“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.
“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
Yesterday marked the 200th day of lockdowns in Melbourne since the beginning of the pandemic. The solitude of lockdown has a rhythm, and despite the shrinking of our worlds to 5km life goes on. It is surprising how much still happens.
I wake at 5am to a dark silence interrupted only by the occasional sound of snoring from the great yellow hound languishing on my bed.
I suppose I will have to make the coffee again, I think. Sometimes I say it out loud and wonder how I might teach the dog to do the task. Though, I suspect even if Harper knew how, I would still be the morning barista as I would lose patience with her indolence before she with mine.
I make coffee and breakfast. Chicken and vegetables for the dog, muesli, yoghurt and an orange or tangelo plucked from my tree the day prior for me. I climb back into bed with my hoard (the dog will have to get up for hers).
My plan is always to write, but often I become lost in news stories about COVID, vaccines, politics and the destruction of the planet, or find myself falling blindly down some social media rabbit hole. My morbid fascination with all this unpleasantness so early in the morning confounds me. Though perhaps it is not so surprising considering some of my reading as reflected in my book reviews. My father keeps suggesting Thomas Hardy and Jane Austin to cure my macabre tastes in literature.
It is hard to know whether my staccato concentration is a consequence of social media or COVID brain, but I often become frustrated by it and apply additional effort to focus my concentration, congratulating myself for putting pen to paper and bleeding ink across the page (or screen), even if it is only 200 words. This blog generates a rigid moment of writing discipline each week that I am grateful for having imposed on myself, as even in my laziest writing periods this weekly ritual keeps me engaged.
Mornings are the most precious part of my day. They seem to me always to be filled with hope.
I leave the house with the dog just before dawn. The first kilometre of our morning sojourn traverses a quiet road running up a north-south ridge. To my left I catch glimpses of the sky burning shades of yellow, orange, pink and red from the sun rising behind the mountains to the east. I spy the occasional ringtail possum crouching in a tree as if enjoying the event. To my right, the blinking lights of Melbourne gradually fade as the sky brightens. I am transported along this enchanted path by the morning chorus as it shifts and swells and rolls with the growing illumination. I am absorbed and in awe of the beauty around me.
Away from the stories of pestilence, conflict and climate change it is easy to find great pleasure and meaning in the small things of life. An emerging flower augers the coming spring, the pure joy on my dog’s face as she wallows in the muddy waters of the Yarra and explores the bushland, the sight of Tawny Frogmouths roosting high up in a eucalypt. The ninety minute walk is a fortifying elixir and the most precious part of my day.
There was something about listening to the audiobook of Wolfe Island whilst I worked in my own bubble in my vegetable garden – weeding, harvesting, fertilising, mulching, planting – the attention to detail those tasks demand slows time. The activity threw me deeper into a novel that I’m sure I would have been enthralled by anyway, and submerged me into the melancholic world of Kitty Hawke.
Kitty is a resilient and resourceful woman of fortitude, and the last human inhabitant of Wolfe Island, which is being devoured by the rising sea. She lives a solitary, creative existence with her wolfdog, Girl, and makes art from found objects that she sells to the mainland. Kitty and Girl both come across as half wild and half domesticated, each lends the other a strength that is fortified by the Waterman giant talisman statues Kitty constructed from found objects to protect the island.
It was exhausting being around people and noticing them, thinking about them. I felt roughened and coarse now, as if I was rubbing against the grain of Wolfe Island. It used to be that I could forget myself and be, spend hours in the marshes watching the tides and the grasses, birds walking over my feet. I’d been still so long, listening to the unintelligible wind, I was part of it then, and insignificant. I missed that. The writing helped a little.
Kitty is drawn to reconnect with the outside world when her granddaughter arrives with some friends who are in danger because of their status as climate refugees. On the mainland climate refugees are ‘runners’ and vigilante ‘hunters’ chase them down and kill them. Gradually the young people let her into their troubles and she connects with them, eventually their cause becoming hers. When the island ceases to be a refuge for the runners, the group set off seeking safety in the north.
The islands were worlds and you didn’t move lightly from one to the other, and people’s way of speaking wasn’t quite the same from one island to the next. If we ran into each other on the main – a no-man’s-land to us – we saw our resemblance to each other, and heard our own foreignness in each other’s voices and prickled up and felt the eyes of people on us, assessing us for threat in the same way that we did them, resenting them for it and feeling their resentment toward us.
