Romantic

(300 Word challenge – brief: romance.)

Jeremy looked down at the gravestone, the gentle rain bouncing from his brolly.

“Here lies Molly: daughter, mother, lover,” he read out-loud.

“I wonder who put ‘lover’ on there?” Mary said, sliding her arm in to Jeremy’s, taking shelter beneath the brolly.

Jeremy led them towards a Chestnut tree, “her husband perhaps?”

“Then why not add ‘wife’?”

They stood beneath the dripping tree, alone in the small soggy graveyard.

“Lover has a romantic ring to it,” Jeremy said.

Mary laughed, “and wife doesn’t?”

Jeremy smiled, “you know what I mean,” he said.

“Do you still think of us as lovers?” Mary asked.

“Trick question!” Jeremy exclaimed.

They huddled together as the rain got heavier, bouncing noisily from leaves overhead.

“I think we should make a dash for it, it’s not going to get any lighter,” Mary said, eying the grey sky.

Jeremy chuckled, “been a while since we dashed anywhere!”

They walked slowly along the path, uncaring of the rain, arm in arm, enjoying the tranquillity of the church and its grounds.

“What do you want on yours?” Mary asked.

“Who’s to say I’ll go first?” Jeremy said.

“You have to go first so I can be a broody old spinster surrounded by her thirty cats,” Mary said.

“Cats are evil,” Jeremy said.

“How about, ‘here lies Jeremy, cantankerous old git who hated cats’?”

Jeremy opened the wet wooden gate, “that’ll do nicely!”

“What if you go first, what shall I put on yours?” Jeremy asked as they walked from the church.

“I’ve thought about that…”

“I suspected you might have…”

“I want, ‘here lies Mary, she loved life and life loved her back.’”

Jeremy kissed Mary on the cheek, “you old romantic!”

Mary smiled, “one of us should be!”

“Whatever you say my lover,” Jeremy said.

All That Glitters

(300 Word challenge – brief: inanimate object starts talking.)

The Montblanc Meisterstuck LeGrand Gold-Coated Ballpoint Pen sat wedged between the tacky red leather cushions of the coffee shop bench-seat.

It wasn’t happy about it.

Pens of this distinction are rarely happy about anything. Being forgotten by their careless owner was a sure way to deepen their mood to the wrong side of ‘foul’.

Walter wandered over to his usual table, coffee-loaded tray in hands, knapsack over his shoulder. He sat down and got his writing stuff from his bag.

He’d been stuck on the middle-bit of his earth-shattering, best-seller for a few days now and was determined today would be the day he made his breakthrough.

Walter took a deep swig of his strong black coffee. Today was the day. He could feel it. Or was that just the caffeine?

As he put his cup down a glint of gold caught his eye.

The pen.

He looked around trying to see who had left it here. No sign of anyone.

Wow! A free pen! And a beauty at that!

Walter surreptitiously reached for the pen.

The Montblanc let out a short derisory snort of a laugh, ‘don’t even think about it peasant! You are not worthy to look upon me, never mind touch me with your grubby little fingers!’

Walter was taken aback, ‘I beg your pardon!?’

‘You won’t get it, you pathetic hack! Now move along and dribble out your sad little words somewhere else, you addle-minded sorry excuse for a writer!’

Walter did a double-take, looking around to see who was saying this.

Realising it was the pen, he let out a deep sigh.

The pen continued, ‘so just jog on and I wouldn’t even bother with that cliché-sodden excuse for a book if I were you.’

Walter frowned, packing his writing bag, ‘everyone’s a freakin’ critic!’

The Pressure of Time

We all have limited time.

In so many ways and in one ultimate sense.

I read once that all art, all creativity, is a response to the understanding that we are all going to die.

If we were immortal, there would be no art, creativity would die.

The thinking behind it being that we would always have time to do it. There would always be more time. We could always put it off, do it tomorrow, or whenever.

Simplistic and perhaps total BS, but it does convey the idea that we all feel the pressure of time in some way and we all react to it differently.

We all live our lives as if we are going to live forever.

We all realise we are not.

We all have a desire to make the most of the time we have, in every sense.

We all do that in different ways.

Being creative to a deadline is fantastic.

The most important thing it teaches us is that things will have to be as good as they are when the deadline hits, then we have to let them be, let them go.

With no deadline, we are tempted to tinker, to make it better, to chase perfection rather than let something be as perfect as it can be when it’s time to let it go.

Can we ever be aware of the greater deadline?

Is this something that we can use to drive us in our creative endeavours?

Can we turn the pressure of time to our advantage?

Yes. Yes we can.

Our energy for each thing we create has a natural cut-off point. That point where we feel we are just tinkering, adding the whistles and bells to make it more than it was ever meant to be.

Most creativity uses a craft as well as artistic inspiration, and of course we want to use all our skill and experience to make sure we have something that is as good as it can be in the sense of the craft.

Artistically, we can realise the idea and then it’s done.

The challenge of the pressure of time often defeats me. And it’s usually because I don’t want something I’ve created to be perceived as anything less than the best it could be.

