Uncomfortable writing

I’m lucky to be in a new writing group and today’s prompt was to think about the process of writing…how I go about it, what it feels like…. The first piece is the result of my ten minute response to the challenge…. It is very rough and ready, but an honest insight into my issues around concentration.

I’ve followed it up with a little something that I wrote about a painting from William Nicholson’s still life exhibition at Chichester’s Pallent House Gallery. It is meant to be uncomfortable: the subject, Diana Low, was in her late teens when the 60-something year old William painted her, whilst apparently embarking on an affair with her. The voice in the piece is his….it was not an ‘easy’ thing to write, but I wanted to get into his head…or at least try to….urgggghhhh.

Dog walk done, washing up finished, coffee made, computer on, sit down, time to write. Blank page. It’s raining outside, windy too – wonder what bird that is. Water bowl must need filling up, the dog is whining. Shit – split it everywhere.  Where’s the mop.  I’ll do it later. Sit down, time to write.  Oh – got an idea….must turn WhatsApp off. Rush to the front door - coming….coming….coming, nice chat with the DPD man. Sit down, time to write. The sentences come, I’ve hit a seam of inspiration now – nice…feels good.  What’s another word for prevaricate – something with rhythm that will move things on, that will do. Need a wee.  Going to write just a few more lines because things are flowing now. Flowing. Really need the loo….can’t wait…got to go. Bugger – stepped in the dog water…. Hope it was the dog water rather than something else dog related. Wet sock now marking the floor. So where was I? Re-read.  Not bad.  Not good, but not bad, bad.  And what was it – write, write anything, even if it is shit.  This isn’t shit, but what’s another word for prevaricate…..delay, beat about the bush, hedge…. Love an online thesaurus and, actually who’s just liked my latest Insta post…..Sit down, time to write.

The golden girl

In front of me stood a mere child, arms crossed, head turned interpreting my very essence with complete knowledge. Her ice-blue gaze undressed me of life’s armour in a matter of moments.  I knew this girl saw me, my very core. The 46 years that separated our entrances onto life’s stage became meaningless and in my studio space, we seemed to step out onto its boards together.  As trees bend with prevailing winds, or skylarks catch spiralling thermals, our understanding needed no earthly words – instead, my brushes captured our entwined souls in oils.  Her beauty was a stillness which seemed to pulsate from her.  As I placed brush against canvas, I timed my next stroke with her next breath.  Surely, this precision would shape the air between us, translating into yearned intimate touch, breaking the rules separating painter and subject, adult and child, turning me from observer to lover.