Productivity strode into the room. Great Idea, Inspiration and Research all cheered. Great Idea turned the computer on and hovered excitedly next to the empty chair waiting for her idol to get down to business.
On the other side of the room Distraction hurriedly picked up her phone and tried to open Facebook, but Diligence was onto her. She snatched the phone and changed their password, ensuring doom scrolling couldn’t commence. Grateful that Diligence had her back Productivity gave her friend a snappy high five as she took her seat, flexed her fingers and opened a new word document.
‘We’ve got this!’ Great Idea declared.
Inner Critic pretended to vomit, but nobody was paying her any attention. Great Idea and Inspiration both started talking at once, gushing with excitement, while Creativity began to hum. The room quickly divided, half of the occupants bubbled with anticipation, while the remainder were an agitated mess.
Great Idea and Inspiration called Research over, they conferred, and Research opened a search engine, they needed to know more.
Distraction zoned in on Research, slinking across the room seductively. ‘What are you looking at?’ She purred smiling sweetly at her target.
Research blushed, Distraction had a lovely smile, and she was looking rather attractive today. She started to explain what she was investigating, but Distraction interrupted her.
‘Ohhh,’ Distraction sighed disinterestedly. Then she leant in close to Research, ‘I like dogs, dogs are cute. Maybe we should check the adoption sights?’
Research havered, they all liked dogs. Inspiration floated over, she forced herself into the narrow space between Research and Distraction deliberately jostling the would-be tangent off the bench.
Fear of Exposure had overheard what Research was looking up. She started huffing and puffing, pacing back and forth across the room. Finally, she could take it no more.
‘That’s a controversial topic Research. I don’t think we are qualified to write about it. We could upset people.’
Inner Critic agreed while in the corner Stuck in the Middle started to cry. She wasn’t close to being needed yet, but she had a sixth sense for knowing when things could get messy and she had a bad feeling about this story already.
‘We haven’t had a cup of tea in ages,’ Distraction grumbled.
‘Or a biscuit,’ Can’t get in the Zone added. ‘I wonder if we have any biscuits, maybe we should go to the shops?’
Productivity, Inspiration, Great Idea, Research, Creativity and Diligence shared a look.
‘Get them!’ Productivity shouted.
There was a passionate tussle, but Diligence won over and soon Distraction, Can’t Get in the Zone, Perfectionism, Fear of Exposure, Inner Critic and Stuck in the Middle were all tied up in the corner of the room. For a while they mumbled and grumbled, but it was no good Productivity was on a roll.
Distraction jumped to her feet and Can’t Get in the Zone followed her lead. They paced the room, poking in draws, and flicking through books on the shelves. Great Idea grumped, annoyed that they were once again dominating. Inner Critic rolled her eyes and got up to join them, she was pretty sure Great Idea had floundered again.
‘Ignore them,’ Inspiration urged. She was sat in the corner, surrounded by notebooks, postcards, and magazine clippings. Distraction drifted over to join her; they had a natural chemistry but were a bad influence on each other. Within minutes Inspiration had her phone out and was spiraling down a black hole with Distraction.
Research started to get angsty, she and Inspiration had been going steady lately, but she knew Distraction was a threat to their budding relationship. Rightly threatened she marched across the room, and tapped Diligence on the shoulder, ‘Have you seen what those two are up to?’
‘Again,’ Diligence groaned and hurried to break the pair up. Research smiled smugly and went to sit with Creativity, who was doing a plot puzzle. Research immediately found a missing link.
‘We’ve been here for ages,’ Stuck in the Middle moaned. She felt trapped and she sensed that they were going nowhere, she was anxious.
‘Yeah, I don’t think Productivity is coming back,’ Inner Critic gloated.
The room fell silent, and a creeping sense of panic settled on everyone.
Distraction abandoned Inspiration and started to make the bed. She pulled the covers back and there was Fear of Exposure, curled up in a ball. Fear of Exposure grabbed at the blankets and tried to bury herself again, but Diligence pounced and wrestled her out of her hiding place.
Forced into the open Fear of Exposure scuttled across the room to join Perfectionism. Immediately they set about reworking the rooms latest short story. Inner Critic rushed to join them she had a lot to say about that piece and wanted to make sure her opinions were heard.
