Be brave. Share your stories in response to my prompts and together we will build a community of words.
I facilitate Reflective Writing Workshops in LA – come and discover a creative sanctuary where your inner writer can find wings and fly!
Be brave. Share your stories in response to my prompts and together we will build a community of words.
I facilitate Reflective Writing Workshops in LA – come and discover a creative sanctuary where your inner writer can find wings and fly!
I’m going to be a little lazy here and lean on generalizations, but having heralded from a British mother and an American father and having lived in both countries, I began to wonder if 50% of my cells are programmed for polite modesty, while the remaining half are bursting with bravado?
And if that really is the case, then how do I convey my authentic message humbly without sounding arrogant or too loud?
And then suddenly a memory popped into my head… something I hadn’t thought about in a long while, but was obviously still loitering in my psyche waiting to pounce.
I was on a job interview for a position in the counselling department of a university in London, just a few months after completing my psychotherapy training. The man who was interviewing me was wearing a waistcoat and jeans. I can picture him now. He looked gentle and approachable, and I was sitting opposite him when he asked,
“So Rory, what are the strengths you will bring to this job?”
I liked the question. It was both direct and relevant, and I begin to list some of what I considered to be my most effective counselling attributes. I had just completed a rigorous training and was finally learning how to ‘own my strengths’ rather than consistently denigrate myself.
And then this happened.
I paused, and the man held up his hand. Like a stop sign.
“Right, well I get the idea, you wouldn’t want to blow your own trumpet now would you?”
I recall feeling stunned by his statement and blanketed in shame. I looked down at my black lace-up boots. They certainly didn’t appear too small for me, in fact I thought they fit very comfortably, but in a short and sharp second this man had reminded me otherwise. His words struck a familiar yet muted chord and it sounded something like this: Don’t get too big for those boots, missy. Don’t be TOO much. Shrink. Blend. Don’t call attention to yourself. Shhhh. Leave it up to others more capable. Sit back.
In therapy we talk about clients being influenced by their unconscious. Looking back, I wonder if that so called ‘enlightened’ male therapist in the waistcoat and jeans, was actually being driven that morning by a wayward force out of his awareness; a rusty paradigm that for years has kept women ‘in their rightful place’.
I am the daughter of a powerful mother who fought in the 1970’s to carve out a successful niche for herself in the then male dominated world of fiction, and remains there forty years later. I come from determined creative stock, and yet on the day that I was told to keep my trumpet quiet, it was the reverberations of my grandmothers’ struggles that I recognized in the quickened pace of my heart.
I felt a sudden kinship with the previous generations of women in my family who had been shaped by a patriarchal society – an environment where women’s strengths were swept under the carpets they were cleaning, and trumpet blowing was definitely out of the question.
So what did I learn from being baited to brag, only to be painfully hooked for my boldness?
I learned that trumpet blowing, tempered with humility, is essential – for women and men alike.
Not the ‘look at me on Instagram!” mode of trumpet blowing. Nor the Facebook friend foraging frenzy. But the kind of trumpet blowing which requires true introspection and self reflection. The kind of trumpet blowing which takes time and patience and commitment, until it becomes lucid and clear. The kind of trumpet blowing which might involve sitting still with ourselves after the peanut butter crackers and hearing our own repetitive tunes, and then finding the courage to write some new notes.
My trumpet sings: I am a really really good listener. I’m very intuitive and I’m excellent at encouraging people. I also have this special knack for helping others unthread tangles. And I’m NOT afraid to say it!
I guess that’s the only ‘marketing campaign’ I need after all. A united front. The British and American parts of me meeting over the ocean on a starry ship’s deck, soaking up a unique jazz blend. My own fusion of truths.
It doesn’t really matter what any of our trumpets sound like. What matters is that we are brave enough to play them, even in the face of those who tell us not to. What matters is that we polish them until they shine, and we make a sturdy case to protect our precious instruments. What matters is that we reveal our treasures, rather than toss them overboard where they will sink, never to be found.
