Inspiration...or perspiration?

So, yesterday was National Poetry Day! A friend and fellow write Gill Kirk, posted this lovely poem by Charles Bukowski in celebration:

So you want to be a writer? - Charles Bukowski:

if it doesn't come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.

The poem provoked a lot of debate online, by myself and fellow creatives. To what extent can it be said that writing is all about seizing that moment of great inspiration and running with it? Obviously, there are those moments – those sudden flashes when the Muse (or whatever it is) seizes you and grabs you and you write, paint, compose or otherwise create in a blind whirling fury of inspiration. But it’s not all like that. In my experience, a lot of is hard slog. If I sat around waiting for inspiration to strike before writing a word, I don’t think I would get around to writing very much! Apart from anything else, the sheer pressure of feeling like every word I wrote was ‘inspired’ would be enough to paralyse my pen for life.

Thomas Edison, inventor of the lightbulb, famously said that ‘genius is 1 per cent inspiration and 99 per cent perspiration’.  We writers would probably like to think of ourselves lying back on a chaise longue waiting for the Muse strike whilst we spout witty monologues, but unfortunately the reality is just not like that.

Perhaps it’s one of the reasons we’ve developed the myth – if that’s what it is – of the ‘tortured artist’ (of which Dylan Thomas, my literary hero is, of course, a prime example). The star who burns bright, but ultimately can’t contain their own genius and ends up burning out. But even this is a myth. In the biography of Dylan Thomas I’ve recently been reading, written by Gwen Watkins, Dylan’s friend and fellow poet Vernon Watkins describes his behaviour and public persona as a ‘mask’:

‘His infectious humour deceived everyone but himself. His method was not to retreat from the mask but to advance beyond it and in that exaggeration remain completely himself. He agreed readily with his detractors and did not in the least mind being misunderstood. Then, in the private dark, his exhuberance was subjected to the strictest control.”

And there’s the rub. Genius – if that’s what you wish to call it – is all very well, but it can’t be sustained indifferently. At the end, there is always the need to control. Dylan Thomas, it is well-attested, could write one hundred or more drafts of the same poem, often spending a day pondering over a single word before he was entirely happy with it. Inspiration – yes. Perspiration – most definitely.

As someone who aspires to write, the way I look at it is, like an athlete, I have to put in the practice, to learn the craft before it can become second nature enough to flow. I do a lot of writing exercises, I write an unbelievable number of terrible first drafts, I read and read and read until the rhythms of poetry become hammered into my brain. But then when it happens for real, when inspiration strikes, my brain knows what to do, instinctively. I don't have to think; it just happens because it has to, and that's when the good stuff writes itself.


This happens pretty rarely, to be honest, but when it does, it’s the greatest adrenaline high in the world. You look at the thing you’ve just written. You think: ‘Where the heck did that come from?’ Or you’ll be midway through writing a ponderous piece of prose when suddenly something takes over and it starts writing itself. Fifty or a hundred or two hundred and a thousand words later, you put down your pen.

Even then, the work isn’t finished. Because once you have your first draft, there’s still always work to be done. Sometimes my poems come to me in a stream of consciousness that I barely have to alter. Other times, they’re left on one side to come back to, often months or even years later. Sometimes, particularly for prose, I write multiple drafts. There’s no rulebook.

But the important thing is that I regularly show up. Every day I write something. As a good writer friend once said, it’s not rocket science. The more you write, the more chances you have, even by fluke, of producing something good. It’s the monkeys producing Shakespeare principle. Sort of.

I think what’s most useful in the Bukowski poem, though, is the implication about false motives. What am I really writing for? I’m talking about my poetry here. I’ve written paid journalistic pieces, and the process there is very different. It’s still creative, but much more ordered. You’re given a brief, you do the research, you write it up, you (hopefully) get paid. But creative writing is a whole different thing. There’s no brief, as such, though you can create one. If you’re lucky, you might make money out of it, but unless you’re the next JK Rowling, that’s absolutely not guaranteed. From my experience, if I set out to write Great Poetry, that’s when I produce my very worst doggerel. It can’t be forced. It has to grow, organically.

I think if I was writing for money or fame or any of those things, I’d have given up long ago. The fact is I write because I can’t help it. I’m an addict. I consume words and stories wherever I go, like a hungry worm. I write things in notepads, little phrases or word pictures or conversations or mini scenarios that have caught my eye. The idea of not writing, or not creating, is as alien as not breathing. It’s just impossible. If I tried it, I’d be dead.

Another of my favourite quotes is from Rumi:

"In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art."

