes to me at this point, it is never quite done, because at this point of the process I can find many faults and things that I don't feel are professional, and the nagging feelings of self-doubt about my writing ability creep in. 

The following piece of poetry is inspired by Bridget's prompts from Wild Words, to get back to nature by way of marking ancient festivals and getting down into the cloying ever spinning earth.  It is based on a particular ten-mile stretch of a B road in North Aberdeenshire that I travel often.  The view from the road is of many Crofts nestled into the landscape and it is this that I've tried to capture. It is an unfinished piece that I will revisit and polish at a later date.

Unfinished Journey

Blue tractor lurches and sways

on the soft undulating field.

Away to the left, behind the shelter of the stone wall

sixty ewes gather.

Bleeting.

They nibble fresh pale green hay.

Blue tractor turns left out of the muddy gateway,

trundles away

along the metalled road towards Grange Crossroads and the tiny Primary School.

Large rear tyres emit clods of mud

as the rubber rolls quicker

smattering, splotch, splat, spots

of uniform shaped brown earth, spill

on the hard grey road.

Two rows of decreasing muddy dots placed at the dank tired verge,

and over the chipped white dividing line.

The grey road snakes on

across this fertile centuries old country,

unchanged, unspoilt, unique.

Sharp bends hide ancient stone bridges, falling down over burns

and guttural ditches,

between them who come here from the South,

incomers searching for the 'good life',

and them, the locals who inherited a part of this cloying earth.

Every crop of wheat harvested now and

rhombus shapes set to plough,

plain fields of grass remain.

On the left and later on the right

clusters of pine trees sprout their woody crops,

dark with ever green tips

pointing to outer space.

They form the darkest patches on this quilted landscape of Aberdeenshire countryside

gathered together by the seam of double hedges,

that adjoin the metalled road.

Blue tractor takes a sidetrack to the left, a stony and muddy length,

stops at a wee hoosie and a chimney stack

smokes

from the hearth crackling below with hearty fire.

Rain is blowing up.

The sky to the North has pale blue shreds of rags

strewn across it, remnants

from the sunny morning.

Darkness is coming earlier these late November days,

and earlier than ever today

with gigantic  grey clouds.

This time tomorrow daylight will be shorter

bringing this earth towards the Yule Festival.

The ever changing clock of seasons lulls us like babes in cribs

but,

stay awake, and drink and feast, look around and appreciate,

love and be loved,

and gaze intently at every view and savour every breath you take.

A Writer's Process: Joy Bounds

The Final Draft?

I knew, every time I revised, redrafted, rewrote or edited my novel, that it wasn’t quite working. I read chapters on re-structuring, books on self-editing, consulted colleague writers and friends, but I could never quite bottom out what was wrong. Rejection letters from agents and small publishers were no surprise.

I loved the story, though, and I wasn’t prepared to give up on it. It tells of the impossible dilemmas experienced by an old man when he can no longer care for his wife because of her dementia, and of the sad events in her Care Home. Other family members and caring professionals are deeply affected by what happens.

Writing can be an expensive activity, especially if you’re not earning much from it, but I decided as a final vote of confidence in my novel to pay for a critical appraisal. They don’t come cheap. The critique was both challenging and encouraging, and somehow opened unknown curtains in my mind, casting clear light on the craft of novel-writing.

I gave myself four months to work with its advice. Although in theory I’m lucky enough to have time and opportunity to write, in practice I’m busy with lots of community activities, so a couple of times I took myself off to find solitude for some uninterrupted work. On the second of these I took only a book to read and my walking boots. Basically, for four days it was me and my novel and the rainy autumn air. No obligations, no TV, no phone, no internet, no people.

I achieved immense focus, and discovered some useful things about myself too. At home, if I need a break from writing, I turn to some of the things on my ‘to do’ list. Somewhere within me a decision has been made that I’ve done enough writing for that day. But now, with no ‘to do’ list, or anything else to distract me, I was having a break and then getting back to writing.

There were profound consequences of this – more even that just achieving a lot more in a day. There was space, immense and free, where I – my mind, spirit,intention, focus – could creatively solve the problems of the novel. Insights, ideas, words, images broke out of the inner fog, and the story began to live. Now, back home, I’m trying to recreate some of those conditions within the busy-ness of everyday life.

http://joybounds.co.uk/

https://www.facebook.com/JoyBoundsWriter/

A Writer's Process: Sara Khorasani

Sara Khorasani

Recently I had to write a series of autobiographical poems as part of a project. Yuck. No thanks. I want to write twisted fairytales and Dharmic poems about the nature of existence.