Lucy Treloar’s first novel Salt Creek won the Matt Richell Award for a New Writer, the Dobbie Literary Award and the Indies Award for Debut Fiction. It was also shortlisted for the Walter Scott Prize for Historical Fiction, the Miles Franklin Literary Award, and the Readings Prize for New Australian Fiction 2016. Wolfe Island is deserving of its own accolades and I’ll watch with interest to see how it goes.
I say, ‘Girl, Girl,’ and she comes to me like a myth, her coat sleeked smooth, her tail back out. She is in a line, a ripple through the long grass, and butterflies and hoppers rise in her wake, lifting like spume and catching the light. She passes me by with a rush of wind and her sweet wolf scent, leading the way to anything.
Wolfe Island is a slow, lyrical lament on the state of the world in the grip of climate change, and the subtlety with which Treloar brings you to realise you are in a very near dystopian future is a little alarming. The novel is written in three parts – the island, the journey and return home, each revealing a different lense on a climate impacted world and Kitty’s relationship with her family, her place in the world and herself. Oh, not to forget her wolfdog, Girl, I’m a sucker for a novel with a dog as girls best friend…now I must go and turn that pumpkin I picked into soup.
Adelaide Writers Week (#AdlWW) remains one of the best writers festivals I’ve attended. Year after year it doesn’t disappoint, and attendance is free. This year showcased a lot more non-fiction than fiction and it was an intellectual feast.
My plane landed at 3pm last Sunday and I got to #AdlWW in time for the Adelaide Festival Awards for Literature. If you want to get your reading groove on with some award winners keep an eye out for these:
Children’s Literature Award and Premiers Award – Nevermoor: The Trials of Morrigan Crow by Jessica Townsend (Hachette Australia) – An enchanting series by debut Australian author Jessica Townsend, about a cursed girl who escapes death and finds herself in a magical world, but is then tested beyond her wildest imagination.
Young Adult Fiction Award – Small Spaces by Sarah Epstein (Walker Books Australia). Tash Carmody has been traumatised since childhood when she witnessed her gruesome imaginary friend Sparrow lure young Mallory Fisher away from a carnival.
Fiction Award – The Death of Noah Glass by Gail Jones (The Text Publishing Company)The art historian Noah Glass, having just returned from a trip to Sicily, is discovered floating face down in the swimming pool at his Sydney apartment block. But a sculpture has gone missing from a museum in Palermo, and Noah is a suspect. The police are investigating.
John Bray Poetry Award – Archival-Poetics by Natalie Harkin (Vagabond Press) – an embodied reckoning with the State’s colonial archive and those traumatic, contested and buried episodes of history that inevitably return to haunt.
Non Fiction Award – The Bible in Australia: A cultural history byMeredith Lake (NewSouth Publishing) explores how in the hands of Bible-bashers, immigrants, suffragists, evangelists, unionists, writers, artists and Indigenous Australians, the Bible has played a contested but defining role in Australia.
After four and a half days of listening to many fabulous writers, here are some snippets from the ones that most captured my attention:
Fiction writers I really enjoyed listening to included Charlotte Wood (The Weekend); Tash Aw (We, the Survivors); Alice Robinson (The Glad Shout); Lucy Treloar (Wolfe Island); Felicity McLean (The Van Appel Girls are Gone); and Michael Robotham (Good Girl, Bad Girl).
The imagination is so private, fiction writers worry about what people think about what’s coming out of our heads… you don’t want to be Andrew Bolt but you don’t want to self sensor before you put words on the page…if you have some talent you are obliged to use it.
Meredith Lake, author of The Bible in Australia had a discussion with Christos Tsiolkas, fiction author of Damascus and Tim Costello author of memoir A Lot with a Little (Christianity’s Crossroads) on ethics and the culture of Christianity at a time when faith is in decline and church institutions have been in crisis. The three interpret the words in the bible in a way that is a world away from the likes of Israel Falou and the cherry picked words that spill from the venomous mouths of the more conservative religious leaders. Their interpretations speak of tolerance and justice and equality and attempt to grapple with the contradictions of faith, including the weaponisation of the bible and the churches as custodians of as much evil as good in Australia’s history. The discussion was far reaching across subjects such as Indigenous and LGBTI rights, child sexual abuse, refugees, science and climate change and was one of the most thought provoking discussions I have heard in some time, which is saying something for a secular non-believer.
