The George Inn, Southwark
Had a wonderful Monday evening talking shop with Ros Barber, Jane Draycott and Jenny Lewis at The George, Southwark. The third meeting of the Medieval-Renaissance Women’s Drinking Society. To be honest, not much drinking goes on since we all have to manage work and (extended) families but the talking is wonderful. We’re at various stages of reworking texts written by long-dead men. Jane’s translation of Pearl is out there and has been reprinted; Ros’s The Marlowe Papers is out next year; mine, Jenny’s and Jay’s (the wonderful Jay Bernard) are still in progress.
Jane talked eloquently about the difficulties of positioning yourself in relation to the original text: do you sit behind it, beside it? How much of your own voice and how much of theirs. She was talking about translation but it’s relevant to any form of rewriting. It made so much sense to me. And we both talked about taking on a strong male voice and the challenges it posed. I came away feeling invigorated and ready to take the scarey step of pasting all the polished pieces into a file called ‘Fragments’. Still too superstitious to give it a final name. Roving Mic is still the working title…
Talking of talking heads, I’ve started working on the Monk’s Tale which is not one story but 19 stories following a monotonous tragic trajectory. Not a great read and, like my version of The Parson’s Tale, decided to create an overriding narrative. It’s in its early stages and in prose and I seriously need to revisit some Alan Bennett. In the Summer I bought both the Talking Heads book and CD and spent a couple of weeks completely immersed in both. Stunning stuff, clever, witty, moving and more risque than I imagined. It reminded me that to simulate speech you can get away with leaving a lot of words unsaid. Reminded me that speech leaves a lot unsaid.
If poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all’ – John Keats. Discuss
Just over a week ago I had the pleasure to read at Keats House in Hampstead. It was the final event of Benjamin Zephaniah’s residency, and especially inspiring to hear young people perform their work so confidently. After the wow factor of the stunning gardens, I entered the house and the first thing to catch my eye was the postcard declaming the archetypal Romantic stance on creativity: poetry should flow freely, and if forced, doesn’t have the right to exist. Until now, I’ve found the quotation rather suspect and believed it the source of volumes of dreadful unedited drivel claiming to be divinely inspired. I still challenge the notion that the first draft is the best draft and strongly believe in drafting, grafting and crafting. But in that moment I wanted to take that postcard and pin it to my computer monitor so that every time I sat down to write I’d be reminded that it shouldn’t feel like ‘shovelling coal’ to quote one of my own poems.
The past few months have taught me the value of writing ‘horizontally’ rather than ‘vertically’. This means writing several first drafts one after the other so that I have a string of titles rather than drafting, grafting and crafting one piece at a time. Since my ‘retreat’ I’ve attempted to get into periods of drafting only, so that Iwrite more quickly and the ideas flow fast and free. When I have three or four raw pieces I then decide to take them onto the next level i.e. I put on my editing head. It’s liberating. It also means you have a distance on the drafts so when you return to them you’ve had a month or more away and can view them more objectively.
Now some reading this might say, that’s how I’ve always worked, and that’s certainly how I used to work but as I got more page-obsessed I changed my practice. It’s lead to writer’s block and at times, painfully slow progress. It’s amazing what you can do when you just let the ideas come out. An extreme example of this happens to me every morning about 8am when I step into the shower. I almost always have a creative insight. However, since the clocks went back, I’ve been a bit out of sync which makes me question whether the magic has nothing to do with the shower and everything to do with the hour. I’ve also noticed that since British Summertime ended I have the serious urge to hibernate. The poetry’s not coming as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it feels more like the leaves falling off a tree. ..But one thing I do know, if it’s like shovelling coal at first draft stage, there’s something wrong with the fundamental idea. I only flow when the idea’s fully formed. No more spending three months on one poem. The first draft should take a matter of hours…