I sit down to begin the project and feel my body tense, my breath shorten. My mind dims under the spotlight, ideas hide themselves in dark corners and my energy slumps. I feel caged, I feel confined, I feel like I’m being told what to do and I don’t want to do it.

I’ve learned that when given a project that doesn’t get my juices flowing I need to find a way in by writing around the topic.

There is always a way in that sets me off, that fires that glow in my body when an idea begins to breathe life. I may have to rummage around to find it, but a word, an image, a feeling will eventually emerge that becomes the ember that later ignites into a story or poem.

In the case of the autobiographical poem sequence I was tasked with, I did some freewriting on the broad theme of ‘childhood’ and through it I started to taste flavours, rekindle feelings and spark images from my past.

Then I go outside - into the woods, or to the beach, and then I wait. Not an impatient waiting, but a waiting born from faith that something will arise if I create the space.

And as I sat beneath a chestnut tree weighing a conker in my hand something did emerge. It was a strong image related to a story my mum told me once - about how she dressed my father – a stern Iranian with a don’t-mess-with-me attitude, newly arrived in the UK – as Paddington bear, complete with duffel coat and jam jar, and took him to a Halloween party. 

And a single line – ‘She’d never make a teddy of you’ – was enough to give the otherwise comedic incident a flavour of foreboding, and acted as the seed from which a series of autobiographical poems emerged.

A Writer's Process: Nikki Woods

Nikki Woods. A winner of the Wild Words Biannual Writing Competition 

I felt rather nervous when Bridget asked me to describe the processes I adopted in producing Taniwha.

I am fairly new to creative writing - though I’ve published non-fiction in the past - and, to date, I’ve focussed more closely on what I have written rather than why or how I have written it. Bridget’s questions made me think about the aims and ambitions of writing, as well as the obstacles.

When friends ask why I write, I tend to trot out predictable answers: a love of language and reading, a passion for communicating ideas, the thrill of hearing that others have enjoyed my work.  All are true, but they are only part of the story.

The other part is more personal: it’s as if a lifetime’s experiences of joy, anger, love, remorse, sadness, cheer, bereavement, delight (to name but a few) have reached capacity and can no longer be contained. They need to cut loose and, for me, their escape route is the written word. In Taniwha, these experiences are represented in themes including oppression, isolation, cultural dislocation and determination.

This is not to say that I set out purposefully to cover particular issues. Far from it.  The themes that find expression in my writing are rarely developed in a conscious manner.

Rather, I find that ideas evolve during the process of writing, jumping onto the page in a way that is at first surprising but ultimately predictable.

In this respect, I have no choice but to start with what I know, and I continue by (re) interpreting and broadening my experiences within the act of writing. I aim to mix what I know with what I want to know, and use the familiar in different and, I hope, creative ways.  In relation to Taniwha, for example, I have lived in New Zealand but as an adult, not a child. I have never had a home on a farm but have experienced bullying.  I do believe in monsters, especially those that lurk in the dark depths of deep pools.

The main difficulty I face in writing is beginning a new piece of work. It can take me days – even weeks – to get a story off the ground.

I find that a walk with my dog in the wild always helps (pictured). As I sit down with a clean sheet of paper, I feel a conflicting combination of excitement about what I might write, and anxiety as to whether I will be able to write anything at all.

I imagine the feeling as a writer’s version of stage-fright and, picking up my pen, I brace myself to step into the limelight.

A Writer's Process: MJ Oliver

MJ Oiiver 

Nothing gets in the way of my writing, I'm very focussed.

I've amazed myself by discovering that I actually relish the performing of my poetry, whereas previouslyI'd always hated any kind of public speaking. I think it's because I love writing so much, love the process of discovery that comes with it, I just can't wait to share it with others. 

I'm working towards a collection of poems and prose-pieces, relating to my father, who was a Hobo in Canada during the Great Depression of the 1930s. This has involved lots of research (historical and family), which I've enjoyed balancing with fiction, where there were gaps.

I've found that writing poems in the voice of others, ventriloquising, can be a really powerful tool. 

I also write poems that relate to love and loss, of family and friends, in which I tend to identify with wild animals -- it seems to help in getting to the core of my feelings.

