The Art of Writing

Last week I wrote about the importance of slowing down at this time of year and allowing ourselves time for some rest and rejuvenation. And one of my favourite ways to do this is by writing. The act of writing requires us to slow down, think and reflect. It’s not a process to be hurried.

Writing lists, reflecting in a journal or even writing letters are all great ways to slow down and step away from the hustle and bustle. Some people like to take themselves off to a favourite café to write, although I have found that’s not for me. I find it difficult to write when there are other people around. I’m too easily distracted and find that people watching takes over from writing and then I’m more likely to start sketching them. But I do like to set aside ten minutes or so during the day when I won’t be disturbed, either to compile a list of the day’s activities, maybe jot down some random thoughts in my diary, or sometimes to start some notes for my next Substack post.

Of course, as artists we need to be able to write concisely to talk about our art, whether that is with potential buyers, other artists or curators. We need words on our websites and social media posts that offer some insight or explanation for our thought processes. Maybe we send out regular newsletters or write blogposts to inform as well as entertain our followers. And of course, there are the dreaded artists statements. Creating the art is not enough, we also need to be able to tell our story. And it would be foolhardy to think we can just sit down and do it, having the words we need readily to hand, because just like any other creative act, writing is something we need to cultivate and practise.

I know that some people like to write in journals, and the beauty of this is that it can be a private space that you do not have to share, a place to explore inner most thoughts and ideas. Many years ago, I tried to follow the advice in The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, which advises setting aside time first thing each morning to write three pages of handwritten stream of consciousness. I lasted about six days. I hated it! It felt forced and contrived and the more I tried to let it become a stream of consciousness the more I found myself thinking about what I should write. Mostly I wrote about how much my hand ached! And most days I didn’t want to write first thing in the morning anyway. I wanted to get out in the fresh air and walk, because that’s where most of my stream of consciousness takes place – in my head as I move. Some of it comes back to me later as a good idea (or not as the case may be) but most thoughts leave my head as quickly as they come in! That’s how I like to start my day.

But I do write all the time, in various notebooks for different things, occasionally poetry (which I’ve never been brave enough to share yet), sometimes a short story and I have even adapted a pantomime in the past, but usually it’s just a few random thoughts here and there on something that might have caught my interest and every week here on my laptop where I have a different document created for each topic that comes to mind, some which may never see the light of day but others become these weekly missives. Having started a blog back in 2007 my writing is definitely something I like to share and I think it helps me find my creative voice to let my thoughts spill out loud onto the page. I write about things I hear on the radio, or in podcasts, about books I have read or exhibitions I have seen, places I have visited and things that I have been doing, random thoughts, observations and ideas. And like everything we do, the more I do it, the easier it becomes.

But at this time of year, I like to write letters. In an ideal world I would like to write a short letter in every Christmas card I send out, especially to friends and family we haven’t managed to see throughout the year, but of course the world isn’t ideal. But I do try to hand write a couple of sentences to let people know we are thinking of them.

However, over the past couple of years one of my favourite things to write have been letters from Father Christmas to my eldest grandson, inspired by the wonderful book called “Letters from Father Christmas” by J. R. R. Tolkien. For over twenty years Tolkien would write a letter to his children from Father Christmas, starting in 1920 when his eldest son was just three years old. Written in spidery handwriting (Father Christmas is very old you know!) and illustrated with little coloured drawings they told tales of the accident-prone polar bear, a troublesome herd of goblins and stories like when all the reindeer got loose and scattered the presents all over the place. They are absolutely enchanting, and the book is a delight from start to finish with actual copies as well as transcripts of each of the letters. It was my favourite Christmas present to myself a couple of years ago and I can recommend it even if you don’t have your own children or grandchildren to write letters to.

Logan will be seven in a few weeks, and I do wonder how many more years I can get away with sending him a letter (the first time even his mum wasn’t sure who had sent it) but I shall keep going for as long as I can get away with it, preserving the special Christmas magic. This year three more of our grandchildren turned three so they will also get their own letters from Father Christmas and I look forward to a couple of happy afternoons spent wring and illustrating letters on behalf of Santa and his team.

I also mentioned the work of Beth Kempton last week and something Beth does on a fairly regular basis is host writing workshops. These are two weeks of daily inspiration and prompts linked to the season to get you writing. You can write as much or as little as you wish and there is no obligation other than to yourself. There is no commitment to write every day, although it is encouraged and there is no need to share what you have written with anyone else if you don’t wish. And what’s more they are completely free. I have done these workshops with Beth on several occasions at different times of year and have always found them inspiring. Every time they have led to at least one piece of writing that I have been happy to share. This year she is hosting a Winter Writing Sanctuary that starts after Christmas on 28^th December in that lull before new year, the perfect time to sit down quietly for some well earned rest. If you click the link below it will take you to sign up.

A few years ago, on one of these workshops with Beth we were given a task to write about a winter memory from our childhood. So this week I leave you with a wintery true story from when I was about 12 years old. It is one I have shared before on my old blog, but I make no apologies if you have read it before because it still makes me smile. I hope it brings a smile to your day too!

Rum and Black – A Winter’s Tale

It was one of those winters of memory, where you always wake to a world of muffled silence, cloaked in a blanket of snow. Of course, most winters were not like that, and just like the endless hot balmy summers we also recalled from our youth, they were merely imagined memories, given rose tinted spectacles with the passage of time.

But this particular Christmas we really did wake to find there had been a heavy snowfall during the night. It was a late start with the adults weary from the celebrations of the evening before but us children couldn’t wait to get outside. Donning hats, mittens, scarves and boots we wrapped up ready to go and play in our quiet road.  The overnight snowfall had been so heavy it was unlikely there would be any cars.

Snowballs were hurled, landing on our necks sending trickles of icy water down our backs as we shrieked in mock outrage. Snowmen were built as we rolled huge balls up and down the street, gathering layers of clinging wet snow speckled with grit. We lay on the fresh unspoilt snow in the front gardens making ‘angels’ with our arms and legs. We played for what seemed like hours, until our ears and noses were tingling and our fingers became so numb, we could no longer feel them encased in their mittens coated with clinging clumps of ice.

Back inside our wet outer garments were discarded, leaving puddles on the floor with soggy damp wool draped over heaters to dry, and my Mum boiled up a kettle to make us hot blackcurrant drinks to warm us up. As we sipped the steaming hot mugs of blackcurrant cordial there were cries of disgust.

“This tastes really strange, yuk!”,

“It’s horrid”,

“There’s not enough Ribena in this, you’ve made it too weak”

Mum emptied the bottle, adding extra cordial to our drinks attempting to improve the flavour but it didn’t help much. It became sweeter but still tasted very strange.

And then my uncle Dave, ex merchant navy, appeared, taking in the scene of complaining children with their hot drinks and realisation dawned.

“You didn’t use that half bottle of blackcurrant I left on the sideboard, did you?” He asked my mother.

“Yes, thought it best to use that before opening the new bottle.”

“Ah right… I mixed that with my rum last night!”

Fortunately, none of us had drunk more than a sip or two as we didn’t actually like the hot rum and black, but the story was told for many years with youthful bravado and exaggeration about the time us cousins all got drunk on uncle Dave’s rum!