Friday, 28 February 2014

Writer in residence: the office

Tycho Dreaming

As an artist I am omnivorous, trawling constantly and hungrily for ideas and images. My creative engine is not sticky or churlish. It doesn’t take much to ignite my writing -- any bright, bold spark will do -- but it does take something, and that something cannot be taken for granted.

When I was a teenager I used to hitchhike in and out of the small village where my family lived. Hitchhiking felt risky and sometimes desperate, but I was tired of waiting for buses that might or might not show up. Standing at the bus stop in the rain and fading light, began to seem more desperate than the act of holding out my thumb, stopping a car, and asking for a lift of a complete stranger. In comparison waiting for the bus was passive, maybe pointless, ultimately debilitating.

And so is waiting around for ideas, hoping one may turn up, and that it might be original, and that it might be good or juicy. When buses were in short supply I found people willing to give me a ride. Sometimes they were people who interested and amused me, and quite often they tested and challenged and scared me. Hitchhiking is a nervy and unsettling business -- and so is the creation of art.

For this artist the scarcity of my adult life has been not buses but money. Waiting for my creative work to pay the way has mostly felt as futile a pursuit as waiting for the elusive 252 from Tunbridge Wells to Eastbourne. One day that long dreamt of windfall might sweep through my life: I imagine it appearing unlooked for, like the night bus I once saw as I was walking home on dark country lanes long after midnight. The night was frosty, my head was down, and suddenly I heard a great roar and turned to see the bus sway past, a double-decker all lit up like a galleon on the high seas, and entirely empty except for the driver.

While waiting for the appearance of the unlooked for nightbus, however, I have earned my bread and butter living over the years working in restaurants and offices and teaching. Right now, I am an office person. I have a desk by a window, and a photocopier, and friends I greet each day, and a workaday routine that involves toast and tea at half past ten and a lunchtime walk. And while I am old enough to recognise the joy of routine, I am also young enough to love the fact that my office is tucked away inside a theatre and that for much of the year I am surrounded by the intensely creative and sparky world of opera. The best of many worlds then, when my work day takes me from the office to the rehearsal space and I sit eavesdropping on a new work being hashed out, filling my sketchbook with ideas hoovered up from the ether: mine and not mine; mine and someone else’s but then made mine by the power of my transmogrifying pencil and my trawling, transforming mind.

Tuesday, 4 February 2014

Creative Writing Workshop, Spring 2014

Blue hyacinths in a winter landscape, Winifred Nicholson
Join a supportive group of fellow writers for a month-long workshop designed to spark creativity, fuel the imagination and inspire original pieces of prose and poetry. This workshop is designed for both beginners and more experienced writers, and the emphasis will be on the development of new work and on stimulating the creative process.
Workshop dates and time
Thursday from 7.30pm to 9.30pm on:
27 February 2014

6 March 2014

13 March 2014
20 March 2014

£45.00 - reserve your place in the workshop by contacting Rebecca via email or by calling 07729 628427.

Platform 6, Lewes, East Sussex
(a 2 minute walk from the Lewes Railway Station)

About me
A writer of fiction and poetry, and a graduate of the MA programme in Creative Writing for Personal Development at the University of Sussex, I have developed and led creative workshops since 2002. Please feel free to get in touch if you have any questions.

Tuesday, 21 January 2014

Writer in residence: the dance studio (tango)

This year I have decided to appointment myself as the (un)official writer in residence of a number of places I habitually visit. One residency a month, as a way of taking my writer-self out of her room for some fresh air and a change of scenery.

For my first residency: the January dance studio.

Tango is the right music for midwinter melancholy. Here I am in the season of ice and darkness and wintery rainfall, parking my car in a suburban town on the south coast of England. Walking along a shadowy side street strewn with broken glass and dog shit, my silver dance shoes in a bag, dressed for another season (it is always summer in the world of dance) beneath my big, warm embrace of a winter coat.

I visit dance clubs and classes at least once a week, often more. I am a dance-addict; a bit evangelical; probably too subjective to be a good writer in residence on this project. But here I am anyway -- in a Jewish community centre, or former Methodist chapel, or a scruffy wine bar -- sitting on a folding chair and changing my shoes.

