The Bug From Hell - June 2020

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

Masks on Public Transport, June 2020

So early in February I spent a weekend with my father, who had recently been in hospital with a strange virus that we came to know as 'The Bug From Hell.' Like a kind of influenza, it seemed to have no runny nose or other cold symptoms, but jumped straight from high temperature, via loss of taste and sense of smell, to a barking cough and the most severe chest infection within 10 days. After a short, concerning period in hospital, he threw off the bronchitis. Feeling well but with an ominous scratchy cough, I left him and flew to Belfast for a long court case.

Photo by Jennifer Pittam
My Last 'Normal' Picture before Lockdown

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

The River Lagan, Belfast - View from my Bedroom Window

How strange it seems, 12 weeks later in #Lockdown, to be working as a Clerk of the Court from my front room in London, hearing bail applications on Zoom instead of travelling all over the British Isles for work. How utterly indescribable that as I write, 41,000 British lives have been lost (that we know of) to a virus no-one had heard of before the Christmas holiday.

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

Snowdrops Emerge During my Long Court Case

My trip to Belfast was long and drawn out because that was the nature of the court case. The days when court rose early, allowed me, at first, to seek my bed as I grew more and more sick, merged into those when, still untested but gradually recovering, I explored that beautiful city.

Photo by Jennifer Pittam
The Murals ~ A Feature of Belfast City

From the day, several years ago, that I started work as a Clerk of the Court and knew that my specific role would take me all over Britain, I resolved that I would not look back on that period remembering airports, train stations, hotel bedrooms and nothing else. As soon as I check in I always ask for recommendations, things to do, places to see.

Photo by Jennifer Pittam
Depict or Conceal ~ A City's History & Grief

 In Belfast I discovered an app on my phone - 'every visitor's guide' which mentioned the Botanical Gardens, the City Hall and the Titanic Exhibition. After that, it suggested, I should 'take a wander' through the streets to look at the City's famous murals.

Photo by Jennifer Pittam
The 'Irish Language' Mural

It was certainly a privilege to wander first around the obvious tourist spots but the murals? Barely 40 years ago, Belfast was a city engulfed by a brutal civil war. That's only half as long ago as World War II. Like many Londoners I have only to go back three generations to reach my immigrant Irish, Scots and Welsh ancestors. I have the stories my grandparents told me, passed to them by their own grandparents. Practically within living memory then. Making a sideshow out of the misery of others, especially when I have the family stories for added poignancy, does not sit well with me at the best of times.

Photo by Jennifer Pittam
The Loyalist 

Still, with advice and directions from a kindly  and knowledgeable court transcriber, I did take camera and writers' notebook and go, respectfully I trust, to see some of the pictures - stunning, heart-breaking, beautifully executed. 

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

The Crown Bar ~ Once at the Centre of the Troubles

Which brings me to the artwork that's been springing up all over Britain during the Corona Virus Pandemic - the ubiquitous rainbow.  Rainbow pictures originated in Italy, the first country outside China to be hit, in a most devastating way, by the virus. A spontaneous sign of hope, they were accompanied by the slogan 'andra tutto benne' (everything will be all right). For whatever reason, the idea caught on, and spread to the US, Canada, Spain and here in Britain with amazing speed. They're everywhere now, and very pretty they are. But the scars of Covid19 are likely to be deep, and wide. Will the rainbows be enough? 

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

The Ubiquitous 'Stay Well, Stay Safe' Motto 

It's great to stay positive, but who knows what the hidden casualties of the Corona Virus pandemic will be.  JoJo Thomas drew this to our attention in one of her superb creative writing workshops this Sunday (Zoom, naturally).  She finished with this great quote , which I've been using as my creative mantra all week:

Don't bend;

Don't water it down; 

Don't try to make it logical; 

Don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. 

Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.

Franz Kafka 1883-1924

To find out more about JoJo Thomas's Creative Writing Workshops go here:

https://www.facebook.com/lessthinkingmorewriting/

Jennifer Pittam has been published in: Aquarist & Pondkeeper, Astrology Monthly, Cosmopolitan, Ether Books, People's Friend, Prediction Magazine, Romany Routes, The Lady.

