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

Birmingham, Oscar Wilde & Nana's Pure Filth

This week I've been in Birmingham for a huge court case.  For those unfamiliar with Britain, Birmingham is a city in what we call the Midlands - quite literally, the middle part, geographically, of the British Isles.

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

The view from my hotel was tranquil and uplifting, unlike the court case which was gruelling and difficult to listen to. Safeguarding my own mental health, I took my writer's notebook to the Birmingham Museum of Art. Here I learned far too much about the punishing air-raids of World War II, when the city was reduced to rubble by enemy bombing.

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Birmingham Blitz, WWII

 It was very moving to see the black and white photos of the civilian population, who continued to work and maintain the country when their homes and businesses had gone. Many were mothers, left at home whilst husbands and sons served in the armed forces. As always in war, the civilian population in  the enemy country suffered in exactly the same way, as people are doing in war-torn countries today.

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Mothers & Air Raid Wardens, both...

Once I'd thoroughly depressed myself and could read no more sad history of heartbreak and valour, I came, quite suddenly, upon this glorious statue of the Archangel Lucifer.

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

Archangel Lucifer, the Bringer of Light

Lucifer was referred to in the book of Isiah, known as the bringer of light and most beautiful of all the angels. The sculptor, Jacob Epstein, was a Jewish refugee and had a cottage in my own part of the world, Epping Forest. Epping Forest has many glorious, ancient oaks and gnarled hornbeams.  I was fascinated to learn that he used an entire tree, one that had been brought down in a storm, to create the first impression of this glorious bronze which stands at least 20' or 7 metres high.

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

Hornbeam Trees, Epping Forest 

Epstein gifted the statue to the people of Birmingham in 1947, when virtually the entire city had been reduced to junk. Epstein was a controversial character, like so many artists of genius. Most of his greatest works were both loved and hated when they were first revealed. Statues of classical figures had always been carefully posed, standing with their private parts discreetly concealed with drapery or a fig leaf, before Epstein. Not only did he create massive artworks that were anatomically explicit, but he had them leaping around or flying, displaying their bits with abandon.

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Bits on Display

An anonymous benefactor paid Epstein £2000, a fortune at that time, to carve a tribute for the tomb of Oscar Wilde, to be erected beside the chaste crosses and simple stones in Pere Lachaise Cemetery, Paris. Almost immediately, the French police rushed to to drape a tarpaulin over the offending item, which was not that large compared with its owner, but certainly considered a danger to the crowds looking up. My Nana, viewing it on her first holiday abroad famously reported, 'well, it IS pure filth dear'.

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

Oscar Wilde's Tomb at Pere Lachaise

The Archangel Lucifer may be filth, or at least well-endowed, but for me it's a truly glorious work of art and I completely understood, as I returned evening after evening, why the people of Birmingham had welcomed that particular bad boy into their hearts.

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

Epstein's Archangel Lucifer, Back View 

Returning, exhausted, on the train home I dozed and, in the early evening, woke up to a glorious sunset and a huge murmuration of starlings. Starlings are a common bird in the UK - black plumage, bright eyes, large communities. In autumn time they are joined, rather mysteriously by European cousins and huge numbers can be seen, swirling in bilingual delight, on the wild Fens in middle Britain.

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No-one knows exactly why they do it - some scientists claim it's a defence mechanism against birds of prey. Doesn't quite wash with me - there's something, moving, enthralling and I might say, mildly scary about a murmuration comprising many thousands. Pity the poor red kite that tried to tangle with that lot - maybe they just do it for the joy of living. How about that...

'To live is the rarest thing in the world' 

Oscar Wilde 1854-1900

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.

Fight It Out

Today I wrote a fight scene, between my protagonist Thomas Tarling and his brother-in-law, Zackariah Scarrott. It's something I've been working up to for a while. I've been at pains to show Thomas in particular as a 'real' man with hopes, disappointments and feelings as well as a manly 'hard' side. I was becoming concerned that he might seem too fearful for the hero of a Georgian novel, so I set this fight on the edge of Bethnal Green (which in those days was a wilder place than now). A long writing day, but a satisfying one.

Down by the Lost River Effra

Kennington's Gorgeous Bats

It's been a glorious week in London, just as late spring 'should' be. By contrast, there are ghastly things looming large in the world, and a fair percentage rock up in my courtroom. The  lunch break is my sanity check, and I  head to Kennington Park bearing salad box and writer's notebook. Stress  falls away - thank the Lord for riotous flower beds, sculpted lawns and centuries-old London Plane trees.

The Sculpted Lawns and Ancient Trees
Photo by Jennifer Pittam

Kennington Park  was common land for hundreds of years. It's first recorded officially in the 1600s. There were village settlements, semi-wild forest and the River Effra, a proud Celtic tributary of the River Thames. The first Queen Elizabeth sailed her barge down the River Effra to Sir Walter Raleigh's Brixton home, but now, like both of them, the River Effra's six feet under the ground.

The Lost River Effra

I wonder whether Sarah Elston walked on the banks of the River Effra. Sarah was the last poor woman to be burned at the stake, in England.  She had murdered her husband and they consigned her to the flames, here in my beautiful park, charged with witchcraft and treason. History does not record what the husband had done to provoke her, but whatever it was, they wouldn't have burned him for it, of that we can be sure.