There is not much glamour in the world of social dancing, but a great deal of dedication. People stand awkwardly around the edge of the room, waiting for the class to begin. Finally, one couple braves the empty, brightly lit dance space. Rocking in each others arms for a moment, picking up the rhythm of the music before cracking open the warped wooden floor with their feet. We watch as they carve out the steps of a vals. Then our instructor Sofia,
a former ballerina turned tanguera, claps her hands and calls us all to order. We stand huddled behind her while she snaps out orders and corrections, putting us through our paces. We walk (as though George Clooney were watching, please, Sofia shouts, not as though you are on your way to the supermarket!). We do exercises to improve our balance and posture. At last we are allowed to find a partner; we embrace; we step into the dance.

It is late January, and I have had a skinful of tango the past year. I am still a beginner, still barely able to master the walk of tango, let alone the graceful ochos and giros, the sweeping volcadas, and the whiplike embellishments or boleos. But somehow, on the dance floor, once the lesson is over and we move on to pratica, my feet find the way. Argentine tango is led by the chest. Heart follows heart and the feet move trustingly after, picking their way along the path of the dance. At its most simple and most honest, tango is just walking, walking, walking; the leader moves the couple forward; the follower submits to or conspires with the lead. The rawness is in the music, not in the dance. The dance is poised, inward looking, nostalgic; sparkling and robust during the milonga tracks, but in balance coming down on the side of anguish, heartbreak and loneliness. A loneliness that is felt more acutely with another person’s arms around you; felt exquisitely when at the end of the dance you step out of their embrace, say thank you, and walk away.

Wednesday, 27 November 2013

The year of the Hare

The Year of the Hare

In 2011 I vowed to embrace my inner Tortoise. "Never hurry, never rest" was my motto for the next two years.

And then 2013 happened: the year I emerged into a sudden flood of sunlight and found myself to be more akin to the reckless Hare, racing with wild enthusiasm from one thing to another.

It is now mid-November and I am already reviewing the past year, looking back in order to look forward. If there have been moments when I've behaved like a child chasing fire flies, I know now that playfullness is part of my process. Ideas are one thing I'm good at; I toss them in the air by the excited handful, like confetti, then wait to see what flutters down, what sticks.

Throughout this year of the rush-along Hare I have not forgotten that the Tortoise wins the race in the end. But it is the Hare's energy that keeps this plodding Tortoise in the race, even at moments where she has felt discouraged and lost. I've accepted that I must work my way towards getting what I want by the slowest, most circuitous path. For me there are no shortcuts. I travel each inch of every mile, sometimes on dancing feet and wearing silver slippers, sometimes crawling on my knees through dog shit and broken glass. However I go, I must feel each and every step.

From the story of the Hare and the Tortoise I know that what is essential is not to become disheartened, not to be diverted from my task. This means maintaining concentration, keeping a joyful hold of my dreams and sense of purpose. It is like travelling a very great distance carrying an egg or a balloon. Don't grip what you carry too tightly, or you will destroy it. Your touch must be light but unwavering.

There are times when I question if this is possible? The Hare and the Tortoise reassure me that it is. When travelling slowly over a great distance it is easy to feel lost. Even easier, inevitable perhaps, to lose sight of the path; winter comes and the snow falls, covering your tracks.

Feeling lost is not a good feeling (for me, anyway). Feeling lost and without purpose is even worse. So whatever happens I tell myself: hold onto your purpose. Don’t put it down out of weariness, or throw it away in despair. Keep your sense of purpose pressed against you; hold it lightly but untiringly. Imagine it is a tea-light, guttering, delicate, but lighting your way forward. Protect that little flame. Shield it with your hand and do not flag; do not despair. Remember the Tortoise and her steadfastness, and the Hare and his great zeal, and even if the way forward is no longer clear or apparent, keep pressing on and on. Really, there is nothing else to do except lie down in the ditch and die – and that would be no pleasure at all.

Thursday, 25 July 2013

A report from the hinterland

The 2 of Swords

February – feeling burdened; finding fuel; finding shelter; huddling for warmth; dancing for warmth; standing on the parapet staring into the teeth of the hurricane. Looking back and looking back again. Stiff neck and shoulders, cricked from the strain of peering over my shoulder.