Competitions won: Coast to Coast Short Story Competition, 2nd Prize; Writers' Village Flash Fiction Competition, 1st Prize.

Monsters From the Deep

So my Creativity Course got off to a roaring start and the first thing we have to do is learn to write 'Morning Pages'.  Writing Morning Pages is a technique in which you empty the subconscious, sort of vomit it onto the page, at least once a day. Preferably you do it first thing in the morning, without thinking, judging or editing your work.  It's not a new idea - one wonders whether artists and writers have been at something similar since the first troubador hiked his wares at the castle gate.

Since the first troubadour...

There are various famous works one could learn from - the journals of Virginia Woolf, to name but one, and Dorothea Brande's brilliant classic 'Becoming A Writer'. Out of print now and hellishly expensive, it's still worth looking out for. DB gives those wonderful pep talks so redolent of old black and white movies. "If you fail repeatedly at this exercise, give up writing. Your resistance is actually greater than your desire to write." Superb, no doubt spoken with a cut-glass accent, it almost makes one feel like a grown up.

Dear, Dear Dorothea...

 Natalie Goldberg also gives some great advice about writing practice, very Zen, and I refer to 'Wild Mind' constantly, a decade after buying it. However, in the year 2013, when artists talk of 'doing their pages', they usually mean, doing their pages a la Julia Cameron.

For the next 16 weeks it's Julia's way of doing pages that I shall be sticking with, day in, day out, or stand up and explain at the weekly 'Check In.'

After working my way slowly through the larder and chomping everything that's not nailed down, I finally get to it, scribbling all the dismal, unfulfilled truths about my writing and my writing past, all the unfinished works, the plummeting self confidence, the 'Monsters from the Deep' who said, or thought foul things. The ones that looked at me in some awful way, or so I believed at the time. It doesn't feel good to get it out there. I was raised in the 'Keep Calm and Don't Mention a Thing' school of optimism. It's hard to believe, right now that in 112 days my creativity will be as high as one of those old Barage Balloons you see in Foyle's War. But, as the man himself would say, with that wry and rather sexy smile, 'We'll see.'

Monsters from the Deep

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

Moans round with many voices 

Ulysses, Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1892

Creative Writing Workshop Beats Black Dog

A Toilet of a Year

This has been a W.C. of a year. Battling with the anguish of bereavement and supporting my father through two operations, I find it tough to get back to writing.

People tell me to 'pull myself together' but have bugger all idea how I might go about it. Still, there is a gem of truth in those old wives' tales.

This week I pull myself together in three ways; 1) sign up for a creative writing workshop 2) start a fresh, new course and 3) win a prize for a piece of flash fiction. In a literary city like London there are loads of workshops available; large and noisy, intimate and searching, cosy and hilarious, stretching and expensive.  I choose one called 'Less Thinking More Writing'. It's run by JoJo Thomas on Sunday mornings. The atmosphere's creative and beautifully prepared, with fab fab home-made cakes and coffee.

Delicious Homemade Cakes

There is little critique. The extended a.m. session (4 hours for £40) is targeted towards creativity. Packed with exercises and perfect for a Sunday, the 'round the table' set-up with discussion and lots of funny, insightful reflection means that we all leave feeling positive yet gloriously stretched. 'I'll never view haddock in quite the same way,' says Huw, as we say goodbye. And neither will the rest of us.

Set in Torbay

 Last time I attended JoJo's workshop I turned one of the exercises into a teensy story which, to my delight, won first prize in a Flash Fiction competition. The judge describes it as 'beguiling', which was great. I can live with 'beguiling'.

 The flash fiction story is set in Torbay and I use the raw grief of my mother's death for this piece - better than boring everyone on the bus. The prize of £50 is a huge boost to my morale. This week's results may, according to JoJo, have produced a deliciously new, darker beginning to one of my novels in progress. Watch this space.