So imagine that I’m interviewing you now and I ask YOU what your strengths are. But before you answer, I pass you a permission slip. The letters are LARGE and colourful. The words release you.
Writing Prompt: Ten minutes on your strengths. If you’ve never done this before, reflect on why it feels so hard. Whose voice is holding a finger to your lips quieting you down? Be tender with yourself. Care for your strengths and be curious as to where they can lead you. Stay aware of your surroundings. Listen to your tune…what’s stuck? Where does your rhythm need to change?
This blog has been sleeping like a baby bear hibernating, dreaming up new schemes for the warmer months. Meanwhile, I’ve been dancing around my second novel and running groups from home, humbled each week by the raw and healing power of truth seeking and truth speaking. Allowing vulnerability to push through the surface of our pages is always frightening and often liberating. I see it time and time again, when women dare to write about something hidden… they arrive in the light… earth on their hands… tears on their cheeks… hope in their eyes.
Bridget works on the other side of the world from me in France and the UK, but our message shares the same reflection. She has much wisdom to offer about hibernation and I’m excited to introduce you to her wonderful site WILD WORDS. Explore her selection of online courses and writing retreats – enrollment for her current online course ends this week! Enjoy!
By Bridget Holding
I run ‘Wild Words’ online writing courses, and writing holidays in the beautiful mountains of the Pyrenees, in France. Our aim at Wild Words is to free the caged words within us, and harness them on the page. We explore what it means for ourselves and our words to be ‘wild’.
Often I begin workshops by asking participants ‘what are your wild words?’ Immediately, metaphorical hands shoot up. Isn’t it obvious? Wild words are like the tiger, expressive, untamed, and fiery.
But are they? Not always. Because that initial answer is often not our own. Rather, it’s the one that is conditioned into us. It’s a societal view of how we believe our words should behave if we graciously deign to allow them free reign.
And the reason we should be suspicious about our first answer to this question? It’s because the answer is so easy to come up with. In fact, it’s too easy. If we are right, our wild words will rise up all-singing and all-dancing. They will be barefaced shameless, and proud.
However, would the words that are caged within us, really emerge so functional after so long a confinement? At the very least an animal that is confined for a long period of time would come blinking out into the light. And more likely it would cower in the corner of the cage, too terrified to come out at all. And when it did emerge, it would be unsteady on its feet, over-reactive to the bombardment of unfamiliar stimulus it encountered.
Trust me, those words that we really censor, we find it difficult even to think, let alone put down on the page.
Frequently in my psychotherapy practice I see clients who have gaps in their memory, places in which there should be thoughts and words, but in which there are no longer words at all. As writers we can tell when we get close to our wildest words, by the efforts we make to avoid going there. Our bodies and minds change tack urgently. We tune out, cut off, fly away…
So how can we find our own, more authentic answer to this question? Here are some ideas that might help:
-Be patient. Wait for your authentic words to emerge in their own time. Don’t rush them, or force them.
-Sit alongside yourself in the process; support the fragile part of yourself.
-Think about what you want to write, what you really, truly want to write, not just what you are used to believing that you want to write.
-Think about what you have to lose by releasing those Wild Words. Bring that into consciousness. How can you ease that fear?
-Ask yourself: What would it mean to allow my words to be just exactly as they are?
Writing Prompt: Having read this article, spend fifteen minutes writing a piece of prose or poetry that is your personal answer to the question: ‘What are your wild words?’
One breath after another. One word after another. One thought after another, stretching out stiff limbs, like a hibernating bear waking up from an extremely long and heavy lidded nap.
I used to think that LA never changed. When I first moved back here from the UK three and a half years ago, I’m ashamed to say I felt aggravated by the endless sunshine. I was bound by my longing for seasons, unable to mutter a word of my weather lust to anyone for fear of seeming ungrateful. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate the warmth, it’s just that I missed other temperatures. I missed being a voyeur of the trees beyond my bedroom window, watching them dress and undress as the year unfolded.
