A Writers Vision

I have a vision of a writer. It is a dream like vision that fluctuates with the movement of the clouds; on a dark windswept night, when the rain drops are so heavy that you can see each fall individually past the light of the lamppost; the writer is frantic; an Einstein like character, working obsessively, words falling from the finger tips. By morning, the storm has passed; the writer is composing at the sort of desk an Edwardian lady, having inspired a range of Laura Ashley furnishing is now writing at, with a fountain pen, in a beautiful note book. It is a balmy summer evening, the writer smokes, drinks, paces the floor, searches for the right word, whilst a neon motel sign flickers on the study wall.

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The writer is a mysterious thing, elusive, reserved, inaccessible; Oh to penetrate the writers deepest thoughts.

Give me one glass of white wine and I will tell you my elusive, mysterious thoughts. I will talk to anybody about anything; things that actually happened, which I always prelude with “That actually happened” as though every other word was a lie, and things that sort of happened but not quite in the way I described, which of course is the writers gift, it’s the story tellers way.

I may have failed to achieve the writer image; of one consumed with a passion that only the written word can express. I have read a wealth of books, articles and blog posts of writer’s tips; the most reoccurring of which is to develop discipline; a Jedi like commitment to work, a Fame costs and right here is where you start paying; determination towards my craft; an attitude in conflict with my Einstein vision.  Someone somewhere wrote that you should treat each word as though you would be charged for its use; this, paired with regular committed writing has been the best advice I have received. I have no idea if this blog is increasing my readership and will enable me to break through. I do know that my commitment to write this every week, has instilled a level of discipline I have not previously known and that to limit myself to a word count of 500 words* has helped with that discipline, that ability to choose the right word; as well as provide a good excuse for the pacing of floors and drinking.

I find it close to impossible to impose a word count on my student’s essays, and emphasize constantly that I require concise work, not repetition or a plumping out of the words, I just want to know what they have to tell me, and I don’t have all day.

The truth is you need one eye on the word count and the other on the words. This is certainly working for me and now I feel somewhat lost without a word count, fortunately this blog allows me to share while I practice. Hopefully you enjoy the practice and perhaps you will see the difference it makes.

*504 words in total.

My dog is depressed

My dog Doc is depressed. He has taken himself to his bed and refuses to partake in the small world around him. I once saw an interview with Carrie Fisher who, after Star Wars, suffered depression; she said that the clincher was a bubble bath in shape of Princess Liea; you unscrewed the head and poured liquid out of the neck. This was too much and she retired to her bed, where she hid under the blankets and lost herself in a book. Doc does have a book “A tale of a dog” which I once read to him on a train just to annoy the lap-top type next to us, but alas Doc is unable to read. Doc’s malaise will pass; he has suffered no such horror as seeing his own head unscrewed.

A week ago he was in pensive mood as he watched the humans gather various belongings stuff them into bags and dump them into the hall, he sniffed, he paced and occasionally made high pitched winey sounds. The pensive mood was justified and once in the car, with four adults, one child and two other dogs, Doc became frantic with excitement. He danced about on my thighs, stuffed his nose out of the car window, allowed his ears to flap in the breeze, sniffed with such extreme intensity as to emit small sprays of dog wet and repeatedly stood on my bladder.

Illustrated by andyartisand 

Unleashed he burst into the bungalow, skidded across the laminated flooring, tore through the garden, ran wildly though the grass and in the dramatic downpour of hurricane Bertha’s left over’s he barked the bark of an adventurer. Having collected a considerable amount of grass between his toes he set forth like an explorer, tail erect, nose to the floor and each room was scrutinized. Certain areas were considered worthy of his mark and he cocked his leg here and there while the humans cleaned the mark away. Having established his surroundings, scattered grass throughout our lodgings and made known his presence to all of Cornwall, he then sought to ascertain the canine social order.  

Harry* a dog in turmoil, wanted to be his friend and yet was afraid of close contact, he growled, he snarled, he snapped, made tremendous displays of white fangs and his mistress brought forth the muzzle. Lucy a glossy black beauty of fifteen watched Doc’s lamb like dance of invitation with nothing short of regal amusement. She bestowed an honorary wag of her magnificent tail and walked away in her high heeled fashion to seek the most comfortable seat in the household; meanwhile Doc sought spoils from beneath the dining table.

That night, each night, he slept like a furry baby, his tubby belly softly rising, his nose sniffing astral smells his woof subdued and dreamlike.

By day he clambered rocks, sniffed flowers, walked villages, saw cows, sheep and horses, slipped in seaweed, dug in the sand, paddled in rock pools and with fore-paws low, bum high and tail a blur, invited the other holidaying dogs to play and many responded.

Now he has returned to our little world, where there are no other dogs. If he could take alcohol he would drink gin, he would cry and talk of the old days, of the wild times, he would sing maudlin songs and slump over with a half chewed bone.

I do believe Doc thought he had found a new life and I believe he will recover as the memories fade.

