But at some point you have to make the jump. How does this work in practice? First I am struck by the shift in my body as I walk the dog on the river-loop. I notice that more and more lines have been plopping into my head in the last two weeks and that I need to capture these, somehow, beyond the provisional kitchen scribbles on scraps of paper while keeping the whole process playful and light and not solemn. I re-read an essay by Mark Halliday on Kenneth Koch, in which he reminds us that Koch basically saw writing poems as a hugely fun activity. And I think to myself: I would like to have some of that writing fun back in my life and now might be the time.
But first I need to wash the dog. As the great Ailsa Holland reminds us, this is all writing. Then I make a cup of tea, ditto. And generally tidy the kitchen and remember that the car needs MOTing. And then I walk upstairs.
By now some extremely vicious voices from my schooling and early writing life have begun to intrude. The voices of certain teachers, with their emphasis on my uselessness. A particularly brutal review of my first book. That sort of thing. I place the mug on my desk and think about opening up my emails because suddenly they seem much more appealing than dealing with what others have chosen to label me, their eyes glinting with triumph. (If you know how much I detest doing my emails, you will know the scale of this paradox.) Then I remember that St Anne Lamott line about dropping the voices, like mice, one by one into a tall mason jar, turning the volume up for ten seconds, then turning it right back down to zero, and opening my notebooks.
There are two of these. The provisional kitchen scribbles notebook, in which the writing fairies have transcribed said scribbles onto separate pages, like random passwords or failed lists for the supermarket; and the slightly bigger drafting notebook, where said scribbles/failed lists have begun multiplying in the darkness without my interference or knowlege, also on separate pages. It is these pages I look at first. I have plans for one of them, because its lines plopped into my head on the dog walk, and I think there might be some energy there. But as I turn the pages in search of it, another failed line catches my eye, tugs at my sleeve, and says ‘Write me instead!’ And for the next ten minutes, that is what I do, without judgement or fear, those two imposters I have spent my life trying to flee. And it is glorious (the feeling, not the writing). I have made the jump.
Lifesaving Poems 
That was inspiring. Hope the jump continues well.
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Thank you, Claire. I hope so too. With thanks and appreciation, Anthony
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I’m glad you wrote this blog. Lovely lines. Lovely words.
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Thank you, Helena. I appreciate this enormously x Anthony
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Thanks for your words which reminds me of those messages in my head. They are so pervasive and they aren’t even form! I’ve taken to physically spitting them out of the side of my mouth like tangerine pips and hoping no one notices.
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Thank you, Janet. I love your image of tangerine pips, and shall use it next time the voices appear. With appreciation, Anthony
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Wonderful – thankyou. I read it just before sitting down to write. I made the jump.
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Thank you for saying so, Paul. I am delighted to hear it! Good wishes and thanks, Anthony
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This is wonderful. I’m just off to walk the dogs, throw a ball for one of them, potter around the garden, contemplate raking up the leaves. But it’s happened. I’m at my desk contemplating the Post-it notes and the scraps os paper that need gathering, raking up, deserve a ball thrown in their direction.
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Hi Peter! Thank you so much for your lovely comment. Sending you much love as you toss the ball, like a juggler as Elizabeth Jennings would have it xx
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This one speaks to me deeply, Anthony, your depiction of that scatteredness when the gold arrives, that there can be a glimmer here and there, a catching of it and a pinning it down if you’re lucky and really determined. You’re illustrating, and really beautifully, I think, Steven Pressfield’s notion of resistance, that it can have something of a velocity, except in the opposite direction of the creative work. The duty-bound tasks of adulthood are my arch-nemesis, too, and so to have you name this very much hits home. Mary Oliver’s been there, too:
“It is six A.M., and I am working. I am absentminded, reckless, heedless of social obligations, etc. It is as it must be. The tire goes flat, the tooth falls out, there will be a hundred meals without mustard. The poem gets written. I have wrestled with the angel and I am stained with light and I have no shame. Neither do I have guilt.” ― Mary Oliver, Upstream: Selected Essays
Thank you for this one. I’ll be taking myself for a walk shortly (sans the dog) and hoping its as fruitful.
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Mary Ellen, thank you so much for your encouraging and inspiring comment. I did not know that Mary Oliver quote or book of essays (late to the party as ever) and will now hunt it down. I love that image of Pressfield’s resistance having a velocity – mostly made up of those duty-bound tasks of adulthood as you say. I appreciate you taking the time to say all of this more than I can say. With gratitude as ever, Anthony
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