It also minimizes the embarrassment I feel when disclosing personal emotions, and at the same time, I hope, makes the poem more accessible to others.  

A Writer's Process: Kester Reid

Kester Reid was is a runner-up in the Wild Words Biannual Writing Competition

To write, I seek to experience authentically – unexpectantly, and unhurriedly. 

I respect every being and every force as something alive with a present power to animate our shared reality.  I await their messages, their teachings.  To express such experience is impossible. To integrate it is my only goal.

To reflect and write about it is to explore it again, to explore its essence, and share it perhaps. Poetry is the most honest way for me to do that. I go back there and look again, with words.

My piece for the Wild Words competition ‘Stream’,  began as a journal entry during my time living amongst the Achuar tribe of the Western Amazon. For some years I have been drawn to this particular tropical wilderness, and into tribal realities. The isolation, both cultural and physical, of such experiences, taught me a huge amount about myself and my cultural mode of experiencing. Wild forests and native friends taught me a more natural way, a more human way.

Stillness and observation are critical aspects of an indigenous lifestyle.  Cultivating these practices, and states, is vital to noticing the intricacies of the world around me – in order to thrive, physically and spiritually. Such a mode is a survival tool, but also the gateway to recognising the beauty and mystery of the world, which is a momentary happening to which I am integral, which pulses heavily on the waves of my own breath. 

I recognise the power of natural forces, the creativity there, and the mystery.  And suddenly, everything is alive, so alive – as alive as me. 

This intuition that my experience of consciousness is a marvel not unique to my own species is deeply connective – it makes me humble before the Great Mystery, it uplifts me as a part of the Great Mystery. 

‘Stream’ began with an experience I never intended to write about.  The same curiosity that drew me out to those forests, and down that particular stream, somehow guided me to explore it with words. 

The root of it all is out under the changing sky, and inside the wild mind.  Coming to close to the Earth, and all Nature, our nature. The rest is just reading and writing and honing – becoming more honest, more open, more honest.

I am pleased to be connected to the Wild Words circle.  Thank you.  

A Writer's Process: Heather Taylor

Helen Ellwood

When I began writing Message in a Bottle, I wasn't thinking about publication, I simply wanted to escape the pain of a spine-damaging car crash.  By thinking about my time living as a South Seas castaway, and recording my memories on a Dictaphone, I was able to distract myself from my disability.

As the years rolled by, and my health improved to the point where I could sit up and use voice-activated software, I began to believe in my story.  In reality, who goes to an uninhabited desert island to get away from their troubles? I did, and it was a story worth telling, yet for some reason I couldn't finish the wretched thing.

Originally, I'd gone to the island to have an adventure and thereby heal my grief. My mother had died only the year before, and I couldn't cope. I ran away to ‘paradise’, tried to face my demons and returned alive, but did that really make a story?

Self-doubt kicked in.

In 2011, I gained a few writerly tools and a dose of self-confidence from Bridget’s writing course at Swanwick Summer School, and a year later gained the interest of literary agent Meg Davies. At this point, I was still focusing on the travel adventure; putting my inner journey second. 

I failed to hold Meg’s attention, but my next re-write, in which I focused more strongly on the inner journey, got long-listed for the Mslexia Memoir Competition 2014. So far so good, but Bridget felt I hadn't yet reached the heart of my story. Something indefinable was missing.

I’d gone to the island to find freedom from grief, yet once there, I’d remained emotionally restrained. Why hadn’t I been able to yell and roar – to heal? Why hadn’t I been able to challenge my companion when I needed to? Why had I let the press walk all over me?

As I read through my manuscript with an open mind, I realised my book was actually about authenticity.

I was brought up to be a well-behaved child.  Unfortunately, I became too well-behaved; I grew into an adult afraid of authentic self-expression.  I was a wild child in conformist clothing. This inability to speak my truth dogged my adventure on all levels. 

I had found the heart of my story. My journey was complete.

By writing my thoughts and feelings in italics, and showing my actual speech and behaviour in normal text, my latest rewrite explores the mismatch between the two; giving rise to insight and personal change, with a refreshing touch of humour, all set in an exotic and claustrophobic environment.

I am very grateful to Bridget for helping me give birth to my Desert Island memoir.

"When you get to the heart of your story, the journey is complete." 

Bridget Holding 2015.