13 December 2004
To go
Can you write to order?
You're on a beach somewhere. In the back of your mind are the postcards - pithy, witty, amusing - that you should be writing to one or two chosen relatives or friends. Is it a burden?
I have a friend who is a very successful actor. (I mean he is successful at acting, not that he is famous or wealthy.) Just don't ask him to do a charade. He is instantly lost.
What about a CV or an application? Do you just sit down and do it, thinking it probably won't turn out too bad? And anyway, you can look over it later ... Or do you want every line to flow like pure spring melt water from the glacier of your crystalline imagination?
Writing is such hard work. When Greg and I are teaching, we often ask participants to write to order. We set tasks with titles - rather like the current Labyrinth creative writing competition - and insist on maximum lengths and, sometimes, even tone of voice. [This competition closed in early 2005.]
That's because we both think that learning is different from creating.
The purpose of these exercises is to illustrate and practice techniques, not to reveal the heart of your creativity or express the ineffable you.
But it can.
There have been some wonderful works written to extraordinary constraints. La Vie: mode d'emploi is a good example. The whole book is set around the activities and back stories of the residents of a single town house. The same author wrote a book - in French - without the letter e. He called it La Disparition, which means 'the disappearance' or 'the death', both of which have a letter e. How would you have translated it?
And following a recent class, Greg asked for pieces about loss or departure. Here's a lovely text by Clare Etienne:
I awoke to my shoulder being shaken.
'Anancy,' Mama whispered. 'It is time to go.'
With my body trembling, I cautiously got out of bed.
Without a noise I followed her to the door, and then slowly out of our home. I knew that this would be the last time I would see it.
The moon had failed to appear, so the night was a dark and the air was still with anticipation. But when I looked carefully, I could see many, many people moving noiselessly, away from the village and towards the trees.
It was definitely time to go.
Since the rebels had arrived, with their guns held high above their heads and their harsh voices frightening and mocking us, I knew that we had to leave. The question now was, to where?
Mama's hand tightly gripped mine and I could feel the roughness of her skin from years of water carrying, ploughing and living. It made my hand feel safe, but I knew that my soul wasn't.
People were like silhouettes against the shadows, their head bowed and their faces hidden. They were all carrying everything that they now owned. Pots, pans, clothes, food, all their possessions in their hands.
Mama had Buumi on her back, she had used her favourite sling, it was brightly coloured with crimson and gold's. I couldn't see it in the darkness, but I knew that it was there.
The pain of leaving was overwhelming; it felt, as my legs were not strong enough to carrying me. The ground was rough underneath my feet, and I stumbled slightly as I steeped on a small stone. Mama smiled down at me warmly and I wanted to cry.
'Stop,' I told myself, 'Opitka people are strong people. We are strong in our souls, in our heads and in our hearts.'
I lifted my head up and began to walk once more.
Labyrinth to go, anyone?