I think this is closer to my own experience. It’s the act of falling in love with beauty and words that provokes me to creativity. It can’t be forced, or taught – though the craft of perfecting how you put the words together can be learned. But ultimately, that ‘spark’, the one that’s dancing inside our chests – that’s something that’s available to all.

Heddwch - a painting of resilience

The online world can give a false impression. Like most people, I rarely post about failures. So you could easily be given to believe that everything I do turns out just fine. Most of the pieces I write, and most of pictures I paint, eventually end up okay, but not all. Today’s picture has an interesting back story.


This weekend, as well being my birthday, is  the weekend of the Wales Air Show, which is held annually in my home city. This is a big event that a lot of people look forward to. For me, it comes with mixed emotions. Whilst I can admire the spectacle and the skills of the pilots, especially the stunt teams such as the Red Arrows, I find the militarism surrounding the event extremely off-putting. As a Quaker and a life-long pacifist, the idea of pointing at the sky and marvelling as a bomber plane thunders past just seems plain wrong. This feeling has only increased since I’ve been doing voluntary work for Swansea City of Sanctuary and have heard first-hand of the devastating effects of bombing campaigns – some of them financed or supplied by our own Government – upon innocent people.


So this morning I was sitting drawing and painting my latest Celtic design. Normally, I play music as I paint, and I like to think that some of the beauty of the music goes into the painting as I do so. But this morning, I didn’t have music on. Instead, I had the sound of the Typhoon fighter jets as they thundered over our house, leaving contrails in the sky. I tried to block it out, but my frustration seemed to bleed into the paint, and nothing would work. I could feel myself growing more and more restless, as none of the colours seemed to mix properly. My attempt at creating a rainbow with colours blending from one end of the spectrum through to the other hadn’t worked. Instead, the colours clashed horribly. I felt like throwing it in the bin. I decided to leave it to dry, and went off to do the washing up, intending to throw it out later.


When I got back, the colours had dried and blended a little, but it still looked horrid. The pinks and reds clashed violently with the greens and blues, and it all looked amateurish and, well, angry. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away, not after all the effort I had put into drawing it. So instead, I decided to experiment. I closed the windows, switched on some gentle music, and let the rhythms wash over me for a little while. Then I took out some metallic silver, bronze and gold, and got to work, washing over the tops of the offending colours, and re-blending them. And the gentle music and the shimmering paints worked some magic. The resulting picture was very different to my original intended rainbow design, but still had its own unique form of beauty. It was more beautiful still, to me, because I knew it had evolved from a place of anger to a place of beauty and calm. I think there is an edge of resilience to it, beneath the layers of gold and silver – a refusal to give up. A refusal to let anger and violence win.


I don’t always name my paintings – it feels pretentious – but this one has a name. I have called it Heddwch – the Welsh word for Peace. It feels appropriate somehow.

Love Tokens and Bad Pennies – Collect Connect Exhibition, and the joy of 'found' art

Stella Tripp's artwork, waiting to be found

There’s something about the idea of scattering little pieces of art in random locations that appeals to my inner child. I’ve always loved the idea of discovery – of venturing forth and finding new adventures. Perhaps that’s partly why I adore visiting charity shops. It’s that sense that you never quite know what you will find. Another person’s cast-off might yet turn out to be the beginnings of a new adventure. I shall never forget the excitement, for instance, of finding a hand-printed Victorian book of love poems, languishing in a pile of postcards at my local Oxfam shop. But it’s not just shop-bought treasures. All small things have the capacity to thrill me. I’m a nightmare to go on a walk with because I can never resist picking up a heart-shaped leaf or a beautifully polished pebble.


There’s something of this thrill of discovery in Alban Low and Dean Reddick’s creative exhibitions. I say ‘exhibition’ but, really, that word seems wholly inadequate. Imagine an exhibition with no walls, whose gallery is the wide-open spaces, and whose visitors are anyone who happens to walk past.

Each of the small artworks in ‘Collect Connect’ are placed in public spaces, where passers-by can connect and interact with them. There are no rules; no money changes hands. Only adventures to be shared and enjoyed.


In keeping with the month of Valentine’s Day, the theme of the latest exhibition is Love tokens and Bad Pennies. This is explained on the Collect Connect blog:

“Does love endure forever? Does a bad penny always turns up?

Both the Love Token and the Bad Penny are part of the currency of life, two sides of the same coin. These everyday objects are defaced or distinguished to help us remember those who we hold dear and those who we would rather forget.”