Can’t Get in the Zone headed to the record collection, maybe the right music would help. Distraction and Inspiration joined her and before Productivity and Diligence could get a handle on things the tunes were pumping.
View from a crofts window looking out at the north sea, Bing Image Creator
I tried the window, but it wouldn’t budge. Painted shut. The room was stale. There was a scent swirling amongst the dust motes that I couldn’t quite pin down, feathers, old pillows. Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant. I peered out at the darkening sky, clouds where creeping in, soon I wouldn’t be able to see the hills across the water.
The bed was damp and unaired, the sheets clung to me, and a chill settled upon me. My stomach growled, I should have eaten on the ferry, but the food in the canteen had looked plastic, hardly appetising. And the rolling waves had done nothing to inspire hunger. I turned the light off and darkness swallowed me.
I dreamt I was flying a kite. I stood barefoot on the beach, the icy waves washed over my frozen feet, back and forth, back, and forth. I faced the ocean, but I could sense someone up on the dunes watching me, the creep of their eyes upon me. The wind tugged at the kite. Snatching it and snapping its line.
I woke as the red and yellow kite was swallowed by a towering cloud.
The room was still dank, and the funk of my sleep had done nothing to improve the smell. I pulled on the thick woolen jumper I had picked up in a charity shop while waiting for the ferry. It prickled my skin, but it was a barrier to the cold. The curtainless window revealed a dreary day, with heavy clouds. White horses raced over the waves and for a moment I thought I saw something breach, a fin, or a tail, but it was engulfed and lost from sight almost instantly.
Something fluttered by the window. I moved closer to the jack frosted panes of glass. It was a bird’s wing, the rest of the creature was a fetid mass, stuck to the rotting wood of the window frame, but its wing was flight ready. I watched it twist in the wind and remembered the kite.
Nobody was about downstairs, but the water in the kettle was still hot. I made myself a cup of tea, which I drank in a hurry. It sloshed in my empty stomach stirring a sense of nausea. I needed to eat something.
The fridge was empty except for some wilted celery, a crumb covered lump of butter and tub of chopped up bait. A search of the cupboards revealed various aged tins and a packet of half-eaten mince pies which were nearing their first birthday. I hate mince pies, but I don’t function when I’m hungry.
Picking pie from my molars with my tongue I wandered down to the beach. The wind turned my hair into a mess of writhing snakes, which whipped and snapped at my face. I could feel the pounding of the waves through the soles of my boots. I stood just out of their reach and watched as they threw themselves on the sand with frantic hunger.
I was hypnotised by their energy and didn’t hear Magda until she spoke, her words soft and warm in my ear, ‘Did you bring your wetsuit?’
I laughed, of course I hadn’t. No time for that, as soon as I had hung up the phone I was in the car, on the road, on my way here.
‘Only a fool would swim on a day like today,’ she concluded. But there is a challenge in her voice.
For a moment neither of us moved. Statue still. Runners poised at the starting line. Then I was a tangle of limbs, twisting, pulling, hurriedly ridding myself of my clothes. The bitter wind lanced through my exposed skin. Beside me Magda skipped on one leg as she tried to pull her foot free from her jeans. I gave her a shove and she fell bare arsed on the cold sand with a satisfying slap.
Then my sister and I are naked as we were when our mother pushed us out of the womb we once shared. I grin at Magda, and she returns my smile, for hers is mine and we run, full tilt into the wild ocean.
I don’t write poetry and not because I don’t love it! I adore Billy Collins, Elizabeth Bishop, Carol Ann Duffy, Emily Dickinson, Maya Angelou and Ted Hughes to name just a few. I admire those who can create poetry, it is not an easy art and it is such a personal one.
But this poem Meadowfield Park, had been forming in my mind for a number of years. Its about my local park where even before covid I spent many hours with my dogs and son, but during covid it became a haven to us. I used to stand at the crest of the hill by the long metal slide and stare out at the ships which had been forced to dock in the Firth of Forth thanks to the virus. They captivated me. Who was on them? Where had they been going? I had so many questions.
My poem began there during covid as I stared at anchored ships and wondered when the world would return.