Turns out I was wrong about LA. The weather does change, only I wasn’t open to noticing. That ‘rigidity’ can often happen when we cling too intently to first impressions. We lock into our opinions, and occasionally we refuse to budge, becoming dependant on the familiarity of a well worn point of view.
Subtle shifts happen here in December and I’m becoming aware. LA is uncharacteristically humble in these later months, liberated from the usual red carpet swagger of a prolonged and brazen summer .
A surprising chill creeps up when the sun dips, and lingers before it rises. The hazy hot smog dissolves gradually and in its place, the sky explodes in the early evening, transforming into a canvas of swirly colour – a parade of pinks, oranges and blues. Certain trees on certain streets shed their leaves, offering up tiny unexpected microcosms of autumn. All but the hard core even retire their flip flops. For a little while at least. And the truly imaginative emerge after a morning of light rain dressed to impress in Hunter wellies and waterproof jackets fit for February in the Scottish Highlands.
LA changes. I just wasn’t letting it.
Sometimes we simply need to pick up where we left off, instead of berating ourselves for having left off in the first place. And sometimes we need to let go of our assumptions and look again. With new eyes. In a fresh December light…
Reflect on this: Is there a situation or a person in your life that you are convinced is unable to change? Can you take a step back and create some space, allowing that person or that situation to be considered in a new light? Perhaps that person is even you? Give yourself and others permission to shift. When you are feeling stuck, I invite you to simply begin again… breath by breath, word by word, thought by thought…
Writing prompt: Ten minutes on stuckness/ first impressions/ beginning again/ or your internal weather patterns. Choose one or all of the above…
I have a vivid memory of sitting in a café with a trusted friend, many moons ago, lamenting my then relationship.
I had quite the shopping list. Why couldn’t my ‘other half’ be different? Why couldn’t all my love and input make things ‘better’ for us? Couldn’t he see how hard I was working to try and help? This particular friend doesn’t cake decorate her words. She’s direct. Focused. She knows how to intercept tears.
Here’s what she said:
“Picture this – two broken down cars parked on the same street. One of them belongs to you and one of them belongs to him. You have all the tools you need to fix your own car, but for some inexplicable reason you are spending all your time attempting to fix him first, even though your own rent-a-wreck won’t start. You are NOT equipped to fix his car – only he can do that! Newsflash – you ARE qualified to work on your own misfires, and if he sees you revving your engine, polishing your rims, changing your oil – there’s a good chance he’ll be inspired to do the same.”
Okay – so I might have embellished her metaphor slightly, but the wisdom remains. At the time, I felt defeated. Why wasn’t I ‘enough’ to tune him up? Surely he wanted to ‘improve’ in order to make me happier?
Before long, I realized my sage confidante was a pretty astute psychological mechanic, and I embarked on a mission to service my own ailing parts, instead of wasting my precious energy using a rusty unsuitable spanner on his.
In essence, I began to be kinder and more attentive to myself, and as a result, less critical towards him. It seems to me, we are often drawn towards being our own worst enemy, rather than our own dear friend.
With this insight, I felt more effective and less of a victim of my circumstances. Bitterness receded and I became easier to relate to, while he, miraculously, began to find it easier to relate.
Not so miraculous really, it makes a lot of sense.
The most effective method of change is modelling the behaviour you hope to see in others.
A very simple example is one that parents encounter frequently. They yell at their kids in a vain attempt to stop their kids from yelling. It never appears obvious at the time, but if we could watch ourselves on video flailing around in these chaotic moments, the picture would be absurdly clear.
Ghandi might not have been berating a six year old or fuming at his partner when he said
Be the change you want to see in the world…
So if you’re investing all your efforts into solving someone else’s problems with the intent of increasing their worth, put the brakes on. While you’re at it, listen for a squeak – a sure indication of where your own work needs to begin…
Did this post resonate with you?
