....day! I did no writing, but that's OK. Because I've just read somewhere about the value of non-writing time!
It's where you're collecting information, eavesdropping on conversations, assimilating experiences, observing the world, listening to the rain, smelling the daffodils (do you think Wordsworth ever did that?), stroking the purring cat, tasting the garlic bread, recording your dreams, savouring hot showers, and reading good books.
You see, all this non-writing time is immensely valuable! There's so much to do! So much to get done!
Not to mention the washing up, the tidying, the day to day ordinary workload, the socialising... etc. And gazing at the new notebooks I bought of course. And playing with the tissue paper!
So, the rain has been singing in languages I don't understand; the daffodils have been delicately fragrant, and I wish I could bottle it and sell it; I haven't been on any trains of late in order to eavesdrop, or in any cafes either; the cat liked having his tummy tickled until he clawed me in his rolling-over-excietment; the garlic bread was green - with parsley, I might add - and deliciously garlicky, no vampires round me for a week at least; dreams about being on stage and forgetting my lines, again; long hot showers after cold rainy day, nothing better; 'The Help' by Kathryn Stockett - fab fab fab book!
Experiences assimilated: 42
Words written: 0
Sunday 22 April 2012
Thursday 19 April 2012
Poignant Day
I was re-reading my old diaries today, from when I was a teenager.
Honestly - don't feel like I've changed a whole lot in many ways!!!
I came across a section where I was talking about how difficult it was to write a short script for TV. I don't remember the process at all, though I do remember the story I was trying to write. Just about. I wonder if I still have a draft of it somewhere.
I wrote how I showed the story to my English teacher - gosh, that was brave of me.
And at the back of my diary, there it was; my very first rejection letter. From all those years ago.
It was a very nice rejection letter, in as much as these things can be. It really was. I didn't think such things existed. But the letter said how I'd dealt with difficult subject matter with a lot of sensitivity, and they were sorry they couldn't take it any further.
And suddenly, I couldn't stop crying, having read that. I mean, really, it was a lovely rejection letter, to send a 15 year old, in response to her first script. To be recognised as a sensitive soul by a complete stranger, at that age. Very moving!
Unless of course, that's what they said in all their rejection letters!
Words written: 0
Diaries re-read: 1
Tears cried: a fair few
Honestly - don't feel like I've changed a whole lot in many ways!!!
I came across a section where I was talking about how difficult it was to write a short script for TV. I don't remember the process at all, though I do remember the story I was trying to write. Just about. I wonder if I still have a draft of it somewhere.
I wrote how I showed the story to my English teacher - gosh, that was brave of me.
And at the back of my diary, there it was; my very first rejection letter. From all those years ago.
It was a very nice rejection letter, in as much as these things can be. It really was. I didn't think such things existed. But the letter said how I'd dealt with difficult subject matter with a lot of sensitivity, and they were sorry they couldn't take it any further.
And suddenly, I couldn't stop crying, having read that. I mean, really, it was a lovely rejection letter, to send a 15 year old, in response to her first script. To be recognised as a sensitive soul by a complete stranger, at that age. Very moving!
Unless of course, that's what they said in all their rejection letters!
Words written: 0
Diaries re-read: 1
Tears cried: a fair few
Tuesday 17 April 2012
Day 11
No Writing
The white page froze me out.
The blank screen was scarier
than monsters in the cupboard
and under the bed.
The lack of black squiggles
on white expanse
like virgin snow
quilting the world,
wrapped my pen in stillness
foggied up my mind,
kept the keyboard
deep with dust.
Words written: 0
All is well: perhaps tomorrow I will write!
Monday 16 April 2012
Are we on Day 10 yet?
Today I wrote a poem! I did, I did, I did!!!! I think I did anyway. Maybe it wasn't a poem!
Maybe it was just a scrawl that was only worthy of the bin!
Maybe it was a bit of prose, that looks like a poem - maybe it's in disguise! How can one tell?
