The stationery thing again

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My blog post yesterday about the stationery thing provoked more responses than I ever imagined it would. Among the talk of the different brands of notebook interlocutors prefer, the main theme to emerge was writers’ descriptions of their process.  Understandably so, the emotion underpinning all of them was palpable. Greater than our love of branded stationery, it appears we are even more in love with the creative habits of mind we put into use when we need them.

Which is just as well.

In Anne Lamott’s words, this is the real pay-off: ‘It’s like discovering that while you thought you needed the tea ceremony for the caffeine, what you really needed was the tea ceremony. The act of writing turns out to be its own reward.’

This means, of course, that if our specially sourced Italian marbled notebook is not to hand on the bus, or in the waiting room, or even at our desk when we need it that we still proceed with energy and good faith and get it down somehow. As Woody Allen says, 80% of success is showing up. I have noticed over the years how many of my poems have started on the very scrappiest pieces of paper: backs of envelopes, post-it notes with lists on them, and hotel notepaper (confession: I always steal hotel notepaper for this very reason).

My theory of why this should be so is similar to professor of linguistics Stephen Krashen’s theory of language acquisition. He says that to learn a new language with confidence, we need to remove the ‘affective filter’, be it motivational or emotional, which prevents us from making the imperfect utterances we need to make in order to develop.

I think this is why scrap paper, maybe even more than branded notebooks, is such a great place for starting poems. The filter is lowered. It is as though the harsh, judgemental voice of the chief of police inside our heads is silent for a second. What can seriously come of it? It’s only a shopping list. Your family, boss, or critics who glare over your shoulder are out for the day.

Failing that, I doodle on the first page of a blank notebook, to get it out of the way.

Now I can proceed. With energy, and with joy! No one is looking.

I wish you poems.

 

8 comments

  1. currankentucky

    I wish you poems too and must admit I giggled reading yesterdays post. I loved it. I tend to use my mobile phone for poems ideas etc. As my husband says “do you have a reminder to breath”.. its often the closest thing to me when an idea pounces, especially at night. Some mornings wading through them can be more tedious than making breakfast. But there is always a gem in there!

    Like

  2. Nell Nelson

    I have written a couple inside books of poetry written by Other People. Usually at the back and because I had nothing else to write on on the train…

    Like

  3. Pingback: Breaking out of a routine and feeding your notebooks | Josephine Corcoran
  4. Kerridwen (@TigersSterne)

    I agree with the scrap paper being less intimidating – like somehow the things I write can’t be good enough for the beautiful notebook I am using.. Usually the first mark is the hardest. Once I’ve written in the notebook, I can usually breathe more freely and go ahead. I also leave one blank page before I start so it still looks neat when I open it,,

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  5. Tricia

    I too have notebook addiction. They are the things dearest to my heart, despite the fact that the finished stories and poems are on my hard drive, all polished and prim, the scruffy notebooks are still my favourites…

    I saw David Almond speak once, he held up his notebook, it was a think to behold, like seeing a creative brain poured onto the page. (Just noticed the typo!! will leave)

    Great post by Jackie Morris which shows it here:
    http://www.jackiemorris.co.uk/blog/writers-notebooks/

    Like

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