Sunday, 22 January 2012

The right place to write.

After the blog about my desk , I thought I would share some of  the other places that I choose to write.

 The garden summerhouse, mostly used for reading. This is a place for contemplation, for sunshine and quiet personal space in the garden. This is a place for distant thoughts and near unseeing gazing. This is where hours pass in minutes, where time stands still, an oasis in a busy world all painted in white and blue. With an ever changing altar of flowers, shells and inspirational objects this is a haven for me, somewhere away from the telephone and the computer.


The ironing board, maybe a surprising place to some. I am renowned for ironing tea towels and dishcloths. I find that the act of ironing everything smoothly and removing all the creases is rather soothing, sorting, folding and hanging is akin to writing words, sentences , phrases and paragraphs. Matching up socks is like connecting the right imagery.

I iron in black and white so that I can dream and write in colour.

I button up shirts, rather like collating words into neat phrases, tidying away emotions into clipped sentences.

I spray my bedlinen with fragranced water so that our dreams are sweet and my thoughts can be calm and tranquil and then the subconscious can flow.

All is ordered and piled neatly after the chaos, it sorts my mind and my words.

 My running shoes: I don't  write whilst I'm running , or more often lately power-walking. But I do plot, scheme, pace and daydream. Sometimes if I am stuck, I find the fresh air and the movement just jogs the mind along. I can walk fast with a soundtrack of music, and then the words just flow. I have an inner conversation with myself, playing out words and phrases and situations, again and again, footstep after footstep. In a way it is a type of editing, a proof reading of verboseness. A pruning.

Don't you sometimes, just lie on your back and stare at the sky and day dream? As a child I am sure we have all imagined clouds as stories, or creatures all with their own stories to tell. You just had to relax back on the grass and lose yourself in the huge expanse of sky, the blue and white again, just ready to tell a story if you opened your eyes and watched the clouds move.          

Then, there is the hammock. A difficult place to write, but not a difficult place to dream. It is rather like a huge pram for grown-ups, a gentle rocking motion , a cradling. It is a very safe and secure environment, particularly when the sun is warm, conducive to day- dreaming and imagining.

My handbag always has a notebook in. I have been known to scrawl words or sentences on the back of a cheque book or the odd envelope. So now I have large folders that look like books,. I can store random pieces of paper inside then  that they can all come together pages, sentences, phrases and words at some point in time.

To be without a pen and paper is a sorry state.

So, in all of these places little stories are formed, some may see the light of day, or rather the back and white of ink. Some may stay in the box and some may stay in the subconscious to mature like a good wine . Let's hope they are not corked.

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