WRITING PROMPT: Take ten minutes and jump off from the quote “Be the change you want to see in the world…” what meaning do these words currently hold in your life? OR Write about a relationship where you feel stuck in ‘fixing’ mode. Explore options. How can you take your tools and turn them towards self development?
In 1987 renowned Gestalt psychotherapist, Erving Polster, wrote a book called “Every Person’s Life is Worth a Novel”. In this book he writes:
Stories must not only be told, but also heard. What is said gains value from the listeners understanding…
He goes on to write:
We also use stories to join our lives with those of other people…
I recently had the pleasure of meeting some of the founders of a remarkable and powerful new venture called Narrative 4 begun by writers, artists and educators who are passionate about ‘hearing’ and ‘joining’. Narrative 4 aims to enable teenagers globally to come together to exchange stories as a tool for social change. The exchange is intended to be literal – an ultimate act of reflection. The idea is for the young people to swap stories and then read each other’s stories aloud to one another – to allow words to transcend all differences and thread together human experience. The stated ethos of Narrative 4 is:
We believe sharing stories is the key to opening the world. We call it ‘Fearless hope through radical empathy’
I call it inspired.
We all crave an attuned listener. We carry our stories with us deep in our pockets, etched on our hearts, buried in hidden places. Sometimes our stories are legible, easy to read, but sometimes it is as if they are written on the wet wall of a dark cave and we spend years waiting for someone to strike a match.
And when the day finally comes, the sudden exposure can be glaring. The attention can call forth panic, anxiety, shame, trepidation, but ultimately relief. We want to be heard. We need to be seen. And even the small flickering flame from a single match can shed enough light for us to look around and realize that we are not alone with our stories. Sharing our truths is an act of healing.
I’ve experienced this firsthand both as a client and a therapist. Every week in my workshop I listen intently as participants grow brave enough to write their stories and offer them up to the group. We are not there to assess or critique or shape or edit. We are there to listen. People come to Write To Be You to be seen and heard, and to see and hear. I am humbled by the courage of my participants and I am witness to the bonds that powerfully and delicately ‘join’ us through story, encouraging self worth, enabling understanding, embracing recovery.
I am often amazed at how few questions people ask in social situations. Is it that we are bound by decorum not wanting to appear nosey? Or is it that so many people are wrapped tightly in their own inward facing cocoon that it doesn’t occur to them to reach beyond that and explore another’s landscape?
Questions are essential to social interactions, and yet contemporary technology encourages a ‘me’ centred paradigm where our young people are at risk of becoming voyeurs and not listeners. Let’s encourage curiosity in ourselves and younger generations. Next time you meet someone you don’t know, practice drawing out their story. Be interested. See what you can learn about yourself by listening to someone else.
And while you’re at it, please join me in exploring and supporting Narrative 4 as a dedicated group of individuals step up to link our ever divided world. Personal narratives are thirsty for oxygen, buried within us they can fester and wilt. Now more than ever we need to return to the ancient arts and allow them to work their communal magic alongside technology.
It is not only in recent years that the most essential tales told have gone ‘viral’… the passage and momentum of storytelling has been with us from the beginning of time. We just need to keep breathing fresh air into stale corners and lighting that match in the darkest of caves.
A writing prompt inspired by Narrative 4: Write about discovering a story on the wall of a cave. Who has been there before you? What is the writing on the wall? Imagine you are illuminated by the light of the match. Tell both of your stories. Give yourself permission to write in fragments, dream images, floating words. Feel your way…
I started wearing glasses when I was two. Horn-rimmed frames with magnifying lenses that made my eyes look like marbles. Top that with a frizzy bonnet of mad hair and I resembled a miniature version of Garth from Wayne’s World.
I didn’t realize the glasses would present a problem for me until I grew up and began listening to the chatter around me. The reason I wore them, among other things, was because I had lazy muscles in both of my eyes, causing a wayward drift. Even though I might have been looking directly at you, my eyes betrayed me, giving the impression that I was looking both left and right at the same time. I don’t call that lazy – I call that highly motivated!