I sometimes can’t believe covid happened. Everyone’s experience of that time was different and I am not here to have an opinion on what happened, or the rights and wrongs of it. But I do find it fascinating when covid creeps into the arts – I felt numb the first time I saw it in a television show, I was oddly excited the first time covid raised its ugly head in a short story I was reading. To me there is something cathartic in seeing covid acknowledged in creative form, but for others I suspect it is the opposite.
Roddy Philips who runs the online creative writing workshops I have previously spoken about put together an anthology of the writers work that was created during covid – Still Life. I loved pouring over this book, being able delve into other peoples creative reactions to covid.
I wonder how other writers have handled covid and if it makes its way into their work. How has it been writing about covid? Was it difficult? How did it impact peoples creative process? Except for this poem, I haven’t tackled it yet in any significant way.
We enter the glade and form our circle. Above us the stars burn. No one speaks, no one looks at each other. Silent, we stand, in silence we witness and slowly the moon passes over the glade. Its light bathing us, refreshing us, rekindling our powers which had dwindled over the last month.
Once it has passed, we turn taking our leave. All solemn, all silent.
Then to my left someone softly giggles. It is melodious, infused with joy and it is sacrilegious. I freeze, stalling in my procession and glance at the chuckler. She is looking straight at me, her face dark in the shadows of the trees, but her eyes stare brightly at me, and she smiles. Her teeth are white and starlight pours from her. I am chilled, though not with dread, something flickers in my chest. An ache. A yearning. She is beautiful and unashamedly powerful. I turn and hurry from the glade.
Over the next lunar cycle, I busy myself with my healer duties. I try to push the giggler from my mind. She is one of the Lunar Circle; one chosen to take in the powers of the moon and practice the sacred art of healing. A venerable duty. Our place in the circle is an honour. We were picked as children and trained by our predecessor whose place we now stand in. We have always been kept apart. This keeps us safe. Not knowing the other parts of the circle ensures that it can never be broken. I shouldn’t have glanced at the giggler, and she shouldn’t have been looking at me.
I try not to think about her, but I wake at night to the echo of her laugh ringing in my room. I draw my quilts tighter in attempt to shield myself. But what am I shielding myself from? I burn and as I burn it seems like her smile hangs in the dark above me. A bewitching moon cast smile.
I don’t sleep.
Slowly the moon moves through her cycle.
Back to the glade I go. My powers are weak, I am drawn out, wearied, but I am also excited.
I keep my eyes on the ground as I join the circle, then as the moon reaches her zenith and I cast my gaze skyward, I risk a glance to my left. She is there. Her radiant red hair tumbling down her back. She is looking at me and her look tells me she knew I would glance her way. I blush to the tips of my toes, my face smolders. She smiles and my heart nearly bursts from my chest.
Another lunar cycle. Another month of no sleep. She haunts me. Every red head I see could be her. I rush after a woman in the market, but when I reach a tentative hand out to touch her shoulder she turns, and she isn’t my lady of the moon. Her face is tired, bitter and holds none of her magic.
The moon is full and to the glade I go.
This afternoon I took my time as I bathed and dressed. I wanted to look more than myself to be worthy of her.
I steel myself; I don’t look her way. I want to, but I don’t. I am too afraid of what I will see, what I may unleash. The moon clears the glade, and I am sated, but not in the way I wish. As one we turn and take our leave. My spine tingles telling me she is near, just yards from me in the darkness. I can smell her, lavender, sage and something spicy. My hand stretches out instinctively and there it finds another. Fingers curl round fingers and I am undone.
A flickering sign had drawn me down the narrow alley. Some wizards work, from many years ago, the spell now fading, but still effective, a naked woman grinding her behind against the capital A of the word Art.
Florin nudged me, a smutty look on his face. ‘The Art Store, a place to experience the culture of Nylryi.’
There was nothing about this dump that promised culture or indeed art, we were in the heart of the slum district, but we needed a place to lay low and The Art Store appeared to be just that.
We pushed our way through the beaded curtain which jingled and swayed. A dwarf bouncer sat on a bench beyond the curtain, their beard slick with beer froth, their axe propped against the smoke-stained wall, they nodded at us as we passed, confident, not worried about a halfling and skinny human. Inside the air hung heavy, a mixed scent, something sweet, body must and a metallic tang – perhaps blood.
