The moment you lose yourself completely in the act of writing, where time melts away and you feel wholly absorbed, as if the words are flowing through you rather than from you, then you know you are a writer.
For me that moment was a long time coming. English homework was simply a chore with maternal eyes scanning over each sentence with a critical look, pointing out errors in word choice, and a focus on flaws diluted any developing strengths. I had never had this problem in primary school, it was a shock. Though well-intentioned, the level of deflation of the little confidence I had built up while writing resembled a lift plummeting to the ground.
I learnt to doubt my ability to express myself freely, glimpses remain within my character. My unique voice was reshaped and pushed aside, replaced by a vision of how things “should” sound. With my writing constrained it was harder to trust my own creativity.
A learning curve set with such challenge enables you to develop strategies as you strive to balance criticism whilst holding on to the parts of your voice, written or vocal, that are uniquely yours.
Through the downs of such feedback I become a more resilient writer, the ups would come in adulthood as I gained an appreciation of constructive criticism, a style far removed from the school of domesticity.
Whilst I can never say I am a confident writer; I am high maintenance in seeking feedback however at least I share my writing more freely than ever before. I have life experiences to thank for my writing development.
Firstly, meeting my husband, a turning point in more ways than one. Life would take a new direction and with-it freedoms unknown. My voice was listened to, and my words treasured. Sharing my work with him initially raised memories of homework days, a sharp knife twisting, yet with his nurturing style and professionalism I quickly realised the difference between being critical and giving criticism that is constructive. Seeing him moved by a piece moved or simply intrigued is such an accolade, a joy.
Being in territories new, a whole world to explore and yet I was an unknown. Being a people person and wanting to embrace everything on offer, I joined a creative writing project with Nottingham City Arts and Nottingham Trent University sponsored by Nottingham City Homes.
Based on the writings of Alan Sillito, the project focussed on Saturday Night, Sunday Morning, Goose Fair Trading was the result. The piece relies on the experiences of the fair in Kendal, my home town and the testosterone laden antics of the young traveller men, who had a ‘Don’t let the Bastards grind you down’ attitude ogling at the parade of school girls as they walked over the river bridge, it serving as a convenient catwalk. I felt very much part of the fabric of the city.
The inner writer was released with a piece of writing that felt right, harnessed life, was meaningful, in its capture of a fleeting observations. My words were resonating beyond me on aa adventure unknown.
The moment I saw the world differently, through the lens of storytelling, and understanding that being a writer is way of seeing, feeling, and capturing life in words. No matter where life takes me, I am never afraid to come back to a blank page, as I now know writing is part of who I am, a calling that moment you realise writing is a calling, is a moment to treasure.
Goose Fair Trading
Traveller eyes kept looking, pulling and releasing, like the oversized ratchets used to secure the rides
Occasionally eyes sparked like welding guns, penetrating gaze
Fixed and determined
The traveller trade passed on from man to boy and boy became man
Chitter chatter and inherited patter, a nomadic apprenticeship
In life, in work, in play
Life had all the ups and downs of the carousel
In kit form it was motionless, the discarded horses lifeless, fully operational it was a night magnet
Full of eye candy, blonde, brunette and all the colours in-between
Fast paced, a training ground for flirting
Goose Fair, a trading post for romance
24 – 7 eyes rolled, eyes lusted
Sledge hammers, the leaning post of the youth, for glancing the girls, schools out, skirts hitched
Spanners were ‘downed’ at 3.40
More from Janice here:
There’s No Such Thing as an Englishman
There’s No Such Thing as an Englishman is an anthology of poetry from an irritated England and marks the many sources of irritation faced by the average Englishman or woman these days – everything from the railways to referenda via what ever it is the young call music these days.
It was launched on 31 January 2020 – the day when the UK left the European Union and when the phenomenon known as Brexit finally, we liked to think, finally evaporated and all those years of frustration, anger, sheer disbelief and irritation all come to rest. But as Chairman Mao once said about what he thought the effects of the French Revolution were, it was way too soon to tell.
But its two authors – Nick Owen and Janice Owen – have become accomplished at becoming irritated at many facets of life in England over the years and hope that you, dear reader, will find some solace in knowing that you are not alone when it comes to feeling frustrated, pissed off, angry or just good old fashioned irritated.
Being English though, means we’ve just reached a level of irritation and aren’t quite ready to riot. Yet.
£5.99
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