Discernment and the absence of dinosaurs

There’s a quote in Eric Maisel’s Fearless Creating (Tarcher, 1995) that I turn to often: “You choose to do something challenging not because you expect a worry-free experience but because you want the experience so badly that you accept beforehand the new anxieties you are about to encounter.”

Recently I’ve been pondering the prospect of attending Swanwick Writers’ Summer School again this year. In brief, I’ve decided against. I will be sorry to miss poet Roy McFarlane’s new four-part course, and there are several other tasty offerings but… much as the necessity to do so frustrates me, I need to factor in the “local conditions”. These include public transport stress, inevitable social overwhelm, the likelihood of frequent hunger on account of the insufficient and inadequate (from a vegan perspective) food provision, and poor sleep; all contributing to mental, emotional and physical exhaustion. Last year I was excited to go. This year there’s not enough of a pull to offset the risk of a meltdown/shutdown. I’ll consider it again next year. For now, I have other fish to fry (beans to boil?).

After an epic bout of Olympic-standard over-thinking, I decided to raid my savings and enrol in Art2Life‘s 3-month Creative Visionary Program. That’s an encounter with impostor-syndrome right there! Creative Visionary?! Who am I kidding? I like to sketch in a half-arsed, don’t-know-what-I’m-doing kind of way. There are serious artists on this course! But I think that’s part of the appeal: to do something I enjoy without the pressure of expecting myself to be any good at it. This week we have been making inspiration boards. Mine is all birds, books, and blue, tea, swimming and the sea. I feel buoyant when I look at it. And yet, as it was nearing completion, I was struck by grief for the things I hadn’t the space to include. Where are the walks in the woods? Where are all the flowers? Where, I ask you, are the crocheted dinosaurs? Of course, I could make a second board for these and other things. I remind myself that my inspiration board is not actually a lifeboat on the Titanic (and yet, and yet… the way “things” are…). I sat with the sadness a while and contemplated this middle-aged species of discernment: it pains me that there is not “world enough, and time” to immerse myself in all the things that might hold my attention. I must choose.

In between years

This disconcerting inter-tidal zone between the end of one year and the beginning of the next might be custom-made for auditing my greater and lesser failings, for using the scourge of “not enough” upon myself. I suspect mine is not the only household to observe this custom: finish up the Christmas goodies, welcome in the New Year with Jools Holland, hang anxiously upon the minute-hand and perform a thorough character assassination before extorting a panicked vow to be less lacklustre henceforth.

Not that I am one for resolutions: I resolve nothing. But. This year Michelle Lloyd from United ArtSpace persuaded me to take part in her Best Year Yet fortnight. It’s early days but so far I have drawn up an alarming mind-map of both sensible, achievable goals and awesome ridiculous ones, and have reflected upon the year just gone. And I must concede that 2021 was a year that “counts”: it was rich in challenges, most of which I rose to (with more stumbling and swearing than grace and aplomb, but never mind).

Some significant milestones:
I was awarded four months of poetry mentoring with Pascale Petit (no less!) by Dialect, by the end of which I had completed a pamphlet and undergone a sea-change in how I think and feel towards my poetry and what is possible for it.
I took part in various poetry workshops and classes (with Dialect, for NaPoWriMo, and with the the Poetry School) via Zoom.
I sent two pieces of work to Stroud Short Stories: one made the shortlist; I recorded the other for their event on YouTube.
I attended Swanwick Writers’ Summer School for the first time.

And, at the risk of turning this into an Oscars acceptance speech, here are some people without whom….
Juliette Morton, of Dialect – for awarding me a poetry mentorship and for getting me to do things I thought were beyond me (breakout groups on Zoom; sharing works in progress …)
Pascale Petit – for all-round mentoring excellence and for not letting me settle for “good, but not special”.
Michelle Lloyd, of United ArtSpace – whose free “Kickstart Your Art” program got me drawing again, whose “Motivational Mondays” on YouTube allow me to believe in possibility, and whose “7 Keys” course helped with focusing on the why and what of my poetry pamphlet, and continues to guide me in the practicalities of making and sharing my creative work.
Roy Mcfarlane – whose poetry class every morning during Swanwick week was a joy, and took my mind off the inescapable social and sensory overwhelm.
The good people of Litsy – for encouraging me to warble on about my bookish enthusiasms to my heart’s content; also for contributing towards building my TBR tower to near-blasphemous heights.