But the best it could be at the time is what I should be focusing on.

I’m rubbish at self-imposed deadlines.

I need to work on my awareness of the pressure of time.

With the things you create, how can you turn the pressure of time in to a positive thing?

F.U.P.

I wrote this about the Black Dog.

Kind of tumbled out, bit angry but also hopeful.

F.U.P.

I turned around and there it was,

Lurking in the shadows behind me,

Awaiting its chance to suck me dry,

This fucking useless parasite.

 

Only it never does,

It won’t kill the host.

That’s not how it works,

Won’t fulfil its need,

Take enough,

But never too much,

Reap and sow,

Plant the seed.

 

I turned my back and on it came,

From out of the darkness within me,

Been waiting for a chance to watch me die,

This fucking useless parasite.

 

Only I never do,

And it never can,

That’s not how it works,

Don’t feel the need,

Given enough,

At times too much,

Reaped what I sowed,

Planted the seed.

 

I turned a corner and found it there,

Waiting in ambush for me,

A chance for me to immortalise,

This fucking useless parasite.

 

Only I know it now,

It’s not what it seems,

That’s not how it works,

I don’t have a need,

Bled out too much,

Nothing to show,

No place for the seed,

To hide and grow.

 

I turned it over and watched it die,

Helpless in the open,

Destroyed by the light,

This fucking useless parasite.

Not About Golf

About ten years ago I decided I’d like to take up playing golf.

I needed exercise, had the time and liked the idea of playing against myself.

I got some clubs, not cheap but not silly-expensive.

I went to the local driving range and talked to some people in the shop there.

I met a guy at work who played and offered to go round with me so I could get the hang of playing a course.

I was all set.

Went to the range, hit some balls. It was really easy to hit the balls.

They didn’t go very far and the direction was a bit random, but that would change with practice.

I read some books, checked out some videos, watched people play golf on TV and went to the range some more.

More balls were hit and it did indeed get a bit better.

Then I went round with the guy from work.

He was great. Very encouraging but also very quiet about what I ‘should’ do.

I really liked golf. I wasn’t very good at it, but I was sure I’d get better. And when I say ‘wasn’t very good’, I do of course mean I was comically awful. But it felt great to play, to try my best and to know I’d get better if I applied what I was learning.

I went to the range, played a round now and again and kept getting the tiniest bit better.

Then I had a lesson with a pro.

He was very encouraging and very good. His summary was that I could indeed hit a golf ball, and depending how ‘good’ I wanted to get, he could help and suggest stuff.

My aim was to understand golf. To know enough to be able to play with someone and enjoy it. To get better each time I went out and to start applying the rules so that I was measuring myself against the game, not a vague notion of what the game was.

I still really enjoy golf. I don’t play enough to improve, but am at a level where I can play a round and not completely suck. Not completely.

Golf is a very physically driven thing. The technique used with the tools are to achieve a physically tangible aim. The great thing about golf is that you really do play to improve. You are measuring your own improvement and can see results on the score card.

Creating things is not like golf.

Except it is.

But it isn’t.

But really it is.

And there’s the nub of why creative people find it hard to develop, to improve and to accept measuring themselves.

We sometimes need a ‘pro’, we sometimes need someone to tell us where we can improve in solid, doable terms that we can apply.

But being creative we keep applying the ‘it’s all so esoteric and subjective!’ argument. It’s a good one to stop us realising how much we can learn from others and how much we can improve if we just practice and do the thing!

We need to accept that we need feedback. We sometimes need help. We can always learn from others who do our thing. And most importantly of all, we must actually do the thing. A lot. Do it over and over again and apply what we learn to get better.

It’s not golf.

But it’s not rocket-science either.

Brave

Being brave is an age-old topic for discussion and reflection.

What is ‘being brave’?

Lots of definitions right?

As we grow as a species we come to realise it’s not just physical bravery that is to be admired.

Poets are brave.

Writers are brave.

Creative people who share are brave.

They open themselves up to judgement. They share aspects of themselves that reveal their inner thoughts and emotions.

If creating something doesn’t reveal something about the creator, it can still be good, but it will never be great.

But what about revealing a universal truth, doesn’t that make it great.

I guess… I’m a tough crowd…

If it speaks to me of the thoughts and emotions of another person, shows me they are opening up their spirit and their heart, then I’m far more likely to be moved.

And being moved is what creating stuff is all about.

Being brave enough to say, ‘here, look at this, listen to this, *feel* this. This is a bit of me,’ that’s where the courageous go.

I’ve read some poems recently that have moved me, made me think. They have made me see something in another person, helped me view the world through another’s eyes. The language and execution has not always impressed me, sometimes it does but that’s rare. But the courage and insight always do.

When I experience something that entertains me I appreciate it and the energy it took to create it. I’m mostly impressed that someone has hit all the right spots in getting me to smile or think, or both!

But yeah… when something moves me, makes me feel… that I find amazing and brave and all kinds of special.

