Morning Pages

Today I burnt my morning pages when I lit the fire. Curiously satisfying to get rid of them and not horde them like I usually do. My house is full of scraps of paper covered with lines of poetry and half written stories. Diaries from the age of fourteen and all the notebooks I have ever used to write in.

All stored in boxes and drawers. I keep them because they are a permanent record of whatever I was thinking, hoping and dreaming at that age and one day I may want to remember.

But these words are just there for the moment they were written in and can be cast aside, they are impermanent. A release from my constant desire to create words to pin down.

'Morning Pages are three pages of longhand, stream of consciousness writing, done first thing in the morning. There is no wrong way to do Morning Pages– they are not high art. They are about anything and everything that crosses your mind– and they are for your eyes only. Occasionally colorful, more often than not Morning Pages are negative, fragmented, repetitive or bland. Good! Worrying about your job, the laundry, the weird look your friend gave you – all that stuff distracts you from your creativity. It eddies through your subconsciousness and muddies your day. Get it on the page first thing in the morning and move on with your day with a freer spirit.' Julia Cameron

Write! Just write anything!

I have had a severe case of writer's block since July. My Grandfather's funeral (followed by a rift between myself and a loved one) turned something off inside me, something creative. I have spent too much time thinking and not enough time writing.

I knew it was severe because I didn't want to read either. The idea of Ruth not reading is quite astonishing seeing how my nose has been stuck inside a book ever since I worked out how to read.

I normally read three or four books at the same time all located in different parts of the house. A bedroom book, a book balanced on the arm of the sofa, a bathroom book, a book to read in the kitchen instead of cleaning it. Reading in the bath is one of my favourite things and don't worry, I have never got a book wet. Books are my favourite pastime. So losing the desire to read highlighted something serious was happening.

I have a pile of excellent books next to the bed and I could hardly face looking at them, let alone pick them up and read them. They felt so weighty and oppressing. Of course, one of the problems is that I was procrastinating in a major way to avoid facing the books I need to read so I can write my dissertation. Despite the fact I am excited and interested in those very same books. I am fearful of starting such a vast piece of work when I spend all my time hurrying from one domestic chore to the next. Three children who all need loving, playing with, cleaning, feeding, escorting to school, parties, activities. Grandparents to visit and friends to help and be there for. It can be overwhelming and that is before I even start the most important writing I have ever attempted to do. No wonder I am frozen and can't start.

“If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.” Stephen King

Not wanting to read was not stopping me from doing any writing but it was a symptom of the problem. I had to struggle to write a poem for my monthly stanza group. I didn't read the book for my monthly book group meeting. Things were certainly odd. Things had to change. Reading to my daughter helped break the hurdle. We spent the evenings reading Harry Potter. I was dreading it when she chose it, but her enthusiasm made me enjoy it so much that when we finished book 4 I went off and read the next three. Fast, in greedy gulps. Now I have picked up the first novel in a long time and I am enjoying it. Reading is a pleasure again.

Stephen King is a writer who I admire very much. His memoir 'On Writing' is an interesting and useful account of his experience of being a writer. It is part autobiographical and part a guide to writing, including tips and advice. I read it years ago and I still remember lots of the quotes from it, like:

“The scariest moment is always just before you start.”

That sums up my feeling all summer. The fear of starting the darn thing. The fear of opening my novel and finishing it. The fear of looking at my collection of Queen poems and actually trying to edit them into something resembling a poetry book. Mr King says a writer should sit down every day and just get on with it. He suggests 2,000 words a day should do it. I also like the idea of 'morning pages' one of my creative writing teachers told me about from the book 'The Artist's Way.' Three pages of long hand every morning, that can be about anything, just write whatever comes into your head. Like Mr King suggests it will establish the habit of writing and then you can turn that into something tangible and worthwhile.

So this morning I wrote my three pages. It was hard at first. It was quite a rant about everything I have been worried about. Then it formed the bones of a poem. That is a good start.

Small stones

What is a small stone?
A small stone is a very short piece of writing that precisely captures a fully-engaged moment.
There are no strict rules for what makes a piece of writing a small stone, as there are for forms such as haiku. The process of finding small stones is as important as the finished product – searching for them will encourage you to keep your eyes (and ears, nose, mouth, fingers, feelings and mind) open.
Kaspa & Fiona,  want to help you slow down and fall in love with the world through writing. 
Fiona is a published novelist, therapist, creativity coach, & is very fond of earl grey and home-made cake.
Kaspa is Buddhist priest, writer, therapist, drama enthusiast, & is still learning to play the ukulele.
read my small stone here

Arthur Rimbaud born on this day 1854

 Rimbaud (second to left) depicted in an 1872 painting by Henri Fantin-Latour

The wolf cried out under the leaves
Spitting the beautiful feathers
from his feast of foul.
Like him, I devour myself.

Le loup criait sous les feuilles
En crachant les belles plumes
De son repas de volailles :
Comme lui je me consume.

Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

"I don't have prejudice against meself. My father was a white and my mother was black. Them call me half-caste or whatever. Me don't dip on nobody's side. Me don't dip on the black man's side nor the white man's side. Me dip on God's side, the one who create me and cause me to come from black and white."