The chatter I began to absorb, mostly at school, was a variation on a theme “If only her eyes were straight, she would be so pretty…”
I’m not certain if I ever heard someone say these exact words, but I might have done, because that is the story I began to tell myself.
“If only my eyes were straight…”
“If only I didn’t wear glasses…”
That soon translated into my adolescence, fuelled by the images and articles young girls and women are flooded by, “If only my breasts were bigger, my hair silkier, my posture more poised, my skin clearer, my confidence higher, my grades better, my nose smaller, my thighs thinner…” and on and on and on…
It’s a relentless barrage of ‘if onlys’ which many girls start to digest from an early age becoming so full of self-doubt and self-hate and self-consciousness that they feel like bursting or cracking or choking or hiding.
We all know girls that have succumbed to the above list in one form or another, and the saddest part is that our society is hell bent on reinforcing the ‘if only’ mentality, praying on our prediliction to feel shame over pride.
Images of how our lives could be better ‘if only’ we bought these clothes, or that make-up, or subscribed to that magazine, or sprayed that perfume, or dated that boy, or lost that weight, are shoved down our throats incessantly. Girls are being fed on a diet of inadequacies, supplied by companies recently in the media, like Abercrombie & Fitch, Victoria’s Secret and Disney to name a few.
These corporations, with such great sway, choose to promote a warped mirror to women and men alike – offering reduced, dumbed down, one size fits all versions of ourselves. It’s tragic really, when they have the opportunity to reflect the wonderful truth to women of all ages – that we are dimensional, complex, diverse, beautiful – as is.
If only someone would teach us to believe that…
It took me many years and corrective surgery to overcome my insecurities about my ‘defective’ eyes and my chunky glasses. Ironically I am now the epitome of geek chic. What I wasn’t factoring on was the onset of vitiligo when I was in my early thirties – a skin condition, affecting thousands globally, which results in the loss of pigment from random places on your face and body. I look like an atlas, mapped with islands of white, my skin an ever-changing patchwork of pigment.
Vitiligo is an autoimmune disorder that has always fascinated me because in autoimmune disease the body essentially turns on itself. The immune system mistakes healthy cells as the enemy and launches an attack. And I wonder if that is in fact what our society and media and advertising has subliminally encouraged women to do, disguised as self improvement, enhancement, entertainment?
Have we been brainwashed to ‘battle’ ourselves – to turn away from self-love towards self-hate?
Are men being influenced also? Consider the statistics of violence against women. This is a bigger, complicated picture and I am merely examining fragments of a broken mirror here, but surely it is worth our reflection?
And as for me. I’m over it. I still have wonky eyes and thick glasses and patterned skin that draws unwanted attention and occasional questions, but I’m healthy otherwise. I embrace my quirks, my unique aspects of self. My issues are ‘cosmetic’ but we’ve been conditioned to allow ‘cosmetic’ to win.
I want to wage another war – a war against this absurdity. And I want to wage it peacefully by offering up thinking points and a compassionate dialogue. I’m raising a boy and a girl, and I know that one size does not fit all. They both need to be part of this movement.
We all do.
If only shmonly…
If you are interested in exploring more of the issues I have raised here, visit www.missrepresentation.org and join the conversation!
TEN MINUTE PROMPT!
Where do the words ‘if only’ take you? Explore the paths you travel and pause to consider what needs challenging?
I’d love to hear your responses to this post or your responses to the prompt. Let them go. Here. Now.
Here’s thanks for reading and hopes for writing!
This is what I know. When we think too much about something it becomes overbaked. Mushy. Charred. Over thinking contaminates the dress-up box that is our right brain. Over thinking can apply the brakes to our creativity with an ear piercing screech.
Writing can be taught but it doesn’t sing until it is FELT.
Thinking too much dislocates us from the creative surge and veers us away from running through the sprinklers on the page.
Have you ever watched a child lost in the zone of imaginative play? The kind of play where tables have names and ears and claws, and pillows are robots and princesses and trolls? The kind of play where a butterfly has tea with a tiny plastic puppy, before joining forces to climb a mountain of marshmallows and sliced peaches, so together they can conquer the cloud rats?