Maybe it was someone else's poem, and I'm remembering it from somewhere else, like another life time perhaps! Or perhaps I channelled it from the spirit world, so it's only half mine? Or not at all!
It's about the moon. No, it isn't. It's about lighting candles on a moonlit night. No, that's not it either. It's about a girl who is waiting for her life to begin. Nope. It's about a girl who thinks her life is over, and she's waiting to be re-born. Nope, that's not quite it either. It's about a girl who is missing a boy. No, that's so cliche!
But, it's the kind of story everyone can relate to I guess.
It's about a girl who is aggrieved by her parents. Nope, that's not quite it either. It's actually about a pond, at night, with no mention of frogspawn whatsoever, and some candles are lit. That's it. Kind of. Not really!
Anyway, whether it's a poem or not, and whether it's prose or not, and whether I'll ever type it up or show it to anybody..... it matters not! I LOVED WRITING IT!
And that's all that counts - isn't it???
Words written, I think: 65
Enjoyment of writing: 100%
Confidence in it being a poem: 10%
All is well, perhaps tomorrow I'll write some more!
Maybe it was just a scrawl that was only worthy of the bin!
Maybe it was a bit of prose, that looks like a poem - maybe it's in disguise! How can one tell?
Maybe it was someone else's poem, and I'm remembering it from somewhere else, like another life time perhaps! Or perhaps I channelled it from the spirit world, so it's only half mine? Or not at all!
It's about the moon. No, it isn't. It's about lighting candles on a moonlit night. No, that's not it either. It's about a girl who is waiting for her life to begin. Nope. It's about a girl who thinks her life is over, and she's waiting to be re-born. Nope, that's not quite it either. It's about a girl who is missing a boy. No, that's so cliche!
But, it's the kind of story everyone can relate to I guess.
It's about a girl who is aggrieved by her parents. Nope, that's not quite it either. It's actually about a pond, at night, with no mention of frogspawn whatsoever, and some candles are lit. That's it. Kind of. Not really!
Anyway, whether it's a poem or not, and whether it's prose or not, and whether I'll ever type it up or show it to anybody..... it matters not! I LOVED WRITING IT!
And that's all that counts - isn't it???
Words written, I think: 65
Enjoyment of writing: 100%
Confidence in it being a poem: 10%
All is well, perhaps tomorrow I'll write some more!
Friday 13 April 2012
Day 9 - whirlpools
Do you think that Wordsworth ever stopped to smell the daffodils?
I'm getting lost in whirlpools, where words don't really exist.
But I thought about the daffodils he saw, the imprint on his mind, when he was feeling blue but wanted to feel more yellow...
And I've been bending down to daffodils in different hills, in the morning, at midday, at night, and breathing in - and in - and deeper, that fine delicate scent they have. Imagine fresh clean clothes, it's like that, but more refined, and somehow prettier.
If there was a perfume of daffodil, I'd buy shelf loads of it. It's heaven to the nostrils; but you must stay with it; it requires your time. You can't expect to breathe it all in, in one gulp, like beer. It takes time to detect it, time to stay with it, time to appreciate it, like a fine wine.
So, only kneel and give reverence to the daffodil if you have time to spare; it will show the fragrance of angels; if you wait - wait - wait and if you stay - stay - stay.
But soon the daffodils will be gone. The primroses are already taking over, and the tulips. I love these too. But I will mourn the scent of these splashes of sunshine on the earth, till they come again, next spring.
Words written: 0
Daffodils smelt: 16
I'm getting lost in whirlpools, where words don't really exist.
But I thought about the daffodils he saw, the imprint on his mind, when he was feeling blue but wanted to feel more yellow...
And I've been bending down to daffodils in different hills, in the morning, at midday, at night, and breathing in - and in - and deeper, that fine delicate scent they have. Imagine fresh clean clothes, it's like that, but more refined, and somehow prettier.
If there was a perfume of daffodil, I'd buy shelf loads of it. It's heaven to the nostrils; but you must stay with it; it requires your time. You can't expect to breathe it all in, in one gulp, like beer. It takes time to detect it, time to stay with it, time to appreciate it, like a fine wine.