A Darker Beginning

There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately no one knows what they are.

Somerset Maughan 1874-1965 

Workshops by JoJo Thomas 

The Artist's Date or in Britain, a 'Jolly'

Out on a Jolly

So now I'm trying the next tool from the Creativity Course - the Artist's Date. Most blocked creatives find this creative 'playtime' much harder than the 'work' of morning pages. The idea is that, quite simply, you take your artist self out on a date, just the two of you. You're not supposed to achieve anything, feel anything, or come back with a result. There are no rules; results are cumulative, random, serendipitous - a red London bus pops into your narrative three months hence. You forget to be depressed in the mornings, writubg for ten minutes in the cafe instead. You don't drink as much gin and and you've enough cash  for a Creative Writing workshop. That sort of result.

No Rules

I found the concept slightly creepy at first. Your 'inner artist' is  a child-like creature, and in the UK the term 'date' has a distinctly adult feel.  Taking my newly emergent artist child on a date sounded pervy, until I changed the term to 'a day out with my artist'. Or even a 'Jolly'.

A mad dash through a street fountain

I discovered pretty quickly, your inner artist might be a child but the day out doesn't have to be childish,unless you want it to. This is no human child, but a wild, untamed chimera you're hoping to unleash. The artist small person doesn't do cute and it definitely doesn't do pink.

A bag of delicious fruit

The Jolly doesn't have to cost a lot of money, either -  some of the best ones cost nothing. You  devote a little time to yourself doing something that brightens your spirit, and gets your creative juices flowing. Perhaps a mad dash through a street fountain, a visit to the market for a bag of delicious fresh fruit,  mudlarking at the edge of the River Thames - but do it alone, with no other motive other than to stimulate the creative juices.

Mudlarking at the edge of the Thames

 For my first Jolly, I chose one of the two things no-one has a right to explore even once, according to Sir Thomas Beecham: incest and Morris Dancing. In London, the May Bank Holiday is a perfect excuse for normally sensible people to break out in Morris dancing outside the pub. I took myself to one one the banks of the river, feeling a bit of a twit.

Breaking out in Morris Dancing

  And whadda ya know, my inner artist really did glow.

You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough

Mae West 1893-1980 

Morning Pages - The Bootcamp

Dawn on the River Thames, A Week In

 A week into Morning Pages and I find I rise earlier and see the dawn more often. My Morning Pages are already less bitter and less whiney. Of course, part of the point of writing Morning Pages is to free the creative channels of bitterness and whining. It's like a morning shower for the creative consciousness. It doesn't  matter one jot whether the mess on the page turns out to be vaguely readable or thoroughly vile. The point is to apply backside to seat and do them each day. Three pages is the recommended stretch, but I wonder whether each writer finds their own best length. The point is, it should be slightly more than you want to do. Keep going, no punctuation, no editing, be specific, allow the monsters to surface, then drive right on.

The Monsters Drive Right On

Having managed, some days with difficulty, to keep Morning Pages going, I admit that that a strange, tentative freedom creeps into my creative work. I've had some odd moments of synchronicity this week - yes, you dismiss them as coincidence if you will, but then, if I were going to deride the results of the Creativity Course there wouldn't be much point in doing it, would there? Sometimes the Morning Pages divert themselves into scenes from my novel, as though the subconscious, like Kevin when at Perry's house, (for Harry Enfield fans) has finally given in. 'Might as well do this writing thing then, and are there any Ginger Nuts please Missus?'

Dawn at Kings Cross Station

 I've begun to notice odd, whimsical things that only the child-like free spirit of oneself would find titter-worthy - for example, the hordes of adults who queue at Kings Cross station all summer,  paying out a fortune to have their photo taken by Platform Nine and Three Quarters, suddenly disappear - presumably to pack their own kids off to school. Which leads me to wonder whether, if I sneak up there one misty morning this week, will I hear the faint sound of that special chuffa train...

My dear friend Carmen, surely the most potent of creative enablers, bought me a great new notebook and three pens that positively snarl off the page. Carmen doesn't know I've started Morning Pages.  Or even that I'm a writer. Weird.

