“Today, take twenty minutes to free write. And don’t think about what you’ll write. Just write.”
Well, having read the instructions for the course, I’m not sure if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I’ve taken that plunge into the deep waters, without considering the middle depths that splits this place from the comforting pull of the shallow end.
I’ll confess right now that I am editing a little as I go along. Twenty minutes of heading off into Lord knows where without looking back over your shoulder isn’t my style. I’m used to rules, order, cross checks and validation. I’m typing this into word to upload later, but to be honest, I’m happier building something in excel.
So why write?
Well, I feel limited by my profession. It’s not that it isn’t satisfying within its own bounds, but I am more than its bounds allow. So I set up a “me” space on wordpress and I wrote. A little. Mainly when on holiday. In between the time when I sit in my own space and “do my thing” and the day job, there are flashes on inspiration. Some even when I am constructing the formula in cell C1. But how to turn those flashes into something readable? Something worthy. Not worthy, I don’t really like the word. It conjures up images of long full skirts with high elasticated-waistbands. And sensible shoes. Although I am a fan of the latter. I hope to produce something that someone out there will enjoy, and maybe be inspired by.
It isn’t helped by the lack of “life experience”. I was lucky enough to have a happy up-bringing with loving parents, a good education and I made the most of that. I have a husband who loves me and we live a simple but comfortable existence.
So am I saying that art has to be created from adversity? My favourite pieces are in a minor key.
But as I sit here typing my thoughts as they appear, with a backdrop of Eno’s Ambient 1 (track 1 – a good timer), I fear that I will experience what Kazuo Ishiguro recently related in an interview publicising his latest book. In his youth he attended a writing course run by Malcolm Bradbury. The students had given up a year of their life to develop their literary muscles. Many had self-funded. They knew that they had not been able to fulfil their dream of professional writing because of constraints. Constraints placed upon them by work, or family, lack of space. How heart breaking for them to discover that, when presented with the blank canvas and the time to fill it, they had nothing to say.
What if that is me?
Eno track 1 has completed which means that I must stop in two minutes. I will re-read. I’m not so brave to publish blind, yet…