So to all the creatives out there I’d say this: show us something about yourself. Share a deeper part of you than you might be thinking of sharing. Give us a glimpse of who you are. Help us see things through your thoughts and feelings. You will not always get a positive response, but you should know that there will always be someone who experiences your creation and goes, ‘wow! That moved me.’

Who Is The Narrator?

Who is the narrator?

Are they a character?

Are they a specific viewpoint?

Are we using their senses to get information on the current scene?

Can they see and report beyond that?

Are they telling us things from one character’s perspective but not ‘theirs’?

The narrator is telling the story. They have access to whatever information we need them to have to tell the story in the voice we want.

We can use the story-teller to highlight a character, give us information as that character would see and know it. Give us a glimpse in to that character’s thought-process.

We can hop about, skip from character to character as the scene and story needs it.

We can be the aloof story-teller, relating detail and incidents in a voice separate from the story. We can have all the information, tell what we want in any scene as we see fit to serve the story.

Who is the narrator?

We talk a lot about our ‘voice’ as a writer.

Depending upon the story or the piece, we use the narrator to reflect that don’t we?

I never write in a straight-forward ‘reporting’ style. There is always some character view-point, some stress to the narration, a point of view for the scene.

It depends on the piece.

Do you have a preference?

Is the narrator ultimately just you talking to the reader, telling them the story as if you were cosied up by a fire?

With poetry it seems like a question that never gets asked. And I think it should.

Poetry is telling us things, showing us things, asking questions, offering ideas. Poetry is not just about the words and images. There is more. Who is telling us this ‘more’? Who are we listening to?

The first thing that jars me out of being immersed in a piece is a wonky narrator.

There may be other things, but the first that I notice is the narration going off.

It’s usually the second or third edit of my own stuff where it hits me how bad I am at sticking to the ‘rules’ I like to see observed in other writing.

So that’s my focus on the next few pieces.

Make sure I know who the narrator is. What is their voice, their perspective, how much do they know and can they reveal to make the story better? Focus!

It’s #NaNoWriMo and I’m using it as a kick in the butt to get a novel moving, so maybe focus on the shorter pieces for the writing group… always an excuse!

But I am determined to pay more attention to the narrator.

Maybe in the fourth edit…

A Poem

I’ve started to write some poetry again… this isn’t recent, but reminds me of why I like writing.

W.W.W.

Yellow sunlight on white walls

Pale blue skies with wisps of cloud

Golden beaches washed with silver

Vivid green wild woods warm with shadow

 

Remember them

Remember when

Remember where we were

Remember why we went

Remember them

 

Fields steeped white with snow

Frosted glass breath wiped warm

Ice gleaming watch water streaming

Sparkling waiting world wishing for Spring

 

Remember them

Remember when they were real

Remember where we were

Remember why we went

Remember them as real

 

Washed out wired-in images

Wasted moments without meaning

Without life withered to the touch

Whispered hopes without meaning

 

Remember them

Remember when they were real to you

Remember where we were when we wept

Remember why we wondered why we went

Remember them as things we will never forget

 

Wishing it was real wastes

What we don’t have wastes

Who we are where we want to be

What we are what we see what we feel

Why we wonder whether we will ever remember

Mojo Working

Being creative is a desire, a passion, an urge, something that has to be done.

It relies on an energy that is inside every one of us.

It is expressed in different ways by different people.

Everyone who expresses themselves is drawing on different experiences and perspective.

When we feel good about ourselves and the world around us, we express it.

When we feel bad about ourselves and the world around us, guess what… we express it.

Sometimes I feel drowned by the world around me, put-upon by all the shite in the world, especially the injustices perpetrated by people in power.

My kind friends tell me it’s because I have an empathy with those affected, and this often includes me, so not sure how that works…

My unkind, and some would say ‘honest’ friends, tell me I’m just a wuss that needs to put things in perspective and get on with it.

‘But’, I whine, ‘creativity doesn’t work like that. Not for me.’

It’s hard to say exactly how it does work: analysing it has never worked out for the best.

But I know when it’s not working.

I know when my mojo aint workin’.

Being connected to the world via social-media seems to be a big drain.

There’s no news like bad news for getting ratings, so most of what’s churned out is bad news.

People affected pass it on and warn others, and so it (rightly) spreads.

It would seem there is such a weight of sadness, badness and intent to do harm in the world that we may suffocate under it.

Looking for the good, staying positive, clearing our minds to allow our inner… blah-blah-blah right?

There is good out there (and in there!) and it is easy to find. It just sometimes struggles to be heard over the cacophony of shite in the world.

Anyone who has a creative urge, who produces something and sends it out in to the world, I urge you: do it for good. Use your superpowers for good!

When we are made aware of bad stuff, let’s be aware in the ‘so what are we gonna do about it’ kind of way.

I know it’s tough. I know it’s mostly easier said than done. But it can be done and it must be done.

Be creative.

Get that mojo working.

Share your stuff. Get it out there.

Stay positive. Stay the superhero that you are!