I want the best of faith to defeat the worst of religion
Ross Garnaut author of Superpower: Australia’s Low Carbon Opportunity had a conversationwithTim Flannery author of Life Selected Writings on climate change. Garnaut pointed out there was a brief optimistic moment in 2007-08 when all Australian governments were behind a positive climate policy move. This ended when Abbott wrested power from Turnbull then got rid of the climate council and carbon pricing and set about discrediting the science.
In 2016 a cyclonic weather event had a significant impact on South Australia’s power supply after destroying some pylons that were in the main supply line. The Commonwealth Government blamed the weather event on renewable energy. In another world the reality of a cyclonic event occurring in a non cyclonic region would have been seen as an example of the problem of climate change. As the speakers noted, governments have a loud megaphone, and when they lie, they get traction. A situation we see playing out more and more with politicians peddling fake news. The risk is they open themselves up to being vulnerable themselves to being tossed out by the next, better liar.
The shining light in the climate debate is that the state parliaments are in pretty good shape and delivering positive results in the climate change space. The federal parliament is pretty weak and bleak, aside from outlier, Zali Stephen. The price of successive government failures and our failure to change policy earlier is that we now need to cut emissions by 7% per year, every year from now on. It seems there are twenty five people in the Federal parliament holding twenty five million Australians to ransom. The electorate needs to force politicians to act.
The Cut Out Girl, a biography by Bart Van Es. The story was drawn from Barts family in the Netherlands during WWII. His grandparents were one of many families who hid Jewish children from the Nazis during the war. Bart tells the story of Lien, who was hidden for some time by his grandparents.
The degree to which we dehumanise others reflects how disconnected we are from our own humanity…mainstream acts of intolerance in the middle enable extreme acts at the fringe…compassion has to be married to healthy boundaries and consequences…
Other non-fiction writers I really enjoyed listening to included Long Litt Woon (Mushrooming and Mourning); Jamie Susskind (Future politics); SophieCunningham (City of Trees); Chike Frankie Edozien (Lives of Great Men); Dennis Altman (Unrequited Love); Tony McAleer (The Cure for Hate); Yanis Varoufakis (And the Weak Suffer What They Must?); Margaret Simons (Penny Wong Biography); Angela Woolacott (Don Dunstan biography); and the delightful, thoughtful and funny Vicki Laveau-Hardie who’s debut memoir The Erratics was published when she was in her seventies and won the Stella Prize.
They say that writers should read widely, so not all my book reviews will be crime, though bloodshed may prove to be a common theme. Recently I dived into Greek Mythology. Madeline Miller’s Circe is a feminist spin on the epic tale of the immortal nymph sea witch by that name. Circe appeared as a minor character in the Homeric poem, The Odyssey.
Circe, the protagonist is the daughter of Helios, the sun god. As a child she is made brutally aware of her inferior status by her family. She was not born a god, is plain to the eye, and has the voice of a mortal. In her youth she was tormented by her siblings and barely seen by her parents.
I asked her how she did it once, how she understood the world so clearly. She told me that it was a matter of keeping very still and showing no emotions, leaving room for others to reveal themselves.
In coming to know love, jealousy and rage, Circe discovers her sorcerer powers, which she unleashes on her sister, a beautiful sea nymph, and the object of her envy. As punishment she is exiled to a picturesque, unpeopled island called Aiaia by her father.
Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep.
Circe eventually comes to revel in her solitude and spends her time developing her occult arts and witchcraft, and taming the animals of Aiaia for company.
This was how mortals found fame, I thought. Through practice and diligence, tending their skills like gardens until they glowed beneath the sun. But gods are born of ichor and nectar, their excellences already bursting from their fingertips. So they find their fame by proving what they can mar: destroying cities, starting wars, breeding plagues and monsters. All that smoke and savor rising so delicately from our altars. It leaves only ash behind.
It is on the island, surrounded by tame wolves and lions and pigs – the latter formerly sailors who she turned to swine after they tried to attack her – that Odysseus comes across Circe. He becomes her lover and she bares his child.
I was captured by Miller’s lush poetic prose, which is like reading a song. Her reimagining of the myth brings one of the women from the original tale into the light. Her work was criticised by a few crusty old blokes for historical inaccuracy, perhaps because they prefer the original misogynist fantasy, but I found a beautiful remake of Homers epic poem in Circe. The novel gives a nod to other myths as well, including Daedalus and Icarus; Medea and Jason with the Golden Fleece.
