15
06.12.2011 concrete.creativewriting@uea.ac.uk
CREATIVE WRITING SPOTLIGHT
Writer’s Block
Holiday
He sat almost perfectly still, index fingers hovering over the keyboard. His hands trembled ever so slightly, his chest moved in and out as he breathed. An exasperated sigh escaped his lips, right before his head slumped forward and his hands fell to the side of the laptop. He had been sitting at the computer desk for approximately two and a half hours, thus far having typed only three words that were promptly deleted: ‘The’ and ‘A’ and ‘The’ again. His right hand shot upwards, seemingly of its own accord, and ran slowly through his greying hair. He sighed again, loudly, briefly warming the air in front of his haggard face. The chair screeched against the floor as it was pushed back. He stood, legs aching, and stretched his arms out satisfactorily. His editor would not be pleased, but quite frankly he didn’t care. He just didn’t feel like writing today. He looked over at his drinks cupboard, then at the bookcase, smiling widely. No, he didn’t feel like writing today. He was going to get pissed and read some Kafka.
“As you reached out,” she says, “your shirt ripped.” It’s my favourite shirt too, and damn her for noticing. The sleeve caught on a nail on the bar and nearly ripped clean off. It’s a hot day and I’ve lost the effort to argue. I pick up my drink, hand her hers; she didn’t offer to pay. When we sit down, I fish an ice cube out of her glass and slide it around the inside of my collar. “What the hell did you do that for?” I drop it back into the glass, part-melted. “Disgusting.” “Then buy yourself another. And one for me while you’re at it.” By the time she gets back I’ve taken the shirt right off and I know she’s about to tell me I’ll burn. “You’ll burn, you know.” “We’re in the shade.” She picks up her glass and cradles it protectively. I watch the sea as it hurts itself onto the shore over and over again; it must really hate itself. Her sunglasses perch mockingly on top of her head and I want to rip them off and throw them in. There’s a white boat a little ways out. The manager comes over and asks me to put my shirt back on. “But this is the fucking beach.” He shakes his head with his lips pressed closed and she smiles away from us, as if she’s spotted a friend she’s waiting for and she’s not actually with me. I shrug the shirt back on but don’t button it and the manager leaves. He’s sweating, there’s a dark damp patch between his shoulderblades. The boat swings closer to shore, smaller than it looked. It’s pulling something, one of those hanggliders, windsurfers, whatever you call them, a tiny man dangling from a brightly coloured sail. As I watch and she drains her glass, the sail lifts up in the air, the man soaring, so high it makes your stomach lurch.
Matt Mulcahy
Q&A with UEA writers.
Platform Poppies
Abby Erwin
I dropped my suitcases and turned around. You had been watching from the entrance, with tears in your eyes and a strangled ‘Goodbye’ on your lips. But you weren’t there anymore.
This week - Sarah-Joy Wickes
What are you studying?
I’m a first year BA Scriptwriting and Performance student.
What’s your favourite word?
I use the word ‘languid’ a lot. It was from when I first read ‘The Picture of Dorian Grey’ and the word just kept popping up every couple of pages. Curiosity got the better of me and I looked it up. It’s one of those lovely words that sounds so much like its meaning.
How do you defeat writer’s block?
I like to read little anecdotes on the internet. I often skim through postsecret.com in search of inspiration. Otherwise, if the block occurs half way through a project, usually doing a bit of research sparks my interest again.
What inspires you?
Lyrics. My best work is usually inspired by a song or album. Bob Dylan is good for this, but i also get a lot of inspiration from artists such as The Antlers, Modest Mouse and Neutral Milk Hotel.
Who are your favourite writers?
I love Louis de Bernières. He has a really strong narrative voice. Captain Corelli’s Mandolin is my favourite book, mostly for the reason that you become so endeared to the characters - you feel like you know them to the point that you’re always rolling your eyes at the typical things that they do and say.
They were selling poppies on Platform Nine. A pound for a poppy, to remember the heroes of war. Those people who fell defending that which they loved. I bought two poppies, one for each of us. I will remember you.
Sarah-Joy Wickes
To Kindle or not to Kindle?
Poetry Corner
“
Sloe Berries - Katherine Duckney I smile at what I think is nature’s cunning as I probe for the hidden bead-sheen sloes which tumble, preciously heavy into the palm.
they are meant to be found by the birds. They will send out the seeds. They are not protected like you think they are. Now come down from there, Kate.
There is a fierce heart in these leaves, isn’t there? There is a snapping Motherbird which shuffles the eggs in close, and takes my fingers to pieces with her talons of twigs when I try taking what is hers. It exists everywhere; now I am utterly sure that there is such thing as a love so natural it needs no mind.
Why is my love for you so sad now in the sudden Autumn? Why do my own thorns shroud you like the forest that kept the world away from the beautiful sleeper? I know that with the coming of the hearth colours, with the wind that sends scarves ribboning you will leave home again. We are picking these berries for the brandy and gin, and I do not want you to take it away and drink it by yourself.
But a frown sits strangely between your eyes as you watch me. I sense your diagram-knowledge of the earth standing warily on the path as I climb, as I wildly make, as I force a warm heart into the mouth of everything. No, no, you say softly, once I am too high,
So when your back is turned I bend to pluck a night-blue berry, and with my face in the leaves so you cannot see I whisper all my sorries; I felt that little cling as I pulled your fruit away, mother. I know that we should not, but we do all the same.
”
Definitely ‘To Kindle’. I was given one for my 18th and it has been amazing. Sure, you don’t get that ‘used book smell’ but I’ve never called myself a prescriptivist about anything. The books are cheaper, it’s easy to read (no squinting into the spine for that last word!) and if you go travelling then you have plenty of choice without the extra baggage. I definitely recommend them.
Do you prefer handwriting or typing?
For everything but extended works of prose I write by hand. My handwriting’s terrible, but the advantage of writing by hand is that I can make notes and scribbles all over my latest piece so that when I come back to it I know what needs changing.
What’s the weirdest thing that’s inspired you? There have been situations where i really should have been concentrating to what was being said and getting more emotionally involved with what was going on around me, but in my head all I’ve been doing it imagining how i would write this particular moment as a scene in a book.
Read Sarah’s flash fiction in this issue!