A stage, sat at the center of the room. An unnatural purple haze radiated from it, illuminating the crowd, though the further you got from the stage the less you could see of the patrons. The customers were a mixed bunch, humans, trolls, dwarfs, a couple of goblins, a hunched over creature with scaled skin, we wouldn’t be noticed here. They sat nursing drinks, talking quietly amongst themselves, or playing cards, not one of them showed the slightest interest in our arrival. This was a good sign, perhaps word hadn’t gotten out that Ironbeard had put a price on our heads.
We found a table, greasy and wobbly in the midst of the crowd and Florin flicked his wrist, summoning a serving girl. We ordered drinks, which I suspected would be poor, but when they arrived, I was surprised by the quality of the wine.
Suddenly the air crackled with anticipation. A spotlight sliced the haze, illuminating a figure who was descending from a hidden platform above, an elfin woman. My pulse quickened. She was a vision. Her skin was polished alabaster, it shimmered with flecks of gold. Long sun-bleached hair framed her heart shaped face, a face that many would readily bleed for.
Her costume … well, there wasn’t much to it, clung to her curves like the possessive hands of a lover, but for the most part we were treated to an expansive view of her toned body. She alighted on the stage and bestowed a playful smile upon the crowd, all of whom had fallen silent and then in a honeyed voice she teased, ‘Admire as much as you can. Most people don’t admire enough.’
Well, that was a lie, there wasn’t a soul here who wasn’t admiring. Next to me Florin sat frozen with his drink forgotten halfway to his mouth, his eyes riveted on the near nude goddess.
And then she started to dance, and I, like everyone else, was captivated. It was the way she moved, every step, every turn, every twist was a symphony of grace. The music pulsed, not leading her steps, but responding to her flow. She shaped the music, it was enthralled to her, as was I. This wasn’t just dancing; it was a story. A story of a faraway land, she taught us ancient rituals with a twist and spin. She wove desire and hunger into the tale, and I leaned forward, eager. The crowds’ bored stupor had vanished and had been replaced by a primal fascination. We were all drunk on her.
When the music finally ended, the room shook with thunderous applause, and bestial calls. I joined the chorus, I needed more.
The woman basked in our desperate pleas with a smile on her face. It was cruel, she had given me a taste of the sweetest nectar, she had let me sip, but she had snatched it away before I could quench my thirst. She raised her arms, stretching out her long slender body, the light dancing over her form, and then she ascended back to the heavens from whence she came.
Silence, the crowd’s voice had deserted it. I shook my head, I felt drunk, yet I had barely touched my wine. I wasn’t alone in this trance, a glance around the room showed me that my fellows in the crowd were as numb as I.
The Art Store had promised nothing, well nothing other than smut, but it had delivered. No, she had delivered a sensual transcending.
‘I didn’t expect that,’ Florian said his voice raw and rasping.
‘Nor did I,’ I breathed. Surprised I had been able to draw breath enough to speak. A hand fell upon my shoulder, its grip like an iron vice, a gravelly voice growled in my ear, ‘and I didn’t expect to find you two so easily, it is a day for surprises it seems.’
This piece was written for a workshop, the requirements being it had to less than 800 words and it needed to include the quote ‘Admire as much as you can. Most people don’t admire enough.’ This is a from one of the many letters Van Gogh wrote.
I wanted the reader to be as absorbed in the dance as the main character, for you to forget that these two were actually being pursued.
I think will return to the characters here, though only for other short stories set in their world.
Image. “ramshackle cottage under a large apple tree,” image generated by Microsoft Bing Image Creator, June 17, 2024
Let me tell you about my mother. This morning when making coffee, the percolator boiled over and the smell of burnt coffee, the toasting bread, and the jam was like a conjuring. I wasn’t in my own home, in a rush, half-dressed and wondering why I hadn’t gone to bed earlier, and worrying about the school run, or work, or how I was to walk the dog and still have time to make lunch. I was young again, maybe five, though I could have been any other age between five and leaving home and I was in another kitchen.