Pens that Positively Snarl

Finally, I received a birthday present, a much-longed for addition to the Pittam Towers arsenal which bowled me over, as I hadn't expected anything nearly so generous. It was a Kindle Fire which came with, amongst other things, a free download of 'Music for the Mozart Effect' - 'Unlock the Creative Spirit'.

So with synchronicity increasing and creative impulses beginning to stir again I feel ready for this week's challenge which is, I believe, the 'Artist's Date.'

                                                       

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air

 

W. B. Yeats 1895-1939

 

A Helicopter Crashed Into A Crane

So it's evening in London after a terrible, terrible day. This morning during the rush hour, a helicopter crashed into a crane, killing the crew and then falling into the street where it injured a number of pedestrians. As horrific accidents go, it wasn't the worst, except of course for the poor family of the crew. For Londoners like me, it brought back the full horror of the London bombings in 2007, although this accident was exactly that - a tragic accident.

A Terrible Day in London

In spite of the carnage, I'm in the Bear pub with a few writer pals. We'd arranged to meet and we thought, 'what will we do if we cancel - just sit at home moping'. Fear's like that - it causes you either to have ridiculous, exaggerated ideas of 'what could happen' or to freeze, and start skulking about like a hibernating bear trying for entry in the Guinness Book of Records.

Heroes & Villains, since 1714

The Bear's a great pub for writers, right on the edge of Chinatown and dating back to 1714 - before, frankly, there was a Chinatown. It's had a fair number of famous heroes and villains in its list of historical customers. We like the villains best.

We swap confessions about how little writing we did over the holiday period and scrawl our fears on a beer mat. The seven biggest writing fears, according to my latest fave rave 'Your Writing Coach' by Jurgen Wolff are: 'The fear of rejection, the fear that it won't be good enough, the fear of success, the fear of revealing too much, the fear that you have only one book in you, the fear that you are too old and finally, the fear of being overwhelmed by research.'

We scrawl our fears on a beer mat

Twitter revealed even more - 'don't know how to end my story,' replies one follower. 'You've got it lucky - don't know how to begin mine,' another grumps. Sensing that the war's about to go viral, we bring out our manuscripts, sheepishly at first. Within moments, we're hooked - desperate to hear more about the characters we've missed over the holidays. Dan's writing a dark, dark story as usual, and Rob's still on his never-ending novella about his hero Vordek's unlikely conquest of the fair sex. Ruth's story of a time-travelling witch has spanned another few centuries whilst Ivy's memoir set in the Port of London, early 20th century, thrills and horrifies us.

We're a supportive lot but very frank. 'You know he's going to be a virgin all his life,' Brad tells Rob, which makes Rob blush painfully. We've all guessed who the real Vordek is. 'Do you think they'd just carry on eating if the cross-bow had speared the servant-boy at dinner?' We wonder. Ruth sucks her pen and agrees that the scene is unrealistic. 'I'll have them take a swig of scrumpy after,' she decides. Her West Country accent is always deeper when she thinks of scrumpy jack (cider, for the uninitiated). We all howl, and so do the rest of the customers in the bar. Our writerly gatherings aren't designed to attract attention, situated as they are in a quiet snug at the back on the quietest night of the week, but invariably, they do.

Ruth's Notebook & Pen

Gradually the noise in the bar drops to a hum, and then to dead silence as Ivy begins to read. Her voice and reading style remind me of the Primary School teacher she was for four decades, and the years of 'Friday afternoon story time' reading aloud have honed her vocal chords. They've lost none of their power. Her story tells of little things - of the days when a mother could die in childbirth, as easy as anything; of the dockers and how they'd break open a crate of oranges and throw them to passing, malnourished urchins; of family pride, of two world wars - one her parents', one her own; and most of all of love. Rough, often unspoken, many times passed off with a joke, but love just the same. When she finishes, and removes her specs, the applause is spontaneous, a wall of sound.