The kind of play we are conditioned to avoid as adults for fear of looking silly, or weird, or childish – a word that we have sadly hijacked and turned into an insult.
“Don’t be so childish…”
I herby declare that being described as childish should be re-imagined as a compliment of the highest order.
Children are straight talkers. Straight feelers. Wild players. Children are excellent role models for occupying the moment. Dancing in the moment. Expanding the moment. Eating up an ordinary moment because it suddenly appears delicious.
In my writing workshops I give grown-ups the permission to play. I offer opportunities and I sit back and marvel at the energy shift in the room. Laughter erupts. Inner critics are squashed like rubber whoopee cushions flattened by the collective butts of creative freedom.
Voices, previously hushed and cautious, are discovered and released. Translucent word bubbles float from pen to pen, heart to heart, wand to wand. Truths told. Hurts heard and healed.
When we stop thinking about writing and start feeling, we allow our words to channel the essence of the child within. Unfiltered. Messy. Pure.
So “Be childish!” Press pause on your think button. Run through the sprinklers in the park and on the page! Climb the marshmallow mountain!
I’ll be at the top, eating peaches, ready to welcome you….
WITING PROMPT – TEN MINUTES OR LESS!
Be childish now. Write without thinking. Make up a crazy poem or character or a stream of irresistible nonsense. Turn down your adult.
Write about running through sprinklers – experiment with different points of view – first person and third person. Be playful with your adjectives. Bring us into the moment with you…
There is a garden that I pass in my neighbourhood when I walk with Lilly in the mornings. It is a desert garden, punctuated with muted greens, spiky leaves, bursts of yellow and purple, and an array of thorny cacti.
The garden appears on my walk like an oasis. A colourful reef that I want to examine and explore. I am especially enamoured by the landscape because all of these plants grow so beautifully, creating such a magical palette, with very little water.
They grow with a determination – a courage to flourish in spite of being dry.
They grow all year round and serve as a potent reminder to me when I am feeling discouraged, or lazy, or rejected, or low. When I am reading the news and feeling baffled and sad and hopeless. When I am attempting to show an optimistic face to my kids, even though my son’s capacity to navigate three screens (small, medium, large) at any given moment makes me want to wilt. Like a plant with no water. Shrivel. Like a flower without light.
It is at these times that I need to experience that desert garden. In person. Not flashed up as an image to ‘Like’ on Instagram. Not blogged or emailed or linked. I need to feel the texture of those thick flat leaves bewteen my fingertips. I need to lean in closely and investigate the elegant formation of a delicate petal, press my flesh into the point of a cactus needle. I need to pause. Beside the garden.
And see. And touch. And smell and listen.
If I could, I would invite each and every one of you reading these words to meet me on the corner, so we could gather together and be reminded that growth can still occur in the most unforeseen circumstances. Meaning can blossom. Love can unfurl. Words can be harvested from drought.
But I’m not so sure how my neighbour would feel about that (I might put a note through their door first!)
So for now – let’s gather here at Write To Be You. Let’s hold out a hand to one another in the form of a story. Let’s prove that healing words can grow from concrete and parched soil. From pavements and dumpsters. From listlessness and doubt.
Our words are seeds. As long as we can share stories – the human spirit will sprout and bloom and our hearts and souls will never be malnourished.
It’s been a while since I’ve posted a prompt. I hope you are still with me. Still reading. Still writing. Take a few minutes and share a story today. Write about finding something hopeful where you least expected it or write about a garden that is special to you.
In the weeks to come I will be developing a ‘Tell Us A Story’ feature where I will share other people’s stories in the main body of the blog. Body of the blog – sounds like a horror film, but I know it will be quite the opposite – it will be pure joy!