I loved Circe’s chutzpah, she is a woman who will not be silenced and turns an ancient tale of female subjugation into one that is teeming with contemporary reverberations of empowerment and courage. Circe is Miller’s second novel and rivals her first, The Song of Achilles, a stirring reimagining of another of Homer’s epic poems, The Iliad. The Song of Achilles received the Orange Prize for Fiction in 2012.
I highly recommend Circe, which was shortlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction this year. It’s a particularly good read for writers who seek inspiration, and to broaden their writing technique, style, and craft skills.
No wonder I have been so slow, I thought. All this while, I have been a weaver without wool, a ship without the sea. Yet now look where I sail.
Adelaide comes alive with festivals in Autumn; The Fringe, Adelaide Festival, Adelaide Writers Week and WOMADelaide, and I am on my annual pilgrimage and arts binge this week.
The city is surrounded by parklands that encase it in a figure eight of open green space of bushland, parkland and the Torrens River. I am fortunate to have a place to stay at St Peters, a north eastern suburb very close to the Torrens River parklands with access to walk all the way to the city through the green corridor that abuts the river.
Each morning this week I have walked the three kilometres along the flood plains of the Torrens River through the traditional lands of the Kaurna people, who’s country includes the Adelaide Plains. The walk takes me from St Peters to the Pioneer Women’s Memorial Garden where Adelaide Writers Week is held .
The trail winds along the Torrens watercourses lined by sedges and rushes, past remnant river redgums, SA Blue Gums and through silent stands of Allocasuarinas. I disturb a large flock of Galahs feasting in the grasses, skinks scurry out of my way, and a young koala, stunned by this strange person invading its home, trots along the ground and up a eucalyptus trunk out of harms way. As I approach the city, just past the outskirts of the Adelaide Zoo, the bush land gives way to landscaped, manicured riverside gardens dotted by sculptures, sleeping Pacific Black Ducks, signs warning citizens not to feed the pelicans, which bite, or to touch the bodies of bats fallen from trees in case they carry the deadly Calicivirus.
I have attended three Adelaide Festival events this week (Out of Chaos…Gravity and Other Myths; By Heart; and Sarah Blasko) and spent most of my days at Adelaide Writers Week listening to authors and commentators talk on a range of fiction and non-fiction books in the shade of large poplars. The trees were chosen by the designer Elsie Cornish to represent: protection and love (the holly oak and myrtle); love, generosity and devotion (honeysuckle); and memory, protection, youth and tenderness (lilac); for the gardens developed as a tribute to pioneer women. I watched and listened and jotted down reflections and quotes that caught my attention…
…muscle and sinew find order in the sweat of chaos and a physical flight of fancy…
…sex is not an intellectual event…
…Bitcoin is the cash currency of Silk Road, the eBay for drug dealers on the dark web…Nimbin online…
…truth is stranger than fiction…
…Dread Pirate Roberts ran Silk Road. It was his Utopian dream. Until dealers started to blackmail him, threatening to release the personal details of their customers. Dread Pirate Roberts started putting out hits on them, got a taste for it and the Utopia ideal started to unravel…
…some boffin in the tax department stumbled across Dread Pirate Roberts email and he was tracked down by authorities who nabbed him working in the library …
…you can hire a hitman on the dark web for bitcoin, but most of them are scams…
…despite humorous elements there is real evil on dark web…it has created a safe place for bad people to meet and talk and normalise one another’s behaviour…
…complexity needs to be digested in its entirety and then filtered to make it digestible for the lay person…
…there’s nothing more vivid than a human being, but vivid writing is not a substitute for lack of substance…
…Humour makes things more accessible, particularly difficult subjects…
…if you’re writing about things that need to be fixed in the world you need to have a sense of social responsibility and be prepared to talk about taboos…
…sciences writers can bring in information that scientists can’t to help understand issues. For example to solve sanitation issues that cause diarrhoea, the biggest killer of children, we need roads. Without roads we cannot build sanitation’s infrastructure or get soap into communities…
…if you want to grow up to be a science writer, get a job as a fact checker…
…non-fiction: defining a writer by what they are not…
….the last thing to leave our dying lips may very well be a poem…As though it were aware of the fragility and treachery of man’s faculties, the poem aims at the target of human memory, because memory is usually the last thing to disappear, even when our whole existence crumbles around us…
…a Portuguese man teaches ten strangers Shakespeare’s Sonnet 30 by heart while he laments the loss of an old woman who taught him that words once held inside our hearts can never be lost…