* Harry was rescued, he was badly treated as a pup and when we first met him he was downright scary, what the in laws have done with Harry is remarkable and he is a happy dog.

  

Creative Types

Having recently turned forty three, I have come to the realization that I can do things. I don’t just mean I can make it rain, a special skill of mine that only works if I have washing hanging on the line, or that I can pick out the most inappropriate piece of conversation from a class of chattering students, and draw everyone’s attention to it: “You did WHAT with a Garibaldi biscuit?”

Somewhere between the ages of seven and forty I learned that I couldn't do things. I was not clever enough, fast enough, strong enough; my all time favorite is that I wasn't able to learn to ride a motor bike, because …I would be too weak to lift if off me. Notice the implication of immediate failure; I would be so shit at motorbike riding that no sooner had I broom broomed away than the thing would be on top of me, wheels spinning and I in my frailness yelping Hey-Alp like Penelope Pitstop.

From time to time I tell my students about competitions; mostly 3D modeling and they won’t enter, because they say there are not good enough yet. Just over a year ago a colleague told me I had had won the competition at December House and I replied. “I think you got that wrong.”She hadn't.

It turned out I could write, one of the few things I ever really believed I could do. But that was it: that was my one good thing. I never understood how a pop singer could also act, design a fashion range and make a perfume. How a stand- up comedian could write a children’s book, make a movie, and hold an art exhibition. I didn't believe that they could be good at all those things. Sometimes they’re not good at all those things. Further more the pop singer; comedian, celebrity chef or whatever usually has some help. They don’t go in the lab and mix the perfumes themselves, or draw the patterns and cut the fabric. I saw Danni Minogue on TV where her contribution to a fashion range appeared to be creating a mood board of other clothes she liked and talking about colours. I could do that! Do you see? You could do that too.

On the other hand there is absolutely no reason why a pop singer, comedian or chef can’t pen a good children’s book or act or paint. They are by their very nature creative types, specializing in entertainment; they will be “acting” when they are on stage. It should be of no surprise that Einstein played violin, or that he had a great imagination, he was a creative type you see.

But here’s the thing, we are all creative types, good at baking, at gardening, at building kitchen cupboards, at sewing, at making things from matchsticks. Chances are you are good at several things. So when someone asks can you host an embroidery evening or run an up-cycle workshop? If it appeals, then you should probably go for it. If it goes wrong like my no sew rag rug, then you learn from it, even if all you have learned is that you are absolutely brilliant at turning strips of fabric into an impenetrable tangle of knots.

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*disclaimer: Johnny didn't do anything with a Garibaldi biscuit, I deliberately miss-hear for sake of a good laugh.  

Here comes the Judge.

You shouldn't judge others, right? Who are you to cast judgement? That woman on the bus screaming at her kid, what do you know of her story? She might have been up all night nursing an abandoned budgerigar, no wonder she just lost it for a moment.

We all judge and we know that we are judged also. We are judged within seconds of entering the interview room: judgments made on our body posture and our appearance. We are judged in exams, in our performance reviews and in some cases (such as teaching observations) on spot checks of our performance. Once judged we are sorted into categories and filtered into situations that require further judgement on a wealth of subjective matters: how well we understand something, how much we have improved even how creative or original we have been.

How do you pass judgement on creativity? In November Culturemouse, wrote that when reading submissions for publication, she is always sure to remember that the act of writing is a creative process, the words on the page demonstrate that creativity has taken place, regardless of the quality of the work.
As a teacher I have to make a lot of judgments. I have to write my own criteria specifying the requirements of a Distinction piece of work, a Merit and Pass. I find the process torturous. By listing requirements I am limiting creativity. By specifying justification of decisions made, I am asking my students to sell their work to me, but they are not training to be sales people they are training to be Game Designers and Producers. My husband once explained that during his brief stint at Art College he was often required to justify his art, he said he couldn't do that, he was an artist not an orator, were he able to express himself via another medium he wouldn't be expressing himself through the medium of paint.*

On Saturday I popped my judgement into my handbag, alongside an umbrella because rain was forecast and a packed lunch, because I couldn't be sure I would like the food and set off for the Roland Levinsky building at Plymouth University. I was a judge in the semi finals of the YRS Festival of Code. But who was I to judge?

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I met the other judges and wondered how they were judging me: somewhat overdressed in blue lace and potentially oozing incorrect body language. I got a judges pack, and listened to the young people “selling” their talent, so young, so coherent, so imaginative. They were all wonderful. I had been worried that I wouldn't know what to say about each presentation, that I would have to write “creativity implicit” or in a worst case scenario that is was an “ecumenical matter”.

In fact it was easy, because we all know a good thing when we see one. You don’t need to say why, you can just tell, fortunately during the judge’s discussion, I had the words to say why it was good (I took rather a lot of notes) and the best kids went through.
Some got it more right than others. No one got it wrong.
If there must be a competition; then there must be a judge and I hope that in my role I was fair, honest and above all non judgmental.

*This is a translation.