writing to make meaning
“Everything I’ve ever written is to understand something, some idea, some emotion”
(May Sarton)
It’s Saturday and the sky is no longer bright.
I’ve carefully sifted through my private library in search of writing stimuli. I pull out a book I collaged together over a decade ago (I called it Eve…eternal Eve) when I was focusing on the relationship between the artist and their mental health. Of course over a decade later I’m still interested in this topic, in fact it is one of the few topics that sustains me because it never gets dull. It clunks a few times here and there but mostly zings (clunks and zings I borrowed from Australian author Kate Grenville, who hosted a brilliant writing workshop years ago at O’Reilly’s Rainforest Retreat, organised by Queensland Writers Centre, then led by the hugely capable Hilary Beaton, now lost to New Zealand, more’s the pity).
I’m hovering above page 9 of Eve Eternal Eve, where I have listed some instructions gleaned from The Frantic Assembly Book of Devising Theatre:
1. Make a list of all the actions that your character engages in
2. Create five pieces of movement that sum up your character
3. Create five gestural movements that are linked to your character
4. What are five different ways that your character sits
5. What are five different ways that your character stands
These five steps, specifically for devising theatre, yet perhaps equally applicable to any writing process, can deepen our exploration, and at the same time help create the physical ‘score’ for each character.
Then, on page 12 I rediscover some suggestions from theatre director Katie Mitchell’s book The Director’s Craft, I’m reminded of the importance of listing the chronology of the action that happens inbetween scenes. Mitchell suggests not only creating a list of questions regarding these events, but assigning new titles to each scene to clarify the arc of the play. This is relevant to the interpretation of a script, however I see it extremely valuable in the writing process regardless of genre.
Over the page I wrote about the snowflake method of writing, invented by writer Randy Ingermanson. He suggests you write a summary of your story in one sentence. Then transform this sentence into a five sentence paragraph that outlines the beginning conflicts of your story, as well as the end of your story. This is followed by a one page biography of each character including motivations and conflicts. Once you have done this, he suggests you turn each of your five sentences into five paragraphs. And so it goes., constantly expanding, like a snowflake. To find out more about this method go to https://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/articles/snowflake-method/
Throughout each day many of us constantly expand in our search for the deeper meaning attached to our thoughts and emotions. We talk to our external environment (to each other, to animals and even things), as a way of clarifying and dreaming on these ideas and emotions. We also talk to our internal landscape, the space that lives inside our head. The writer’s job requires continual movement between the character’s external and internal landscapes. An important distinction, because it is not easy to master the internal voice. I like to think of the internal voice as my shadow voice. Many writers approach this predicament subtly, using a more indirect internal voice in their writing. Hazel Smith writes more about this in her book The Writing Experiment.
As I read this I stop for a moment, and listen to my internal voice that constantly talks inside me. I have grown a habit of focusing on my breath at the same time as exploring the voices inside my head…It’s as though there is a code…the voices, ranging in volume, sometimes talk in short grabs, often on top of each other. Not in sentences or shapes (my brother thought in shapes), but in visual words and fleeting images. In feelings and emotions. Not in colour, more black, grey and soft white. Out of focus. Like a dream…
May Sarton, one of my favourite authors, wrote “Everything I’ve ever written is to understand something, some idea, some emotion” and that makes enormous sense to me. Every thing we write, act, perform, moves us closer to a new way of being in the world, a journey of becoming and it is in the act of writing that this can happen so profoundly if we want it to.
Do we rewrite our own history as we navigate the space between our poet/writer self and our performative self? It’s certainly the case for me. We can use many techniques on this journey, things such as the Frantic Assembly have suggested above; Katie Mitchell’s ideas regarding what is not spoken; or Ingermanson’s Snowflake method. All awaken the writer within, in our journey of exploring “some idea, some emotion”.
It’s now late afternoon. The light has shifted. Greying skies above. Cockatoos screaming. Magpies getting ready to retire for the day. Lawnmowers finishing their daily grind.
I breathe. Deep breath. Focusing in on my fleeting internal landscape. Then watching the huge fig blot out the late afternoon light.