…when writing characters different from yourself you need to write a fully formed human being, you need a soul…don’t try too hard…ask yourself am I doing good by writing this book? If the answer is yes, it’s more likely books on similar diverse topics will be published in the future…
…a novel is an entry way into certain uncomfortable topics for people and a pathway to empathy…We’re not telling these stories as often as we should be…
…is a person with an intellectual disability culpable? What about electricity companies that failed to maintain infrastructure?…Huge number of people with intellectuals disabilities in the legal system…what does this say about our society?…Was the Arsonist a product of systemic failure to provide adequate supports for a child with a disability?…This fire unleashed evil, but we have to do better in our society for kids at risk of creating harm Chloe Cooper…
…it’s getting warmer and more fire prone every year, fires burning hotter and longer all around world. Coal contributes to the systemic problems that create these conditions…It will not be the last time we have to deal with devastating fires resulting in loss of life…We have evolved alongside fire…it will outlast us as a species…
…writers look for character…interesting people to inhabit your books…
…the power of the words unspoken become the power of a book…it’s the definition of show don’t tell…
…language is magical…
…grief is dangerous and tenacious, it appears unexpectedly and tips you over…
…art stills the whole world in an image…forward time stops and cools around you…you are intercepted by something beautiful…the collapse of time…
…writing is about encounters…disturbing encounters that seed the need to make sense…reading and writing are not propositional…they do not explain the world…they are about an imaginative encounter…to be lost in the beautiful and the terrible…
…writing is an act of composition…reading and writing tutors our lives to notice things…to make our hearts open…
Books I will add to my reading list after listening to the authors:
Call Me Evie, J.P. Pomare
Too Much Lip, Melissa Lucashenko
The Darkest Web: Drugs, Death and Destroyed Lives, Eileen Ormsby
The Girl Without Skin, Mads Peder Nordbo
The Great Believers, Rebecca Makkai
The Arsonist, Chloe Hooper
Boy Swallows Universe, Trent Dalton
The Death of Noah Glass, Gail Jones
I have been filled with ideas, and inspiration from other people’s creative journeys through life and am thankful for these opportunities to stimulate my own thinking. I am also looking forward to four days of the magical mystery tour that is WOMADelaide this weekend.
The ancient Greeks believed creativity to be something that resulted when a person was bereft of their senses. Goddesses controlled the creation of art and literature and spoke to the artist as their muse. In reality sometimes the subject itself acts as the muse and when you give a group of creatives the same task you will get very different outcomes – as many as the number of artists involved.
I attended the opening of an art exhibition at Tacit Galleries in Collingwood recently because a friend had a piece in the show. I had not read the blub about it before I arrived at The Exquisite Palette and the demonstration of creativity and divergent thinking in the exhibition blew me away.
Hundreds of artists took a simple blank plywood artists palette to use to create an artwork. The palette’s became a playground for the imagination of the participants, and were indeed exquisite. No two palettes were alike but all shone with the passion and inspiration of the artists. One palette was untouched except for a pencil sketch of a cats head stuck to it with masking tape. It was as if the artist had mocked the process itself. Some were painted with scenes that inspired the creators and incorporated the palette hole into the design. Others were completely deconstructed and no longer recognizable from their original form. Palettes ranged from playful, through elegant, novel and disturbing and used a range of materials from paint to pewter to blood, glass, shells and feathers.
When you speak to creatives their processes are as varied as the number of artists themselves across all art forms. Regardless of whether the creative output is painting, sculpture, writing or design within industry the process begins with a seeding incident, something that inspires curiosity and exploration.
I know that when I write, the starting point is usually either a strong feeling, an image that sticks in my mind or a snippet of a conversation that sparks my imagination. I rarely know where the idea will go, or indeed how I will get there but the seed of inspiration is what drives productivity in creation.
The initial inspiration for the book I have been working on (for what seems like forever now) came from a mashing together of an incident I saw cycling home one day and a conversation with a work colleague. I let the story take me in the first draft and expect that the end product (if I ever get there) will only contain a shadow of the original spark as development of ideas themselves change and evolve as they progress. Someone else who had the exact same two experiences might have written a romance or science fiction novel. I was drawn to crime fiction.