So there we have it! As for this year… excuse me a moment while I consult my mind-map: in the words of Octavia Butler “So be it. See to it.”

Words, hunger and overwhelm

There is always a ‘psycho’ on the train. Once, coming home from Exeter, I had the company of a chap who’d absconded after his rehab class (he had a tin of still-warm sausage rolls in his lap) and thus set off the ankle bracelet he was obliged to wear after committing GBH.

A fortnight ago, I got the train to Derby for Swanwick Writers’ Summer School. It was a Saturday morning in the school holidays: the train was full. Perhaps a third of the passengers were wearing masks. I spent the first ten minutes resisting the urge to run up and down the aisle shrieking ‘let me out!’ I calmed down enough to fish out my headphones for some quality time with Jeff Buckley: banging tunes, the voice of an exiled angel, and sufficient melodic interest to hold my attention. What I forgot to take into account is that when I am listening to songs (as opposed to ‘desk music’) I am on my feet, either doing cardio or pushing the hoover round etc. In other words, when I listen to songs, I move. Twenty minutes in, I opened my eyes to discover I was being stared at. A middle-aged woman, moving to music no-one else can hear. Must be a total psycho!

By the time I’d reached Swanwick and found my room at The Hayes, it was time for the Chairman’s Welcome. For the past eighteen months I have been in a household of three, only encountering the crowds during efficient raids on Tescos. Suddenly I was in a conference hall with 200 people and no social distancing and barely a face-covering to be seen. The demographic was (predictably enough) white, predemoninantly female, middle-aged and upwards (with a small cohort of millenials who’d won their places in writing competitions), and middle class. It would be interesting to learn how many of those present were hobby writers on holiday, and how many were professional writers doing CPD.

The opening event set the tone for the week. In the following days I began to suspect that an edict had been passed demanding that anyone seen sitting quietly alone had to be ‘engaged with’. I was neither lost nor lonely: I am an introvert with limited capacity for social interaction. I was doing my best to manage constant overwhelm. Everyone I met was great. Individually. Successively and en masse I began to view them as an ordeal.

Mealtimes in particular were a source of ongoing stress. I was looking forward to a week of not having to think about food for a change. I was not expecting to be hungry for much of the time. I’d been assured that a plant-based diet was catered for as standard. ‘Standard’ evidently includes hastily reheated leftovers (served with an apology) from the previous day. Half a small baked potato with a splash of passata, two broccoli florets and a spoonful of peas is apparently a ‘standard’ evening meal. I am a creature of energy and appetite: it was miserable!

I didn’t take part in the many social activities, partly through disinclination, partly through Covid-caution and partly through physical and emotional exhaustion. I did attend as many classes and workshops as was feasible. The highlights were Roy McFarlane’s four-part course Eliciting the Past, Present and Future Through Poetry and Della Galton’s hour-long session The Magic of Characterisation.  Roy’s approach focuses on ‘habit, habit, habit’ as the means to get poems written. To my delight, he even set homework! I wrote three new poems and came away with the seeds of several more. Those sessions were an absolute tonic: they were vibrant and inclusive and on the final day he gave us a fifteen-minute set. Mercy, can that man perform a poem!

Several times a day I asked myself if I would like to come back next year. Several times a day my answer changed. Back home, and after a few good dinners, I realise I appreciated my time at Swanwick more in retrospect than while I was actually there. Given a nicely full belly, less Covid-related anxiety, and not so much bombardment by the new, I would have the resources to appreciate it more. I might go so far as to actually enjoy myself! I think I would like to go back.