Writer as Hermit Crab by Sandra Horn

 

Funny old business, this writing lark. I never know when and how it’s going to take me. If only I could be one of those admirable people who have their writing days organised and keep office hours. I expect their workplaces are tidy too. Sigh. I saw a slogan on a t-shirt once – something about how necessary chaos is if one is to be the dancing star. Great-sounding rubbish.

I sometimes wonder how productive I might have been if I’d had the capacity for organisation, or even tidiness. Idle speculation. Lost cause. The writing I’ve been most pleased with has come, not from study but chance. A place, an event, a passing thought, a memory, and something drops into my brain from somewhere and a story or poem or play begins. As for writing to order – a brief, a theme for a submission, sometimes it sets off a spark and sometimes it’s a dead loss even when the topic seems appealing. I do struggle with it, I try, but can only produce dross which no amount of effort will make better.

I’ve never worked out what makes the difference between the Spark and the Dead Loss, although I now know that trying to work in a group setting is a DL. Once, I went on a poetry-writing weekend with a heart full of hope. It was run by a bunch of what appeared to be like-minded people and they had even published one of my poems in their magazine. Yay! They were quite welcoming but had obviously all known each other for 100 years. I felt the thing I dread most: an outsider. I could hardly pick up a pen to write the exercises, never mind produce anything worthwhile. Reading what we’d written out loud was torture – I usually managed about 4 limp lines whereas they were all coming up with accomplished work. Finally, I ground to a complete halt when a guest facilitator introduced herself, proudly, as a tabloid journalist and invited us to write about something personal. We had 15 minutes to produce something and at the end when we were sharing, all I could say was ’I’m afraid I don’t have anything.’  At the end of each day we were invited to read out work we already had. On day one I read ‘On the Ferry’ which is about being in an old body but feeling full of life and hope. It was received politely. On the next, final, day I went for broke and read a short and silly poem about an unripe avocado. It sat very badly amongst the other works, which were all serious – and good. I left to a chorus of invitations to come to the longer summer school, but I knew I would never go back.

I went to Charney Manor once and I did manage to complete quite a lot of a novel I’ve never yet finished by dint of shutting myself away in my room except for tea and coffee breaks and meals and the evening get-together, missing all the other social times. I’ve not been back. I have to face the fact that I’m a Lone Writer -- and a socially awkward misfit, which also hasn’t helped in the world of publishing. I can’t talk the talk. Hooray for online groups!  Nobody can see the muddle around me. If I make a clumsy comment, I can erase it and start again and no-one will be any the wiser. No-one can see my happy/sad/disapproving face and I can’t see anyone else’s. Ha!

The stellar exception is my writing group, which has now been going for over 30 years. Two original members, including me, are still hanging in there. Valerie writes wonderful novels. Of the newer folk, Lisa writes historical fiction, Carol writes detective stories set in the New Forest, Jan writes for children and Penny is a poet. Here are some recent works: 

These days, I write poetry too. I happen to be in the centre, geographically, so the meetings are at my house. All I need do is put the kettle on and wait for the friendly faces to appear. I’m at home both literally and metaphorically. So, one morning a fortnight I stop being a crabby old hermit, come out of my shell, enjoy the sharing of writing and put in my five eggs’ worth.

This is from my latest, silly poems for children, about to go to press.

Bats

‘I’ve got bats in my belfry,’

The vicar said with a sigh,

‘They scare the congregation

When they swoop out of the sky.

They snatched the lady verger’s hat

And dropped it down the drain.

The wretched things will have to go,

They’re driving me insane!

The hymn books are all ruined

They’ve splattered them with faeces.’*

‘Yah!’ say the bats, ‘you can’t stop us –

We’re a protected species!

 It ain’t Shakespeare but I hope it’s giggleworthy. Nick Roberts created the cover and some absolutely delightful illustrations.