So, only kneel and give reverence to the daffodil if you have time to spare; it will show the fragrance of angels; if you wait - wait - wait and if you stay - stay - stay.
But soon the daffodils will be gone. The primroses are already taking over, and the tulips. I love these too. But I will mourn the scent of these splashes of sunshine on the earth, till they come again, next spring.
Words written: 0
Daffodils smelt: 16
Tuesday 10 April 2012
Day 8 (I caught up with the counting!)
Words written: 0
Hours surfing on net: 5
Was surfing away today, on the web and came across this, in response to the Cave Rescue group interview technique that some employers like to indulge in. The employer watches the candidates decide who should be rescued and who should be left to die. They are given a few details as to each person stuck in the cave - age, gender, occupation, criminal record.
I thought about writing a story based on the characters given, but then read the message below and couldn't think of anything to write afterall!
Perhaps I should write about the interview that so obviously went wrong for this person! Perhaps tomorrow!
Don't rescue any of them!
Hours surfing on net: 5
Was surfing away today, on the web and came across this, in response to the Cave Rescue group interview technique that some employers like to indulge in. The employer watches the candidates decide who should be rescued and who should be left to die. They are given a few details as to each person stuck in the cave - age, gender, occupation, criminal record.
I thought about writing a story based on the characters given, but then read the message below and couldn't think of anything to write afterall!
Perhaps I should write about the interview that so obviously went wrong for this person! Perhaps tomorrow!
Don't rescue any of them!
Next Day - I've lost count already!
Today I had ideas!!! Lots of ideas as to what to write!
I reached for the turquoise note-book and started...
The blossom is raging
The grass is joyfully crying tears of dew
The yew is being solid.... no, no, no, no, no!
Raging tower of Blossom
joyfully reaching for the sky
Grass is sunshine smiling
weeping dew to a new day
Yew tree is shading the graves
of very long ago.... no, no, no, no, no!
Sky blossom joy
Dew grass smiles
Yew stands still.... no, no, no, no, no!
Words written: 55
Words crossed out: 49
Not bad, not bad! Things are improving in the world!
Tomorrow I may write more! Tomorrow I may write something good!
I reached for the turquoise note-book and started...
The blossom is raging
The grass is joyfully crying tears of dew
The yew is being solid.... no, no, no, no, no!
Raging tower of Blossom
joyfully reaching for the sky
Grass is sunshine smiling
weeping dew to a new day
Yew tree is shading the graves
of very long ago.... no, no, no, no, no!
Sky blossom joy
Dew grass smiles
Yew stands still.... no, no, no, no, no!
Words written: 55
Words crossed out: 49
Not bad, not bad! Things are improving in the world!
Tomorrow I may write more! Tomorrow I may write something good!
Monday 9 April 2012
Day 6
The well has been dry for days, if not decades.
Where are my inner-picture galleries? Has someone stolen them? Or did I forget to create them?
This well of mine - deep and narrow and dark; plunging into depths unknown: I'm trying to find water. I've been thirsty for years; I'm tired of wallking on my knees, for hundreds of miles, through the desert, repenting, (Sorry Mary Oliver, I haven't got there yet!).
I don't even know what I'm repenting for. But my knees are sore, my throat is sand-paper, my eyes can no longer see and the sun has stung my back with lashes that don't seem to heal.
I dream of waterfalls: of standing in swallow-lakes, with streaming falls of misty water, whilst sun glides over smooth surfaces and creates diamond ripples; fragments of rainbows half form and disappear and transcend; the dirt and pain is cleansed, my body feels renewed; I drink and drink and drink.
And I accept this gift of life, as it silks my throat and balances my solar plexus; my head clears for the first time in years, as clear as a Malvern sky, which touches the earth with wool-softness.
The water washes clean the dried blood, the scars, washes the grit, the turmoil, the hardness away; sprinkles my hair with dew as if I was the first grass the dawn timidly kissed.