My mother’s kitchen, with its low oak ceiling, stained from years of cooking, with the small window which was always covered in pots of parsley, chives, basil, rosemary and coriander all wilted and straining for the light. With the too much stuff piled around the counters, books, opened letters, chopping boards, half-drunk cups of coffee, the toaster that had never worked – sometimes burning the bread sometimes returning it with a mild tan but it was such a pretty colour that we kept it, the postcards peeling away from cupboard doors and the notes, little nippets of a thought, or a message from someone saying we needed milk.
In the house under the tree time was a funny thing, it was endless, all stretched out, and slow, not like the present where all it seems to do is hurtle along racing towards what I don’t know or perhaps I do know and I don’t like to think on it. Time is a trickster just like the devil supposedly is, or was, or isn’t depending on your beliefs.
My mother fell on the wrong side of time, or the devil if you would believe her mother who knew much of such matters and had solely given herself to the one god and his son, but it was my mother that the smells brought through time, or perhaps it was me who was cast back in time, either way not her mother.
My mother was late to be born, nearly a month, not the September baby she was meant to be but an October one. October the tenth month of the year, though it to is out of place or time, since originally it was the eighth month of the year, hence its name – ôctō. October, an autumn month full of fat trees, branches hanging with fruit, like the cooking apple tree which half swallowed our house and dropped swollen apples upon the roof when the wind was up, which it normally was and we half thought the ceiling would come down upon us, but the slate was strong and backed with oak so it never did.
My mother was too early for her own wedding and had time to think it over and leave, because it was the right thing to do, but for her mother this was the end of the familial bond, for she left my mother that day, even as my mother took me with her, because I was there, just a small seed of a person growing in the cup of her womb.
My mother knew there would be other men, kinder, gentler, meaner, richer, uglier, wiser and all the things that any person can be, and there were, for my sister came along and then my brother but he wasn’t meant for the world yet, so he left and perhaps might come back another time and we will know him if he does. But no man ever stayed in the house with the too full kitchen and I think maybe my brother knew this was not a space for men, or maybe it might be in another time, but it wasn’t then.
So it was just me, my sister and our mother. Our mother whose heart tried to break, not from the ache of love, but from disease and when we were only little she nearly left us, but she didn’t, they did things in hospital and she came back. But I remember her not being there and other women coming and looking after us and they were like my mother in that they were kind, gentle and soft and they spoke in low voices until my mother came back and rested in bed. While she took rest we watched all the tv in the house under the apple tree, and the other women took us to school, brushed our hair, washed our clothes and cooked food that wasn’t ever quite right.
And then one morning my mother was back in the kitchen with the hazy green light from all the plants throttling the window, burning the coffee, shouting at the toaster, spreading the jam, stuffing the lunch boxes, feeding the dog and hustling me and my sister out the door to school.
But she was on borrowed time, or out of her time, for it kept on trying to take her, and it became like a game, she would go to hospital, the women would come and then my mother would return and for a while things would be as they were meant to be, but then back to the hospital she would go, before home again, and we came to depend on her return. It was like a game, a tug of war between time, my mother’s broken heart, the hospital and us, and our life in the house under the apple tree. She always came back to us, a little less herself, a little hollower and more fragile, but home again.
And this went on for a number of years. We became complacent, it was expected that she would always get better. So when time finally took her and didn’t send her back a promise was broken.
This piece was an attempt at telling a story as a stream of consciousness. I really enjoyed writing it, the deliberate repetitions of ‘my mother’ and ‘under the apple tree’ felt right given the flow of the story. When I had a friend read the piece out loud to me I felt they sounded particularly effective.
The story is vaguely based on life experience – the mothers health issues and the giant apple tree in particular. My mother passed away three years ago and one of the things I have found helpful for my grief is infusing her, my memories of her and stories she told me into my writing. I play with the truth of things, but often I don’t need to, my mother had an interesting life and she was quite a character.
I enjoyed drawing on the symbolism associated with apples in this story. In Norse mythology, the goddess Idunn guards apples that grant the gods immortality. This links the apple to everlasting life and the fight against death which felt right given the mothers battle with heart disease. I also drew a vague link between the idea of time being a trickster, my mention of the devil, and the fiercely religious grandmother with apples and the garden of Eden – this was stretching it a wee bit!
My grandmothers family are from the Orkney Islands. If you haven’t been – go!! There is something magical about Orkney and its not just because I am an archaeology geek – there is something in the air.