March – being brave; reminded that writing and art is the fire that warms and illuminates, even in the depths of winter; telling tales around Pat’s kitchen table, old ones and bold ones, both good and bad ones.

April – sitting on Johnny’s sofa wearing old Tom’s dinner jacket (broad of shoulder, redolent of mothballs and must), reading these lines:
"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

May – itching to turn the slow year with my own feet, if needs be; bluebells in the woods and daughters returning, departing again; the orchestra warming up slowly, scraping bows across slack strings, reedy whistling, an apologetic clatter from the percussion section.

June – the Magician, the 2 of Swords and the 9 of Pentacles; still cardigan weather, wearing a shawl covered in roses big and red as pig’s hearts; a lesson in nine parts beginning with the words, “First, become your story; let it inhabit you, for it lives nowhere else; it rides into being upon your breath, your tongue.”

July – return to warmth; divination, finding the water’s source with a whale bone or sprig of hazel; lights, music, action; lifting the stone that has lain in the woods, undisturbed for decades and finding beneath it, an entrance to the underworld? A golden key? Or precisely these things: an acorn, a snail, a salamander?

Thursday, 31 January 2013

Words or pictures?

Words seem to be wriggling out from between my grasping fingers at the moment, so for the past few months I have resorted to making images instead of writing.

I've always dealt in both words and pictures, and sometimes a single idea is easier to pin down as a drawing: one picture that says more than enough. When words threaten to reveal too much, pictures offer something to hide behind. Creativity is a hot potato that I have to put down somewhere, in order to blow awhile on my burning fingers. The page is where things go, and it doesn't matter whether what burns its way through my fingers and onto paper is hieroglyphics or images. There is a time for both, and since last summer it has been the time to draw and paint and photograph.

Therefore, to celebrate the newness of 2013 my blog has some nice new hand-drawn buttons for my Twitter, Instagram and Tumblr links - but for the time being there will probably not be many new words. These I am keeping tucked away in my notebooks until the year is a little older, and I feel a little bolder.

Thursday, 27 December 2012


Brunhilde - December 2012

The rock is an anvil and her raging heart the white-hot fire.

Her breath is the bellows; her fist the hammer; the pulse at the base of her throat is the rhythm she works to.

The instructions are in a book of tattered and patched parchment; the leaves yellowed, crackling like autumn leaves as she turns them; the crabbed lettering faded to sepia; the diagrams and drawings spidery sketches, jewel-bright miniatures. She reads the instructions aloud: draw-out, anneal, forge-weld, temper, indurate, quench, bevel, file, flux and hone.

What she carries on her body is the metal she works with: the rose-gold wedding band; the clamorous silver bangles; the enamel locket; the amber earrings; the garnet pendant on a heavy gold chain; the ring of iron keys; the belt of Scythian coins; the gleaming copper boot buckles; the brass buttons from her father's pea-coat; her mother's silver darning needle and golden pen-nib.

She rolls up her sleeves, ties back her hair and stokes the fire. She makes ready the mould, turns up the heat.

She sets to work.

Friday, 23 November 2012

In everything I create

In everything I create there is: 
the walk home from school,
the grey road,
the church,
the graveyard,
the butcher, the baker, Mrs Brown's old curiosity shop,
the bus stop,
the copper beech,
the kerb,
the crossing,
the calico cat sitting on the wall,
the tub of fuchsias,
the telephone box,
the postbox,
the corner,
the hill,
the hedgerow,
the shifting light,
the tunnel of trees,
the driveway,
the blue door,
the golden key

Sunday, 18 November 2012

When you speak to me

When you speak to me, you are speaking to your will.

I try to imagine where I might have left you:

A gull's white feather folded beneath my pillow?

A pair of horn rimmed glasses under a bedside table in an Ealing boarding-house?

A tarnished dime left in the saucer of my coffee cup at the Yonah Shimmel Knish Bakery on East Houston Street?

I try to reassure you, to coax you out from your hiding place, but you sit tight. It is almost dusk when I finally find you tucked away, small as a nut, deep within the hawthorn hedge; dark eyes, dark hair, the only bright is the gleam of your red Wellington boots.

I take your small, cold hand and lead you home.