And my laughter bubbles up, raspy at first, then tinkly, then belly-full and earth-deep: blue birds, robins, blue tits and great tits, dippers and herons fly out of the nearest Disney version of 'Cinderella/Snow White/Sleeping Beauty' to join me in my long awaited celebration.
Yet there's something Disney missed. The unseen black hole. The well. It's not been forgotten. It has not been left behind.
The water touches me; yes; the water trickles in and blesses me with flower-rich images of the intimacy and intricacy of Georgia O'Keeffe's brush, but doesn't fill me. It cannot carry away all the heartache. The residue, apparently is important, important that it stays; so the pain and the pleasure can embrace, unite and meet without judgment or condemnation.
Where the dark and the light meet - is it painful? Is it healing? Is it both? Or do we just dance between the two - always seeking; always trying to give up this everlasting bad habit of repenting?
The water softens my skin, my mind, but the darkness still burns within, like a black star.
All is not quite well: but perhaps tomorrow I will write.
Where are my inner-picture galleries? Has someone stolen them? Or did I forget to create them?
This well of mine - deep and narrow and dark; plunging into depths unknown: I'm trying to find water. I've been thirsty for years; I'm tired of wallking on my knees, for hundreds of miles, through the desert, repenting, (Sorry Mary Oliver, I haven't got there yet!).
I don't even know what I'm repenting for. But my knees are sore, my throat is sand-paper, my eyes can no longer see and the sun has stung my back with lashes that don't seem to heal.
I dream of waterfalls: of standing in swallow-lakes, with streaming falls of misty water, whilst sun glides over smooth surfaces and creates diamond ripples; fragments of rainbows half form and disappear and transcend; the dirt and pain is cleansed, my body feels renewed; I drink and drink and drink.
And I accept this gift of life, as it silks my throat and balances my solar plexus; my head clears for the first time in years, as clear as a Malvern sky, which touches the earth with wool-softness.
The water washes clean the dried blood, the scars, washes the grit, the turmoil, the hardness away; sprinkles my hair with dew as if I was the first grass the dawn timidly kissed.
And my laughter bubbles up, raspy at first, then tinkly, then belly-full and earth-deep: blue birds, robins, blue tits and great tits, dippers and herons fly out of the nearest Disney version of 'Cinderella/Snow White/Sleeping Beauty' to join me in my long awaited celebration.
Yet there's something Disney missed. The unseen black hole. The well. It's not been forgotten. It has not been left behind.
The water touches me; yes; the water trickles in and blesses me with flower-rich images of the intimacy and intricacy of Georgia O'Keeffe's brush, but doesn't fill me. It cannot carry away all the heartache. The residue, apparently is important, important that it stays; so the pain and the pleasure can embrace, unite and meet without judgment or condemnation.
Where the dark and the light meet - is it painful? Is it healing? Is it both? Or do we just dance between the two - always seeking; always trying to give up this everlasting bad habit of repenting?
The water softens my skin, my mind, but the darkness still burns within, like a black star.
All is not quite well: but perhaps tomorrow I will write.
Day 5
The alphabet swam away in the soup and the words scattered to monkey minds!
Where's my inner-Shakespeare when I need him?
Where's my inner-Shakespeare when I need him?
Tuesday 3 April 2012
Day 3
It was the tissue paper that did it. That was the unravelling of it all. And why no writing happened.
There was something about its strong fragility - how it softened and moulded to the edges of the writing book, and simultaneously protected it.
There was something in its light crinkle that stormed through the silence and made ears retreat into themselves.
There was something about the creases (which reminded me of Alison Watt's huge white folds of paintings) in which could never be ironed - the creases were an intricate part of its life story. To iron them out would be to destroy and obliterate the story.
There was something in the defiance of gravity, as its corners pyramided into the air, and yet; and yet, they breathed softly at the slightest breeze.