Orkney is one of my most favourite places and I have been writing about it, in particular about the island of Hoy.
Lately I have been writing about Hoy, its landscape and the feeling I have when I am there, these things are being woven into my writing. So far the island, acts as the backdrop for a few pieces I have written and I have several more stories planned which are set there.
I exaggerate aspects of Hoy in these stories, but it is the inspiration. And the nature and geography of the island has definitely helped shaped these stories.
And I mean look at it? How could such a place not inspire? Rackwick Bay is dramatic, there is a stark contrast between the soaring red sandstone cliffs, the soft green grass, the pristine beach ringed with beautiful coloured stones, the endless sky and the ocean.
For me there is a sense of connection, a link to my family. My grandmother used to come to Rackwick Bay to camp, my mother did and now I do when I can. The layering of my families history feels heavy in Orkney, but for some reason here in Rackwick Bay the layers feel a little thinner, like I could reach out and touch the past.
A family camping trip to Rackwick Bay, the building in the back is the Bothy which is open to all – predates my time picture taken by mother when she would have been in her late teens
Landscapes naturally inspire the art world, touching painters, poets, writers, comedians and dancers. I love when I read a book which has a deep sense of connection to the place where the story is set.
On our last trip to the island, in 2022 my sister and I spent a couple of nights camping in Rackwick Bay. The Bothy was pretty quiet, other than ourselves the only other campers were two women, both travelling alone. We went our separate ways during the day, but at night we gathered by the fire, shared wine, food and we talked and talked and talked. It was special to be able to share that time with those women, to hear their stories, to get to know a small part of who they were and what brought them to the island. For me after the isolation of covid, the loss of my mother and several hard years this was a truly magical experience – just being able to connect to others and share. I think I healed more in those couple of days than I can explain.
So yes it was probably inevitable that I would begin writing about Hoy and the women we met that weekend will be featuring in a story that I have planned. Though I suspect they may not recognise themselves if they were to come across the story! This morning I felt a sense of urgency, a need to return to Orkney, it’s been two years, which feels far too long. The best I can do for now however is write about the islands and look at photos I have taken on trips there over the years.
Image. “post war landscape,” image generated by Microsoft Bing Image Creator, June 6, 2024
A gloaming light was building, not a single cloud smudged the gradually lightening sky, it was empty, hollow and vast. No birds flew in this void, none drifted on the wing, above the torn-up ground.
Tam’s tiredness hurt, it’d kept him awake. Not a moment’s rest, not a moment’s escape. But the night had passed, taking its inky black with it and now dawn was here. It had started as a low burst of light on the horizon. So bright, it had hurt his eyes, like the flares before an attack. Then the creeping light had advanced laying claim to the land, an army on the march. Though this army didn’t bleed or break or cry for its mother.
Maybe it wasn’t the tiredness that hurt. Maybe it was the hole in his side, where shrapnel had hurried through him. Maybe it was the twisted and broken leg, with the foot that faced entirely the wrong way, as if it had decided enough was enough and it was going home, with or without Tam. Pain has a colour Tam realised, and it wasn’t red. He had imagined it might be, but it was brown and burrowing, and it sought out the deeper places which were yellow and orange, warm like autumn leaves or cut and dried hay.
Silence, it stretched all the way up to the hollow sky. Not a sound. Where had this quiet come from. The world isn’t a silent place. Its all noise, birds, wind, leaves rustling, the far-off hum of a tractor working its way across a field, people talking, footsteps ringing on cobbles, the caw of a crow. Not silence, the world isn’t silent. But beneath this empty sky sound was missing. M.I.A
Tam had a pencil, he had paper – Eilidh’s letter. He could write on the reverse, send her words home with his, tangled together like lovers in the sheets. Funny how hard it was to get the pencil and letter from his pocket. He drifted, losing himself in the silence, which seemed to be fading at the edges, blurring, though that could have been him he supposed. And then there was the finding of words, for here and now they wouldn’t come, his mind was a fog. He slept, drifting with the red and orange colours. When he woke he took his numb fingers and forced them to scribe words upon the soft paper. Paper that had been white and crisp, but to reach Tam it had passed through many hands, and then he had constantly been picking at the letter, reading it over and over, hearing Eilidh’s voice as he read. Just her words, her voice and him.