Artwork by Alban Low at #unsettledgallery No.10

Artworks from 17 artists will appear placed in or beside fountains and sacred waterways in London during each day of February. Accompanying the artworks are new written works by a poets or authors, which appear on the CollectConnect blog.

https://collectconnect.blogspot.com/
https://collectconnect.blogspot.com/

This is where I come in. I volunteered to write responses to three of the artworks because it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. I love the idea of ‘found’ art. I also relish the creative challenge of responding to somebody else’s art and, in doing so, finding new creative forms of expression. My selection was based purely on emotional response. Those artworks that seemed to stimulate words or ideas were the ones I chose to write about. In fact, the poems (and one short prose piece) wrote themselves. I’d come up with a vague idea and often find that, once I started writing, the words ran away from me and took on ideas of their own. So a story that was meant to be about first love quickly became a study in dangerous obsession. And a poem about the interconnectedness of things turned into a sort of folk riddle. I like the fact that the three pieces I wrote are each completely different in character, each identifying a different form of love. That wasn’t intentional; it just happened, as these things so often do.

Anyway, I hope you’ll take a look at the blog https://collectconnect.blogspot.com/ and if you happen to be anywhere near London, specially around Walthamstow/ Twickenham area, see if you can spot one of the artworks. Who knows, it may take you on creative adventures of your own…

New Year's Resolutions: time for a fresh start

Happy New Year! I’ve always thought that January is a tricky time for setting new intentions. Dark, cold mornings and shorter days plus the inevitable ‘back to work’ blues at the end of the festive season aren’t really conducive to healthy eating and exercise. I don’t know about you, but at this time of year all I really feel like is curling up under a duvet and eating comfort food!

Perhaps it’s not surprising that 80 per cent of New Year’s Resolutions fail by February. In fact, according to one university study, a tiny 8 per cent of us actually succeed in following through on our New Year goals.

Psychologists suggest a few simple tricks can help. In short:

·         Keep it realistic – Rome wasn’t built in a day. A long list of goals, career and lifestyle changes might look great as the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve, but in the cold light of day it will just leave you feeling defeated and overwhelmed.

·         Make it specific – the more specific your intention, the more likely you are to follow it. For instance, a commitment to ‘exercise more’ is easy to wriggle out of. Saying ‘I will go to the gym every Monday from 10am til 11am’ is much more likely to bring results.

·         Keep it visible – once you’ve set your specific goal, keep it in front of you so you can check on your progress. This can be as simple as drawing up a ‘to-do list’ with goals you can tick off over time, or you can get creative with journaling or vision boards. Or pin up some motivational phrases around your desk. Anything to act as a reminder of your intention.

·         Make it positive – it sounds obvious, but the more you want to do something, the more likely it is you’ll do it! Even if your resolution involves giving something up, see if you can look at it from a more positive point of view. For instance, instead of ‘I will give up chocolate’, how about ‘I will eat yummy healthy food’. Same intention, different slant!

With all these things in mind, here’s my own list of personal and professional goals for the year ahead…

I will go to bed early and get up early

Developing and maintaining healthy sleeping patterns is my most important resolution of all. As a freelance writer and editor who works from home, it’s easy to get into bad habits, since so long as I get my work done by the deadline, it doesn’t really matter what hours I keep. But consistently going to bed late and getting up late is bad for my body and brain, and leads to working anti-social hours, such as evenings and weekends. I’m much better when my brain is fully wired on a good night’s sleep.

I will stop being my own worst critic

There. I said it. I’ve realised that, creatively and even personally, the thing that stops me achieving everything I am capable of is a crippling fear that it won’t be good enough. However, very few things in life are perfect. It is better to create imperfect things that to be trapped into a cycle of over-perfectionism.

I will finish the projects I start

When it comes to creative or domestic projects I’m a bit like a butterfly, flitting around the exciting flower to flower but never settling on any one thing in particular. Partly this is due to fear of failure (see above) and also, as a working mum everything I do has to be fitted into tiny pockets of time. However, this year I am determined to finish at least one thing I start, and hopefully several, starting with the book of children’s stories I am currently writing.

I will value my time

Time is precious, especially as a working mum with a daughter who is growing up far too quickly! I’ve never been a very organised person, but I need to be, if I am to fit in everything that needs to be done as well as the things I want to do. So less time surfing Facebook and watching cat videos, less time shopping, and more focus. This includes giving myself permission to say ‘no’ to social activities or other commitments.

I will declutter

This has been my resolution for the past few years – to declutter from every area of my life, both materially, mentally and spiritually. I’ve learned that decluttering is a holistic process. Clearing out excess baggage is only effective when coupled with a commitment not to repeat past mistakes. My aim, ultimately, is to create a simpler, more sustainable way of living, which feels more authentic. Watch this space!