The strength and fragility of tissue paper: its purpose being to protect something of more robustness than itself. It could easily be screwed up into a ball or torn to shreds. The book could not. It could easily burn at the touch of a single match, the book could not. And yet, as protector, to esnure the book's edges were not dimpled and its corners not knocked; to ensure that the squares of coloured material on the front were not punctured or marked in any way.
The book may go on to tell many lies and stories, but the tissue paper would always remain sincere in its paradoxes; innocent.
The tissue paper evoked remembrances of the scene in 'American Beauty' of a film reel being shown to a private audience, of a plastic bag being buffeted by the wind - divorced from its purpose of protection; in the penultimate paragraph of its short life, it takes on a new role; one it does not naturally inhabit - that of Art.
Words written: 0
Time spent with tissue paper: 115 mins.
All is well: perhaps tomorrow I'll write.
There was something about its strong fragility - how it softened and moulded to the edges of the writing book, and simultaneously protected it.
There was something in its light crinkle that stormed through the silence and made ears retreat into themselves.
There was something about the creases (which reminded me of Alison Watt's huge white folds of paintings) in which could never be ironed - the creases were an intricate part of its life story. To iron them out would be to destroy and obliterate the story.
There was something in the defiance of gravity, as its corners pyramided into the air, and yet; and yet, they breathed softly at the slightest breeze.
The strength and fragility of tissue paper: its purpose being to protect something of more robustness than itself. It could easily be screwed up into a ball or torn to shreds. The book could not. It could easily burn at the touch of a single match, the book could not. And yet, as protector, to esnure the book's edges were not dimpled and its corners not knocked; to ensure that the squares of coloured material on the front were not punctured or marked in any way.
The book may go on to tell many lies and stories, but the tissue paper would always remain sincere in its paradoxes; innocent.
The tissue paper evoked remembrances of the scene in 'American Beauty' of a film reel being shown to a private audience, of a plastic bag being buffeted by the wind - divorced from its purpose of protection; in the penultimate paragraph of its short life, it takes on a new role; one it does not naturally inhabit - that of Art.
Words written: 0
Time spent with tissue paper: 115 mins.
All is well: perhaps tomorrow I'll write.
Monday 2 April 2012
Day 2
Today I visited one of those gift shops which sell worry beads, djembe drums, fairy lights, cushions hand-made in India, rainsticks. There was no incense burning though, or African songs rain-pattering through hidden speakers. There was a 'Sunday-Girl', as she referred to herself. A woman really. Late forties. Dark sheen of shoulder length hair and Mediterranean eyes with an easy smile.
I usually hate going into these small and unusual gift shops, beacuse I always end up feeling guilty for spending hours smelling the scented candles; admiring their tapestried rugs, imagining a big beautiful rustic house that they would hang in; playing with the rain sticks, imagining the rain dripping down the eaves of a thatched roof, somewhere tropical; then deciding that everything is out of my price range and so walk out empty-handed, but purse-happy.
Today was an exception. I was preparing to be a writer. And when I'd passed the shop window last Sunday morning, I'd fallen in love with hard-backed writing pad, somewhere between A5 and A4 size, hand-sewn, multi-coloured squares and rectangles of material with sequins and beads attached.
I had to have it.
So, this Sunday, I was on a mission. Gorgeous, hand-made, exotic notebook, ready and willing to accept my ink, and display the liquid wonders of my unstoppable pourings of poetic masterpieces.
Still, determined writer that I am, I was then faced with a dilemma; within the shop, on top of the eye-height wooden slat shelves were no less than three of these beauties in different colours: which would be the best buy? One explored the variations of majestic purples, one highlighted the blues, greens and turquoises of an idyllic holiday, and the other blossomed the pinks of spring. They all looked glorious.
I picked each one up in turn. Their spines were all about 3 cm thick, they all carried canvas-thick white and brown speckled pulped paper, they all smelt of the promise of faraway lands and cultures.
I normally match colour to mood. And I was definitely in a purple mood; the shadow side of pink; that darker edge to life. There was one particular square that fashioned a silkier material than the others, and boasted golden embroidered, tiny flowers.
