The Religion of Solitude

Over the years, I've adjusted my definition of a 'writing space'.  This is due to a shift in the way I perceive writing.  Earlier, I considered the process of setting glyphs on a page to be writing but as I've progressed I find that more of the writing process takes place in my head, before a pen touches a page or my fingers feel the keyboard. 

So much of writing is, in fact, contemplation of writing.  Not thinking about writing is writing.  Reading is actually writing.  All of these actions are part of writing.  For these tasks, I don't need a desk or ink.  Solitude is helpful but not always essential as external suggestions, unwitting or not, can be as vital as any prior knowledge or hard won epiphanies. 

The writing space which my mind desires is more about tempo than dimensions.  In order to observe, to really see what's around me, I must first be still.  And slowness is hard won.  It requires that I deliberately jettison anything which is pushing or tugging at me; distractions and tasks which seem important but can, in fact, be thrown aside without injury or harm. 

Here's a test which you can use to find out whether you are ready for writing.  Ask yourself:

• Am I content to sit quietly without the need of a purpose?
• Am I happy for long periods to pass before a thought troubles my mind?
• Can I tolerate silence without being disturbed by the need to fill it?

If you can allow the silence, the lack of voice, to exist and not be troubled by the emptiness, then you have found the space to write.  And by writing I mean inviting some small thoughts to gather.  Notice what was always there, but invisible in the fog of activity, and capture it in your mind.  Leave it there, like a vase of flowers on a mantelpiece.  Decorate your mind with other observations and allow them to share the space in peaceful room at the back of your mind.  Then walk, breathe, live.

Writing will take place.  When you have finished writing, then you can start to rearrange shapes on a page.

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Eye witness

On Saturday, Dave and I spent a peaceful hour and a half on Fleetwood Promenade staring at clouds.  My little yellow car might not be much cop when it comes to CV joints (if you know a cheap source of near-side front CV joints for a 2001 Daihatsu Cuore I've a slightly less rare unicorn to trade) but it does boast large windows which have been cleaned this year and seats that are comfortable when jackets are applied as headrests.  The pair of happy burbling bellies filled with fish, chips and mushy peas were a contributory factor to our indulgent ninety minute gaze.

Through the front window we had a view of a twist of tide, contorted and gradually bulging, like our girths, until it engulfed the long, black scratches of bladder wrack.  Buoys and men stood side by side at the water's edge so that we couldn't tell one from the other.  They were standing so still and at such a distance that we heard our neighbours in the car beside us repeat our conversation:
"Is it a man?"
"No, it's a buoy."
"I saw it move."
"No.  It's definitely a buoy.  It looks just like the other buoys."
"It definitely moved.  It's a man."
"Yep.  That's a man.  Fishing probably."

And not once did any of us suggest that it was a woman.

A three-legged spaniel flopped down beside a small boy who ran his hands through the tangled pebble-dash fur.  A sandy shiba inu ran up to the cast iron statue of a terrier and crouched before it, tail sweeping the salty air, inviting it to play.  The dog ran around to the sculpted rear and sniffed it but even this could not convince the dog that its metal counterpart was not alive.

After consulting Google Maps, we figured out which hills were Arnside and which bit of land was Walney Island. We disagreed over whether the hill, covered in wind turbines, was closer to us than Heysham Power Station, one wall of which glimmered as a golden square in the intermittent sun.  Dave remarked that it was odd to think that the other walls, facing the south, east and north respectively, would never know that much light.  It took me a minute or two to work out what he meant.

In a relaxed state, my mind picked out animals in the clouds.  Several mice became elephants as the expectant air was stretched across a backdrop of rain-grey mush.  The closer the rain clouds came, the brighter the cumulonimbus appeared, edged in charcoal grey and seemingly lit from within.  Great cauliflower masses were thinned before our eyes.  A great lion leaped at another mouse but was only a slither of amethyst minutes later.  Porridge specks and clotted cream balloons pushed in front of giants with indigo bottoms and apricot hair.

We saw what we saw, not what we knew and, let me tell you, clouds are not white.

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Splintered Snow

“A writer needs three things, experience, observation, and imagination.”
― William Faulkner

Not wanting to emulate a certain poetic cuckoo (meta-emulation?), I will credit David Riley with the idea for this exercise.  He put me on to the Faulkner quote and I believe he was inspired by a workshop he had himself attended.  Good ideas are like the rabbits of the metaphysical world.

This exercise is intended to help you to turn your observations into kick ass poetry.  If you follow the steps with due diligence you are sure to end up with some shiny words.  

1) Choose an object.  This can be anything you can see with your eyes at this moment, e.g. the Sun, a yoghurt pot, a train, a painting, your left hand.

2) Observe the object as it is right now.  Make note of the following:

• colour, detail - texture, shape
• setting, surroundings
• season, time, light/shadow
• movement or action
• sound

3) Consider your experiences of this object. What do you recognise?  What does it remind you of?  What is it similar to?  
4) Imagine.  What might happen to the object? What is it thinking? What might you do to the object?

5) Shape the words.  Let's write renga!  Using the table below, create a poem in the Japanese renga style.

Subject	Syllables/sound units
Observation – e.g. colour, shape	5
Observation – e.g. setting, time	7
Observation – e.g. light, sound	5
Experience	7
Imagination	7

Here is my attempt:



Pencil Shaving


Torn sycamore fan 
Sleeps in desk's twilight clutter 
White screen, hum of fan

Shrinking tree-snake's rough skin sloughed 
Blown away like splintered snow

OK - take it away poets.  Write me some renga!

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