So that’s my resolutions – what are yours? Let me know in the comments below! Wishing you a blessed, peaceful and prosperous 2019.

Winter Solstice – the Longest Night

‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light’.

Of course, in his famous poem Dylan Thomas wasn’t speaking about the dark nights of winter but about death, but, in fact, the two aren’t so far removed. Winter represents the literal and metaphorical dying of the world around us. We watch as leaves wither and fall from the trees, catch our breath as the cold, darker nights draw in, and find ourselves longing for the sweet, light relief of spring.

At Christmastime, signs of our rebellion against darkness are all around us. We seek consolation in the commercial frenzy of present-buying, festoon our homes in coloured lights and overindulge in food and alcohol and late-night partying. We kid ourselves that if we do these things, the dark will go away. But it isn’t banished, merely temporarily displaced. For many, Christmas is a time to gather together with friends and family. For others, it’s a lonely time – a reminder of those whose absence leaves a gaping hole in our lives.

For Christians, of course, Christmas is a celebration of the birth of Jesus. It’s a time of incarnation – the coming of God into the world in the form of a tiny, helpless baby. So the time of darkness and death becomes, paradoxically, a time of light and birth. ‘The people of Darkness,’ says the prophet Isaiah, ‘have seen a great Light’.

There is much darkness is our world at the moment – but also much light. The newspaper headlines scream a world of hatred and division. But while getting in the last-minute shopping today, I saw an elderly couple kiss one another tenderly on the lips, then tease one another gently like new lovers, which perhaps they were. I saw a kind lady chatting to the beggar outside Tesco for a long time and asking him what he’d like her to buy for him and his dog when she went shopping. I stood and watched for a long time as the gulls circled in the sky above me, tucking their wings into the perfect streamlined ‘V’ to ride out the currents. All of these things gave me joy. These things convince me that there is still love and light and hope in the world.

‘in him was life, and the life was the light of humanity. The Light shines in the Darkness, and the Darkness has not overcome it.’ – John 1:1-5

In the days before electric lighting, our ancient forebears would while out the long winter nights huddled around candles and open fires, sharing stories to pass the time. 

Like the winter trees, we shed the leaves of our smiles for a while, to travel down deep to the roots, from whence all inspiration flows. Rather than fighting the darkness, we can learn to embrace this time of quiet and soulful reflection, which prepares us for the busy time ahead when we are ready and shoot and branch our nascent ideas into the world.

Blessed Solstice, Merry Midwinter, Happy Christmas. May you find the source of the Light that lies deep within you. May you nurture it and keep it safe that, like the candle shining in the darkness, when the time is right and the world ready to receive it, it may shine its brightness for all to see.

Image: https://pixabay.com/en/solstice-winter-december-snow-1436685/ public domain picture, CCO creative commons.

Listen with your eyes…

I was walking up the hill on the way back from school. It had been a long working day and I was tired, hot, and anxious to get home. Suddenly, my three-year-old daughter stopped dead in her tracks and pointed, excitedly: “Look, Mummy! A spider!”

“Yes, yes, I see it. Come on now, we need to get home…”

But she stood stock still, and refused to budge, adamant: “Mummy, you’re listening with your ears, but not your eyes!”

I stopped and looked at the tree she was pointing at for the first time, and we both stood and watched, entranced and fascinated, as a spindly-legged spider spun her web before our very eyes. Each miniature gossamer thread grew as we watched, creating a structure of intricate beauty, delicate, yet strong. I’ve no idea how much time passed. I’d already forgotten whatever it was I’d been anxious to get home for. Instead, the two of us stood transfixed, enjoying this special moment together – listening with our eyes.

Mindfulness, at its very simplest, is a simple choice to live life in the moment. Approaching situations mindfully, we can momentarily forget our cares and anxieties and simply enjoy and appreciate the here and now.

A lot of the time we do things without really being conscious of them at all. For instance, how many times have you eaten an entire meal and not really tasted a single mouthful? Or got to the bottom of a cup of coffee without realising you’d drunk it?

We spend much of our time on autopilot – in a way, we have to, otherwise we’d get nothing done. We become expert multi-taskers. It’s not unusual to find me, of an evening, simultaneously cooking a meal, sorting socks into pairs, and editing and article! This is even more the case in today’s multi-connected, multi-wired society. We are all instantly contactable at the click of a button, even in the privacy of our homes. With social media and aps such as Instagram and Facebook, there are always voices to be heard, messages to be checked and responded to, news items and personal matters demanding our immediate attention.

Being connected can be helpful, and even give us a sense of community. The problem is that unless we make a conscious effort to stop occasionally, to switch off and slow down, we risk missing out on life’s richest moments.

