FINDING YOUR WAY FROM THOUGHT TO PAGE

 

 

‘Work in Progress’ – this is the sign I need to post on the back of a t-shirt and as a screen saver as this will stop people asking about when will your book be published.  The word ‘writer’ gets banded about, anyone who puts lines on a page/blogs/journals is a ‘writer’, the snob in me recoils.

My younger self believed that writers lived in cold, dark rooms, tortured souls with an encyclopedic knowledge of words and events. This image changed to glossy, white women who wrote about sex, fast living and women in charge. By the time I hit my early 20’s I discovered the intense writing of African-American  female writers and I felt that I could not craft words like them. I dabbled with writing – novels started and abandoned just as quickly, followed by short, quirky pieces and more reading. Moving to Antigua opened up my writing self – poems and more short pieces, a chance meeting led to an introduction. Nothing moved beyond the occasional publication in local magazines and newspaper. Finally, after listening to the work of others, I decided to leave and study writing. Oh yes, I got the MA with a cliched driven piece of writing that had nuggets of gems. An extract appeared in two anthologies, one in the UK and one in the USA. I even won a writing prize and the novel, it received a truckload of rejections. Two writers’ weeks in the USA where I met fierce, funny, generous writers made me put down my pen, again. Life intervened, single mother, working, looking for love without my son having ‘uncles’ or a ‘new father’ – nope, our boundary began at our front door.

Returning to Antigua, older, and a little more aware of my desire to do more than write, i wanted to encourage young writers and took part in a theatre workshop, three hours on a Saturday morning – I found passionate and uber intelligent youngsters and I loved them – still do. Workshops and work in fits and starts. Connected with other writers, went to Jamaica, worked with persons incarcerated in our prison and their work made my chest puff out like a proud mother hen, cause they trusted me and I trusted their work.

Finally, my work was mined from the stories of my father’s youth, on being in Antigua and listening to conversations and seeing documents/pictures in our museum. Truth turned to lies, muse turned master and I have now written three novels – all bits of my search for what was lost in the crossing between Antigua and the motherland. Not accepted here and always explaining myself there.

I am also aware that I am amongst a dying breed of ‘hybrids’ – children of the first generation who moved en mass to the UK and lived as ‘West Indians’ in our homes and ‘Black British Youths’ on the streets and in school. House parties, weekend gatherings, domino games on Good Friday, liquor and music – gram and records – maxi dresses and tight curls. We are also the generation often told the stories that many chose to forget. Perhaps, it is my age, this middle passage that is making it urgent for me untangle the stories and leave behind a document of our stories cause we matter too.

 

GOOD TO BE BACK

 

 

 

I started this blog as a way to write more, you know, become disciplined about my craft. I started well enough and travelling to India to work allowed me to share my journey with many. Then in the last two years, I found that taking pictures allowed me to say more than I wanted to write. I use my phone’s camera and take pictures of things mainly buildings, old, forgotten that appear full of stories. I also photograph food – when travelling I become a total foodie – totally immersed in the taste, smell and colour of the food.

Of course, story ideas  pop up and I  scribble them down.. I even finished the first draft of a new novel and then nada, zilch, nothing… I read, I found inspiring articles and quotes… I was writing in shadows and started the hunt for the perfect writing desk … Yep, I blamed my lack of tools – a table, me, who used to write on train journeys, on planes, while sitting in bed, on an armchair, in an office – I would just write as the feeling hit me..no discipline, no set time,  no word limit per day….Now, I became focused on not having the right writing table. Pens, note books and reference books I have plenty.  Time to write, plenty of it as I am a freelancer…cue, music, any sad track will do, as I have the freelancers curse of finding anything to do that does not include writing …. Instagram – yep, daily postings and viewing…Facebook – tick; TV junk program watching – tick ; cake baking – tick; driving – tick; art lessons – tick and moments of inertia – double tick.

And then I fell in love with a maltreated, little table, perfect for the window space where I wanted to sit and write, a clear view across my island, trees, houses and hills…and peaceful, despite being so close to town and the airport. This table took ten days to restore – sanded down, oiled, draws fixed and polished. On close inspection, there are cracks and pin holes. It has lived a long life and like the buildings I like to photograph is full of stories.

It was  during this waiting period that  I taught  a writing workshop to 41 girls age 3 – 14 at a summer camp – group work based on a title ‘The Magic Mango’ . They were divided into five groups with group leaders – each group discussing their story and the type of pictures they needed based on the ingredients for a good story.  Just like baking a cake, a good story needs key ingredients, they mixed setting, characters, theme and actions to create a story that reflected their own favourite genres – princesses and princes; beaches; trees that fed villages; dragons and happy endings. Buoyed by their passion and enthusiasm, I knew that I love the world of writing and the endless possibilities this world can offer once the writer believes in the story they are writing.

So, here I am back where I belong stringing words together and painting a picture of what I see and wish to question. Will I write the great novel at this little table? I’m happy that I can just write……..