The Old London Dock Gates

It's time to go, and we do it with hugs, and quiet gratitude for the companionship of those of kind. When you've got that, writer or not, fear seems a petty foe indeed.

Courage comes when you make demand - not sooner, not later but then

Leo ~ The Blue Book Writings 

You can find the Bear & Staff here:

 

Spirit of Summer Set Free

So, four days' creativity, no interruptions! Must get the plot for my 19th century novel down in scene-by-scene form. Britain is in the grip of a once-in-a-lifetime public holiday to celebrate the Diamond Jubilee of HM the Queen; ideal opportunity for writers like me to shake off the cobwebs and get out on the streets.

Began with bed & breakfast in the seaside town of Margate. Ye Gods, Margate Old Town serves the largest breakfasts in the world. Hugely full but content, I sit down at my window overlooking the bay, to focus on my story's timeline. It's become a monster, like one of those dogs that has to have counselling because it's become pack leader in charge of the human family.

I tell it to sit, nicely, and divide it into the classic three parts: beginning, middle and end. Traditional model? Boring? Hope not. We expect to know where a novel begins.

 I come up with 20 first lines, each supposed to set the scene for my hero's knife-edge journey through the book. 'Thomas scraped the horse-shit from his coat', maybe not. 'His lawyer was drunk again, and in the gutter,' perhaps. 'He heard the elephant's ankle bells, and dragged his brief from the gutter,' now I'm getting there.

Not aiming for perfection yet - that can come later. Just brainstorming the different ways I can get an over-view. It's a waiting game, sitting it out on the cliff-tops of the imagination. Since the seagulls are screaming overhead, and I've had absolutely no exercise since I got here, decide to follow take the stiff climb to the old castle, for 'Jack in the Green'.

I join the crowds, albeit nervously, for this most traditional of ceremonies - the day the Spirit of Summer is set free. Morris Dancers everywhere.

Challenge myself to jot down at least five different scenes, with summaries. They might be included in the first act. They might not. The point at this stage is get a body of material down, being patient, stalking the tale. I look up, and see that Jack, the old green man of winter, is about to reach a bloody end.

Finally, the summoning. New life is on its way.

Like the Morris Dancers in Margate, I saved the summoning until everything was ready. On the train journey back to London I have two hours, one ham sandwich and three cappuccinos' worth of energy in which to explore my main man, Thomas Tarling, and his desperate bid to escape the law.

You can find Margate here:

 

http://www.margateoldtown.co.uk/

Creative Integrity - Last Stand or Last Breath?

Good grief, what a week we've had here in London.  On the one hand, the final section of the last ever Harry Potter film premiered to riotous but peaceful success in theatre land. Fans young and not so young swarmed into the 'West End' of the city. They dressed up, they sat on the lions in Trafalgar Square and generally made no trouble at all.

On the other, Wapping Station stands deserted in the wake of the 'News of the World' phone hacking scandal which grew daily. The senior staff were declared to be the 'No. 1 Priority', while 200 or so clerical  and portering staff in the paper's offices in Wapping lost their employment. Wapping's not a rich part of London - at one time it was the site of the great London shipping trade. Fortunes were made from trade and export then, but not by the local people. They're not likely to prosper out of the demise of a newspaper empire either.

That's before we even start to consider the victims of this alleged atrocity - the families of murdered children, bereaved parents of serving soldiers, the Royal family - how the list grows and grows. Well, the truth pf it all will come out sooner or later.

It is, of course, easy to be sanctimonious after the event, and perhaps this is the moment to take stock, and ask if there's anything I am currently doing, or paying lip service to, 'because everyone else does.'

One thing I do remember is that J. K. Rowling, a decade or so ago, was ridiculed by some of the very journalists who now have time on their hands.  Rowling's crime? She stuck to her guns about what she would, and would not, put in her books. She was choosy about sponsors, about merchandising, caring more about the content of young minds than about money.  Yet what riches it brought her, in the end.

Jennifer Pittam is a winner of Coast to Coast Writing Competition and is working on her second novel.