There’s an internet photo doing the rounds at the moment, a picture of tourists on board gondolas in Venice, the most beautiful city in the world. It could be the perfect picture-postcard shot, but for one small detail. Every single person in the picture is looking at the screen of their mobile phone. In their eagerness to tell the rest of the world about their amazing experience, they are missing out on the beauty and joy of the moment itself.

Often, if we’re honest, we’re all like that. Here we all are, on this beautiful and amazing planet for, if we’re lucky, 80 or so years, on the journey of our lives – and we’re missing the whole show!

So why not take a moment or two today, just to listen. Listen with your ears, your eyes, your whole self. Because that’s really, in essence, all that Mindfulness is. It’s incredibly simple, when you think of it. But also life changing.

‘The wave makes a sullen sound’ - symbolism and the sea

I live within walking distance of the beach, and the sea is one of the first things I see when I open my curtains. I love that view because it is always changing. Some mornings the sea is flecked with gold and red, at other times the sky is stormy grey, with the thinnest line of sunshine streaking down through the clouds. On a calm night, when the moon is full, the surface of the water looks like silk. At other times, it’s wild and choppy and I fall asleep to the sound of a distant foghorn blaring its ghostly warning to passing ships.

Since I’ve been living here, the sea has entered my subconscious like an unseen presence. Mermaids, seal wives and selkies sail through my stories. Even the poems I’ve intended to be about other things often feature the sea or water as a metaphor. It’s as if it has become part of me.

The sea, of course, is full of symbolism. At its primordial mythological level, the sea represents the watery chaos that existed before the world was formed. The first book of the Bible describes ‘formless depths’ – the Hebrew word is ‘tehom’, from which the chaos monster Tiamat also takes root.

Water is death

If water represents chaos, it is also a harbinger of death. I was born in Southampton and most of my ancestors were sailors. From my nan’s tiny cottage (now long-since demolished) overlooking the busy docks, sons, uncles and brothers would depart, often for years, with no guarantee of return. Along the walls of every major port are plaques commemorating the names of those whom the sea has claimed as her own.

Water is life

Paradoxically, water is also the stuff of life. Millenia ago, our ancestors crawled from the sea onto dry land. We are 65 per cent water and need water to survive. The human body can go 30 to 40 days without food but only two to three days without liquid.

Flux and flow

In mythology, water is often depicted as feminine. The pagan symbol for women resembles a chalice cup. She represents the ebb and flow of female intuition and emotion, drawn by the monthly cycle of the moon. She is also the element of imagination, of high adventure and fairytale. Perhaps this is why, when faced with the sea, my first inclination is to sing.

Water is the element of emotion, our tears spilling through from soul to reality, the expression of love, or loss, of great joy or unspeakable pain. When words will not do, our tears speak.

Tears have healing powers

A woman who was a sinner poured precious oil over the feet of Jesus with perfume and wiped them away with her tears, and found herself forgiven.  Like the ocean, tears are salt water. Our tears, when we cry, contain a chemical called ‘lysozyme’, which washes away bacteria and prevents infection. After crying, our breathing and heart rate decrease, and we enter into a calmer emotional state. Crying releases stress hormones and other toxins and stimulates the production of endorphins, our body’s natural pain killer.

Water transforms

Almost all religions use water in their purification rituals, to symbolise cleansing, both inward and outward. When we are cleansed, we are transformed and made ready to encounter the divine. To enter the waters is a metaphorical drowning, a little death, a baptism, a rebirth. In fairytale, water is liminal, having the power to cross over worlds. Humans discover new lands and dream of adventure on distant shores; mermaids lose their tails on the sands to become recast as wretched human lovers; seals shed their coats to dance naked and free in the moonlight.

Water transcends

The tongues of the waves sculpt new landscapes, carve out rocks, transform our hard and brittle edges to soft sand. So water is at the same time destructive and constructive, building up and knocking down. The clamour of waves upon the beach calls us to greater depths – of emotion, of feeling, of spirit. The salt of the water, which echoes our own tears, invites response.

Water never stands still

Like water we are in a constant state of creative flux and flow. Ideas and energy pour through us, are born and reborn through words, paints and sounds. Like the waves, we are constantly pulled this way and that, never settling nor stopping. There are hidden depths beneath – places in which, if nurtured, beautiful things might live and grow, pearls of great price caught beneath the weeds. It is our job, as creators, to dive deep and dig them out, to polish them up as best we can, and hold them to the light for everyone to see. 

Sources:

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/emotional-freedom/201007/the-health-benefits-tears

http://www.africanwater.org/religion.htm