Are you a writer? Do you dabble at writing but have trouble starting and sticking with it? Do you suffer from writer's block?
I call myself a photographer-writer, but I think I am more a photographer than a writer. I have belonged to a writers group, the South Side Quills for several years. We published our anthology, The Runaway Quill, in 2016. And I write freelance for a couple of Australian travel magazines, but I don't know if I really am a writer. I don't think I have a "novel" in me. I am not driven to write like I believe a writer should be. For instance I don't write every day. I feel to improve I should be writing every day.
Last week I found a blog called The Writer's Journey - you can visit them here - Writer's Journey. This link will also take you to some writer's tips. The first one of which is:
"carry a note book at all times, in your purse, your car, by your bed. Write in this notebook whenever you can, random thoughts, observations, descriptions..... If you feel too self conscious in public to use a notebook be a thoroughly modern Mr or Ms and make notes on your phone."
This is my first mistake. I don't carry a notebook, but I do carry my camera....perhaps there is a message to me in there. I do carry a notebook when we travel and I constantly make notes in it when we are away. I wouldn't be much of a travel writer if I didn't would I?
But I know I should take notes.... so today I took their advice when I was out in the bush and I wrote some notes in my phone. Here is what I wrote. I know it's not much and it's not going to put me up there with the great writers in history, but it's a start.
There's a slight breeze rustling the leaves in the very top branches of the trees. It's a continual sound like a story being told to the undergrowth below. Unseen birds call to each other. The mist laying in the valley below slowly lifts as the sun reaches its tendrils down over the ridgeline and through the trees. Dew drops sparkle gold on leaves and turns delicate spider webs into chains of silver baubles. We sit on a log with our hot mug of soup warming our hands. A flock of red tailed cockatoos fly squawking overhead.
Their second tip was using writing prompts:
"For a week start a piece of writing every morning with the words 'I remember...'. Especially good for memoir writers. Start writing your memoir as a list. Go back as far as you can and list all your memories as dot points....Choose one each day for a ten minute writing exercise."
The prompt for this month's homework for my writer's group was "the day it all ended" or if you like "began". For me this was a piece of memoir writing. And I have a picture to go with it, of course!
In
the late afternoon on the day of my seventeenth birthday, 15th
November 1972, at Belmont Senior High School, was the day it all ended. I put
down my pencil, stacked my exam papers together and handed them into the
Leaving Exam supervisor.
It
was done. I knew I had not done well. After four years of studying shorthand it
had all come down to this final exam.
I was
full of enthusiasm when I started studying Pitman’s Shorthand in 1969. That
mysterious code of light and dark strokes, dots, dashes, curves and curls
developed by Isaac Pitman in the early 1800s which he had spent half a century
improving, was about to be unlocked for me and the other girls in my Commercial
class.
Ploughing
on through second, third, fourth and fifth year high school. My results over
those four years show the ups and downs of my study. At first diligent and
fully committed to my studies, but slowly undermined by other distractions like
the appearance of boys on my radar. And anyway, I didn't really want to be an office worker, I didn't know what I wanted to do.
At
some stage I must have believed in myself and my ability to excel. I even
bought a book all written in shorthand – Half Hours with Popular Authors – for
which I had paid the princely sum of 5 cents at a book sale. Within these yellowed pages you can even read
“An Evening Wind’ by Dickens. I never did read it or any of the other
masterpieces hidden in those shorthand squiggles although even today I can’t bring myself
to part with that book.
 |
| That's me front row left |
I
passed my Leaving Certificate. I even received a distinction in Economics,
somewhat due to my cramming on old exam papers the night before, to find to my
delight, the same questions in my exam paper! Thank goodness for my memory that
day!
My
Leaving Stenography exam was the last day I ever used shorthand. Perhaps it was
just as well as my results later showed only 50%, I had barely passed. But I
can still remember those first strokes – p, b, t, d, ch, j. And for some reason the symbol for “between”
which I still randomly use when writing quick notes. I guess on that day I was the
girl between – between school girl and working girl. I started my first job within weeks of
leaving high school, thankfully I wasn’t required to take dictation.
I decided to look up Mr Dickens' "An Evening Wind" on the net. It's a passage from Chapter 2 of his book, Martin Chuzzlewit.
Here is the beginning of the passage which was written in shorthand in "Half Hours with Popular Authors".
"The sun went down beneath the long dark lines of hill and cloud which piled up in the west an airy city, wall heaped on wall, and battlement on battlement; the light was all withdrawn; the shining church turned cold and dark; the stream forgot to smile; the birds were silent; and the gloom of winter dwelt on everything.
An evening wind uprose too, and the slighter branches cracked and rattled as they moved, in skeleton dances, to its moaning music. The withering leaves no longer quiet, hurried to and fro in search of shelter from its chill pursuit; the labourer unyoked his horses, and with head bent down, trudged briskly beside them; and from the cottage windows lights began to glance and wink upon the darkening fields."
Don't you just love the imagery! No wonder Dickens was such a revered author. I am ashamed to say I don't think I have ever read any of his books right through, even though I have several on my shelves. I think I will need to amend this. Perhaps I was not ready before to read him.
I've written a few pocket memories for my writing group homework at various times. I'm thinking I should put them into a book, with photos of course! And yes, I started writing my memoirs a few years ago. I must get back to them. I think the idea of dot-pointing your memories and going from there is a great idea.
Do you use writer's prompts? What do you do to get over writer's block? Perhaps you would like to tell us in your comments.
This week in my garden, the grape leaves are turning red and gold, the oranges on my orange tree are ripening and we are starting to pick them to eat. And the last roses of autumn are dancing in the late afternoon light.
This image of the rose I took last autumn. I was thrilled when my artist friend, Marguerite Aberle, used my rose photo recently as inspiration for one of her pieces for a joint exhibition of rose pictures. Done in pastel on black paper, framed in black, Marguerite called it "Sunlit Dancer". The exhibition was a fundraiser for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Foundation, and was held at the Bridgetown Pottery Restaurant.