Sarah Elston's Memorial Garden
Photo by Jennifer Pittam

I'm lucky to live in the 21st century - albeit in a country where I won't be pilloried or burned at the stake, where my body is my own and my choice of religion likewise. I work on my novel, drafting a few plot points before I have to return to the world of witnesses, legal bundles and oath statements.  Very often I'm joined by a chittering squirrel or, in late afternoon, a family of bats who circle me with eery accuracy and total silence before returning to their roost. Perhaps they too are haunted by London's Lost River Effra.

When the wind blows

The quiet things speak

Some whisper, some clang 

Some squeak.

When the wind goes - 

suddenly

then,

the quiet things 

are quiet again.

Lilian Moore 1909 - 2004

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.

Bolton: Hearing the Shadowy Horses

It's a week when British temperatures rise from near-freezing to idyllic. Just miles across the English Channel, the Notre Dame Cathedral burns, and I travel to the north west of England for a court case.

Bolton le Moors
Photo by Jennifer Pittam

I've never been to Bolton le Moors before and, as always, I look forward to my trip. For a writer, it's great to have somewhere new to see. Writing tutors tell you time and time again, 'write about what you know'; took me years to realise that also means 'write about what you come to know'.

Bolton turns out to be a town of immense age, with a proud history in the cotton trade. James Arkwright invented the Spinning Jenny here,  so my Stanford's Guide tells me, and the building is now a funky record shop. The Grammar school was founded in 1516.

James Arkwright invented the Spinning Jenny here...

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

I didn't find the school but I loved being so near the parish church, St Peter's of Bolton-le-Moors. Amazingly in this modern world, the church is open and active every day. I was bowled over by the atmosphere in this place - the brooding, shadowy secrets of the moor loom, even though you're sat in the pews for a quiet word with Our Lord.

The Parish Church of Bolton-le-Moors

Photo by Jennifer Pittam

Armed with my trusty guide-book, I head off to the local pub 'The Olde Man and Scythe'.  This tavern is a glorious, black-and-white timbered affair, and the landlord very content to tell me all about it (at length, but landlords, like cab drivers, have to be allowed their say).

The Old Man & Scythe has a lovely landlord...
Photo by Jennifer Pittam

Bolton was staunchly 'for Parliament' during the English Civil War (perhaps more properly known as the British Civil War since everyone was drawn into it). Unfortunately for the 17th century populace, the surrounding lands were all for the King. Consequently, the little town suffered invasion and besiege on many an occasion. At one point it was stormed by 3,000 hostile soldiers, led by Prince Rupert of the Rhine and some 1,500 people died. Strong stuff, and obviously, someone must be to blame, so the Earl of Derby lost his head.  'Spent his last night at this very bar,' concludes our host, and gulps his pint with unholy relish.

Photos by Jennifer Pittam

I hear the shadowy horses, their long manes a-shake

Their hooves heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;

The north unfolds above them clinging, creeping night.

W. B. Yeats 1865-1939

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.

Gloves Mean Goodbye

So, if you were quick this week you might have caught my short piece on BBC Radio 2.  It all started when DJ Nicki Chapman featured an item on superstitions. 'So why,' said a lady, 'did my dear mum always refuse to pick up a pair of gloves, if she dropped them on the floor. As children we always had to do it for her. She was so strong and independent in other ways, it used to drive me mad.' Well, I knew the answer to that one from my own strong Nana - gloves mean goodbye.

Allen & Hanbury article

Stretcher railings in Kennington Park

Summer in the Light, Winter in the Shade

This week I saw the first flight of swallows come screaming into Kennington Park as I took a much-needed breath of fresh air.  I just love to see them arrive, so streamlined, so keen to be here. In London, this is the season of sudden squalls, of instant hailstorms followed by beautiful, blossom-fragranced days.

It's been a bit like that in the mother of parliaments, too. Almost three years ago, 23 June 2016 to be precise, our Prime Minister, David Cameron, put the question of 'in or out' of the European Union to a democratic vote by the British people. We weren't prepared at all for such an important referendum, except with shameless lies and deception by both sides of the argument. We voted to leave by 51.9%  - hardly a huge majority. Whilst I'm grateful to live in a democracy, and I don't underestimate how precious that is, quite frankly if there were still a pillory in London I'd like to lock that hapless former leader inside for an Easter gift.

The pillory was a medieval idea. Whoever thought of it I can't imagine, but there have been pillories in Britain since 1351, and the principle was that the perpetrator of a crime, usually one of fraud or deception, had his hands and head shut in a wooden frame, somewhere very public. Then, he was subjected to the wrath of those he had injured.

 The most prominent pillory in London was sited just off Charing Cross, where the statue of King Charles I is now. Whenever I'm in that part of town I get a vivid picture of the scene, with the criminal forced to stand there all day, the roar of the crowd, the pelting of rotted fruit, dead animals, offal, ordure or worse (if there is worse).

Where the Statue of King Charles 1 is now

It was vile, cruel and primitive - but generally reserved for those who had ruined the lives of others on a grand scale. The issue with Brexit is not so much which side of the argument one falls, but the sheer uncertainty that becomes more ruinous each day for the small British manufacturers, importers, shopkeepers and nurserymen, to name but a few. Some of those in the hallowed halls of parliament might do well to try and imagine the feeling of sheer frustration and helplessness we feel out here in the real world.

The Roar of the Crowd

'It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold, when it is summer in the light, wnter in the Shade' 

Charles Dickens 1812-1870

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.