The starkness of the light was wearing out. A gradual fading, a leeching of substance. The horizon was drawing in, though the sky continued onwards, upwards and forever. There was noise, a gentle murmur, slowly filling the vacuum, but distant, far away, somewhere else.
What do you say to someone who knows every part of you when these might be your last words? He couldn’t bring himself to fill this letter with goodbyes.
‘Eilidh, you wouldn’t believe the skies here. Unbroken, no hills bite into them, they start from the flats of the fields and soar upwards. Its rich land, fenland, divided and controlled by canals and ditches. Crops grow tall here, animal’s fat. Not like home, where the sheep cling to the hillsides in feral weather, and the peat water washes brown down to the ocean. I don’t know if I like this land. It isn’t home. But the greater part of not liking it is that you aren’t here. You aren’t under the same sky, you’re beneath another. And I can see you there. I know you there and I know myself there…’
Tam stopped writing.
The noise was deepening. Voices, not the crack of gunfire, not the screaming of incoming shells. He couldn’t make out the words or the language, no way to know if the approaching talkers were friend or foe. He could cry out, call for help. Perhaps it would come, or perhaps the faces that would peer down at him in his crater wouldn’t be friends. He was beyond war, he was no threat now, his body was a twisted mess, but would they deliver mercy and if so what sort? A bullet to put the man out of his misery or a stretcher to see if he could be put back together again.
‘Eilidh, I know who I am when I am under the same sky as you. I miss that. I miss you. I miss us.’
A dirt covered face appeared at the edge of Tam’s hole. Tired eyes considered him. Voices, words, all of it blurring at the edges. The sky was vast and open. Tam held out the letter.
A couple of years ago I did a course through The National Centre for Writing. It was a treat to myself after years of no creative output and an attempt to kick start my writing habit again.
Our tutor was the wonderful Yan Ge, who has written some absolutely excellent books – Strange Beasts of China being my favourite. Yan was enthusiastic, inspiring and kind. She really encouraged us to enjoy what we worked on.
She told us a story about a ceramics teacher which went like this ….
A pottery teacher decided upon a unique grading method for her class. She split the students into two groups. For the first group, the entire year’s grade would hinge on crafting a single, flawless piece of pottery.
The second group faced a different challenge: quantity over quality. Their grade would be based solely on the amount of pottery they produced throughout the year.
At the end of the year, the teacher reviewed the results. As expected, the first group delivered impressive, well-crafted pieces. They had, after all, dedicated the entire year to perfecting just one creation.
The second group stacked their work in huge, towering piles for grading. The earlier pieces, at the bottom of the pile reflected hurried attempts at churning out work. But, as the teacher progressed up the pile, things began to change. The pottery in the middle of the stacks, which represented the mid-point of the year, showed a noticeable improvement in quality. The students themselves were baffled when questioned about this shift. They insisted they hadn’t changed their focus – quantity had remained their sole objective. This trend continued on up the stack, the pieces of pottery becoming finer and finer until the teacher reached the top of the pile and there sat a near perfect piece.
So the students in the second group, had not only produced a vast amount of work they had also unknowingly honed their skills as they created.
I started flicking through the book and there on page twenty-nine was the story about the ceramics teacher! So I finally knew where the story came from and if you read Art & Fear you will see that David Bayles and Ted Orland tell the story of the ceramics class in a far more eloquent manner than I did.
This story struck a chord with me as I am someone who is paralysed by the pursuit of perfection. I want to write, but I fear not creating something perfect, so often I don’t write, I don’t create, I just make excuses not to put words on paper. I was inspired by this story, it helped free me from my crippling self doubt, it allowed me to see writing as something that is always developing and improving. It certainly isn’t something that will improve if we don’t practice it! I wont ever write the perfect story, but that is ok, all art is a form of growth.
So to steal from Dory of Finding Nemo fame – ‘Just keep writing, just keep writing.’
My current reading pile. I try to stick to a three book rule, otherwise I find I don’t fully immerse myself in the books.
But I can’t wait to read Art & Fear, I suspect it will inspire me to be less fearful of the creative process. I wonder how other creative people over come the obstacle of perfectionism and self doubt?
A Year of Time 