The rewrite of the opening of my story which I mentioned in an earlier blog was partly inspired by a throw away comment a friend made over lunch. I manipulated it into a new context to develop a new character and a different path into the story. Like a blank palette, a comment or a visual stimulus can bend into new forms and ideas to inspire us in new ways and create fresh works of art.
How does your process begin?
Images in order:
Sue Beyer – Xanadu;
Jen Drysdale – P’ulur’ette;
Susan Barbic – Paper Boat;
Lino Savery – Unfortunate Death (from set of three);
Various artists – wall of palettes at Tacit Galleries.
We slipped past the Shrine of Remembrance and crossed Birdwood Avenue in the dark to Jardin Tan. A waxing crescent moon hung low over the Aloe barberae tree illuminating the observatory dome like an Istanbul mosque. The theme of the nights soiree hosted by Melbourne Writers Festival was the heart garden and is one of the monthly events around Melbourne leading up to the festival.
Approaching seven o’clock an array of exotic creatures began to arrive. They included a garden gnome, Aphrodite, and people wearing an variety of flower decorated costumes and head dresses. The guests wandered into the space and settled at tables decorated with leaves, flowers, fruit and vegetables.
The question was asked, what grows in the heart garden? On reflection my answer would have to be inspiration. Writing is a solitary pursuit, but the imagination needs stimulation and for that we must get out and feed our curiosity away from the keyboard or pen.
The practice of ekphrasis, creating another art form from one that already exists, is quite common in poetry writing. The creative act of subjectively reflecting on and narrating a story from another art work such as a painting expands and renews the meaning of the original work. Ekpharasis is an ancient Greek term. An early example is Homer providing a narrative description of the elaborate scenes embossed on the shield of Achilles in The Iliad.
The practice of ekphrasis can equally be used to inspire the narrative form of writing as it can poetry. And inspiration can come from animated as well as static art forms. Pay close attention with curiosity to the sight, sound, light, color, movement and feeling of an object or event. Then allowing yourself to experience it through your senses rather than your analytical mind. This enables us to recreate what we experience in new ways in our writing. In the performance arts, inspiration can be drawn from the performance piece itself, the artists presentation, or the feeling the act gives us as the observer.
The heart garden treated us to an evening of music, poetry and even a botanical drawing class. Whimsical events like the Book of Fete lend themselves to opening up my imagination in new ways and leave me with a sense of creative sustenance, ready to return to the solitude of the keyboard.
My main sources of inspiration are in nature, immersion in the arts and the complexity of everyday interactions. What inspires you?
Image: Jacqui Stockdale, Mann of Quinn from the series The Boho – 2015, Adelaide Biennial of Art, 2016. Art Gallery of South Australia.
In March each year I make the pilgrimage to Adelaide to the alternative universe that is WOMADelaide (World Music, Arts and Dance Adelaide). It’s a four day global music festival in Adelaide’s Botanic Park. I usually don’t know most of the bands and there are always several new discoveries for me that get added to my play list. Without WOMAD I would not have found the desert sounds of Aziza Brahim whose roots are in the Sahrawi refugee camp in Algeria, the indie pop of Lake Street Dive and the uplifting South African a cappella group, The Soil. All of whom have enriched my music collection.
When the Adelaide thermometer is turned up high, WOMAD can be tough and dusty. There are times when you need to find a shaded spot away from the crowds and stimulation to chill out. The park provides plenty of beautiful big old trees under which you can park yourself and do some writing.
I generally prefer silence when I write, but have spent most of the last two years writing on the bus on the way to work and have learnt to detach myself from background noise. A creative space, like a music festival, can be quite stimulating for the imagination also. One day I will set a story at a festival I expect.
Many writers have found inspiration away from the desk. Gertrude Stein often wrote from the drivers seat of her Model T Ford, Agatha Christie liked to plot in her Victorian bath eating apples and my personal favourite Sir Walter Scott penned his epic poem Marmion whilst riding his horse through the Scottish hillside.
Some writers require a very specific environment in which to work, some must have silence, some noise. The writers idiosyncrasies about the place where they write is curious given that when fully absorbed and writing well the place disappears into oblivion altogether. One wonders if it is the place that creates the ambiance for writing or the writers superstition that they can only find their creative muse in a particular environment that drives attachment to a setting.
Perhaps it is the simple act of creating a routine and habit that is the key to a writers creative and productive endeavors and the place and physical trappings are simply props. As EB White, the author of Charlotte’s Web famously said, “The writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.”
Where do you like to write? What are your rituals and habits? How and why do they help your writing?