But the turquoise one looked so happy and inviting: skinny-dipping warm seas, tequila shots with paper parasols. And the pink one was so frivolous and fun, like eating a 99 ice-cream whilst walking along the smooth sands of Aberdovey.
How could I possibly decide?
I may want to write comedy sketches and humorous plays in pink, or heartwarming romantic novels in turquoise, or poems that portrayed the inner psyche of a deranged artist.
They were rather an exorbitant price - could I justify such a purchase? But a writer must pride herself in her work, honour the privilege of writing, and invite the muse to play amidst beauty.
So, I bought all three.
My purse now feels guilty and bare. But my stationery needs were fulfilled. I couldn't wait to get the three tissue wrapped empty volumes home, to gaze at them, feel the bobble of the beads under my fingers, try not to pick off the sequins, trace the outlines of each segmented garden, feel the satin-sexiness of the back cover, weigh the expectancy of the bound pages in my palms. And one day, fifty years from now, they'll be sold at auction for thousands of pounds, as the notes and initial drafts of the most famous author ever to grace the land.
Dreams and fantasies: 12
Books to write in: 3
Words written: 0
All is well in the world: perhaps tomorrow I'll write.
I usually hate going into these small and unusual gift shops, beacuse I always end up feeling guilty for spending hours smelling the scented candles; admiring their tapestried rugs, imagining a big beautiful rustic house that they would hang in; playing with the rain sticks, imagining the rain dripping down the eaves of a thatched roof, somewhere tropical; then deciding that everything is out of my price range and so walk out empty-handed, but purse-happy.
Today was an exception. I was preparing to be a writer. And when I'd passed the shop window last Sunday morning, I'd fallen in love with hard-backed writing pad, somewhere between A5 and A4 size, hand-sewn, multi-coloured squares and rectangles of material with sequins and beads attached.
I had to have it.
So, this Sunday, I was on a mission. Gorgeous, hand-made, exotic notebook, ready and willing to accept my ink, and display the liquid wonders of my unstoppable pourings of poetic masterpieces.
Still, determined writer that I am, I was then faced with a dilemma; within the shop, on top of the eye-height wooden slat shelves were no less than three of these beauties in different colours: which would be the best buy? One explored the variations of majestic purples, one highlighted the blues, greens and turquoises of an idyllic holiday, and the other blossomed the pinks of spring. They all looked glorious.
I picked each one up in turn. Their spines were all about 3 cm thick, they all carried canvas-thick white and brown speckled pulped paper, they all smelt of the promise of faraway lands and cultures.
I normally match colour to mood. And I was definitely in a purple mood; the shadow side of pink; that darker edge to life. There was one particular square that fashioned a silkier material than the others, and boasted golden embroidered, tiny flowers.
But the turquoise one looked so happy and inviting: skinny-dipping warm seas, tequila shots with paper parasols. And the pink one was so frivolous and fun, like eating a 99 ice-cream whilst walking along the smooth sands of Aberdovey.
How could I possibly decide?
I may want to write comedy sketches and humorous plays in pink, or heartwarming romantic novels in turquoise, or poems that portrayed the inner psyche of a deranged artist.
They were rather an exorbitant price - could I justify such a purchase? But a writer must pride herself in her work, honour the privilege of writing, and invite the muse to play amidst beauty.
So, I bought all three.
My purse now feels guilty and bare. But my stationery needs were fulfilled. I couldn't wait to get the three tissue wrapped empty volumes home, to gaze at them, feel the bobble of the beads under my fingers, try not to pick off the sequins, trace the outlines of each segmented garden, feel the satin-sexiness of the back cover, weigh the expectancy of the bound pages in my palms. And one day, fifty years from now, they'll be sold at auction for thousands of pounds, as the notes and initial drafts of the most famous author ever to grace the land.
Dreams and fantasies: 12
Books to write in: 3
Words written: 0
All is well in the world: perhaps tomorrow I'll write.
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