Today I’m excited to be visiting another blogger and new found friend, Melissa Fu, over at her lovely site, One Tree Bohemia. Melissa is a wonderfully insightful writer and she interviewed me about my novel, Playing Along, and about Write To Be You. I enjoyed having a virtual cup of tea with her and I hope she will be visiting me in return. Melissa is an American living in the UK, and I am a Londoner living in LA – so we have much in common!
Also, Playing Along, is FREE on KINDLE today – Wednesday 20th March and tomorrow, Thursday 21st March. If you haven’t yet downloaded a copy or would like to tell a friend or two – please do! Share the George and Lexi love! Click HERE to download
And now, please join me with a cuppa as I chat to Melissa … Click HERE for the interview.
Ten minute writing prompt!! If you could sit and have a chat and a cup of tea with anyone – dead or alive – who would it be? What would you ask? Grab the details of the moment – how might you feel? What would you hear? Taste? Smell? See? Share your findings in the comments!
I’ve never abseiled off the side of a building or walked a tightrope, but I’ve bared my soul in writing and thrown it with abandon into the world. I’ve taken emotional risks with my words that can feel as petrifying and as dangerous as taking similar risks with my body.
And I’ve survived.
I’m privileged to watch people in my workshops week in and week out access the deep courage it requires to take those very same risks. To become vulnerable. To try things out. To expose their fears of shame and failure.
Why is writing so terrifying? In this post from last year, I begin to unpack that question. I would love to hear your thoughts on the subject when you have finished reading…
Enjoy GET IT WRITE
“I’m interested in doing your workshop but the idea of writing intimidates me…”
I’ve heard this often. It seems the very act of picking up a pen and relaying thoughts and feelings can become burly & threatening, like a school bully who syphons power by frightening others. Sadly, very often that ‘bully’ has been frightened themselves and when they can access help or understanding, there is the potential to deactivate the charge.
So how do we make sense of why the idea of writing is scaring so many people?
Here lies my answer. For many years, traditional western education has hijacked writing and twisted it into something unnecessarily menacing. Something that needs to be done ‘correctly’. Something that will result in a mark or grade that is judged by an outsider – a source of authority. This leaves very little room to embrace the wayward and unruly workings of our human minds. This leaves absolutely no room to celebrate unconventional structures such as:
Outside. Bounce. Bounce. That ball doesn’t never ever stop. STOP. bounce. Bounce. In my brain. Slam dunking my words away from the train of thought I am riding. With my head out the window. Like a dog. Sniffing. Ears flapping, listening. Absorbing worlds of. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.
In recent years the foundations have been shifting, but in 1979 that wouldn’t have earned me an ‘A’ anywhere, especially not in England. In my early education, creativity was shackled with strict limitations. Apparently we were only allowed to light up the right side of our brains (the creative centre) in nursery school or art class. Even then I have recollections of the teacher removing the brush from my hand and painting over my canvas, in a concerted effort to show me how to ‘improve’.
It’s not a shocker that twenty or thirty years later many people cower from the prospect of trying something just for the hell of it. Letting words out of the enclosure. Giving sentences permission to roam lawlessly. To soar high. To float gently.
In reality, it is not the act of writing that scares us but the external judge, who currently occupies our inner landscapes, ruling the domain with unmerciful glee.
What do I say to those prospective participants – the ones who are drawn towards the workshops but who feel intimidated?
Face the bully!
Straighten your shoulders!
Stick your tongue out!
Hold up a shameless finger and kick the gate open!
There are acres of gorgeous ground to cover. Wasted wooly woodlands filled with creative possibility. Magical truth tunnels. Whispering story trees. And the written word is waiting to lead you on your own guided tour.
So don’t write to please ‘them’ – they have their own issues to tackle. Don’t try and get it ‘right’ because ‘right’ is a moveable feast.
The solution is delightfully simple.
You guessed it… Write To Be You.
Start here! Start Now! Share a spontaneous response to this post. Can be anything… a personal account, a fictional story, a tangled net of words. Share anonymously if that feels safer. Work up to declaring your name. Reinvent or reconnect. Find freedom through your words…