Instead of boring you with a list of books read in 2017, I’ll take a leaf out of the book of the Writers Write Book Reading Challenge 2018 and give it a little tweak. So here is a little writing prompt for the year ahead and those times when your creative inspiration has hit a wall.
Try writing a story (or a poem or an essay if you prefer) according to each of these guidelines:
Have fun and Happy New Year!
PS: My award for the best book I read in 2017 is shared by Lost and Found by Brooke Davis and The Trouble with Goats and Sheep by Joanna Cannon, both with young girls as protagonists.
Every time I have to move house or, disgusted by all the earthly ‘stuff’ we have gathered, once again contemplate moving to a small cabin in the woods, I am brought to a halt by the burden of books. While I could undoubtedly squeeze my clothes into one large suitcase, books occupy ten or twenty times the space.
The Tiny House movement is commendable and enviable for its minimalist approach, fitting big lives into small spaces without making it seem crowded. A book (!) on small eco houses has me drooling with envy for their stripped-down simplicity. But romantic notions of living in a shelter no bigger than a chicken coop go flying out the door when I contemplate my lexical menagerie. They tug at my apron strings like a band of hungry children and with a sigh I have to resume responsibility.
Besides the essential books, both fiction and non-fiction, that fill the shelves in the house, there are the stacks of textbooks from two or three university degrees, many which are almost certainly outdated and will never be consulted again, but which I cannot bring myself to chuck out. Add to that two crates of photo albums, the same of diaries, countless sketchbooks, and files full of the various documents that keeps modern life ticking. (Where are the dreams of a paperless office now?)
Except for the documents, textbooks and the occasional research tome, going digital is not an option for me. I am incapable of reading anything longer than a (short) email on a screen, one of the reasons I have been unable to follow any blogger, columnist or otherwise digitally occupied writer with more than a nominal fidelity. Photos and diaries can and probably should be scanned as a backup, but you don’t expect me to throw away the originals, do you? Good.
Even more than the boxes full of books that have travelled halfway round the world with me, there is the collection of paintings that now officially occupy one whole bedroom in our house. To the original legacy of seventy plus paintings (not to mention more than five hundred watercolour sketches and forty years’ worth of sketchbooks) from my dear departed mother, I have been steadily adding my own paintings, with no hope of ever selling anything.
In a recent computer scare Someone was in danger of losing twenty years of digital data, much of it (like the books) irrelevant and of purely nostalgic value. Even as I secretly chided him for crying over “treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal”, I knew that I was equally guilty as charged.
Is it then wrong to love beautiful things? Is it immoral to crave an environment that feeds your soul with words, music, or art? Should we live Spartan lives and spurn even the accumulation and preservation of cultural arts and artefacts? Of course not. Call me biased or blasphemous, but beauty is surely a drop of the essence of God and therefore essential to spiritual survival. Living without beauty kills the soul.
This does not solve my dilemma of living a simple life without getting rid of loads of books and art. It is the existence that my dear mother, her of the many paintings and the many-splendored life, somehow managed to achieve in her last years. But not without cheating, I might add, as her one-bedroom house-cum-gallery was extended with an annexed guestroom, a painting studio and a storeroom.
So here is my wish for the new year (or some near future before I die) – a small hut in the wood with a large library stacked to the rafters with books and walls covered with lovely paintings. Heaven, no?
Writing is a thing of the mind. It is in essence the arrangement and placement of words, a very virtual reality. Unlike visual art, which is made out of paint and paper and ink and wood and clay and suchlike, writing seems to be pretty much distanced from any physical reality. Or so you might think.
But it is not so. Why, in the dead of night, when I should have been off to bed, have I suddenly come to this black-on-white conclusion? Because of a pen.
Ours is a household well-populated with writing instruments. There is one on top of the fridge, one on the veranda, one or more at each computer, one on each bedside table, a few for every car, some extras in a drawer, and one in just about every bag, computer bag, handbag or backpack – you get the idea. The slightest rumour of pen drought has me scurrying off to buy some more.
One can never have too many pens or notebooks.
In general pens in their physicality are either unobtrusive or annoying. A few months ago, through some inane contribution to the pages of Reader’s Digest, I was awarded a fancy fountain pen. Valued at forty dollars, I was told. I did not like it. Its tip felt scratchy on the page. It jarred my senses and sensitivities. I was glad when its ink finally ran out.
Most of the time I don’t even notice the character of pens. Seldom do they give me any pleasure. When writing, I much prefer a pencil. It might be some association with drawing or maybe a childhood memory of learning to write – soft on the upward stroke and harder on the down. But then, I was taught to write with a paintbrush on the back of my mother’s paintings, so that can’t be right either.
However that may be, the pen that is keeping me up tonight is a cheap three dollar one* I picked up from the local news agent. I love the feeling of the marks it makes on paper.
It slips and slides and wriggles
it whips out words
across the white expanse
ready to churn out a poem a story a novel a dance
(I cannot put it away yet.
I will let it play yet.
Give it free reign, why not?)
Let me tell you a story, any story, my life story. Or give me a list to jot down or a letter to write. Just don’t let the words dry up tonight.
Oh, for the physicality of writing!
Oh, for the love of a pen!
* If you needed to know, this one is called Papermate FlexiGrip Ultra 0.8F.
I love words; there’s no denying my addiction. Words in and for themselves: languorous, confabulation, gossamer, ethereal… Even more so in my native Afrikaans: koekemakranka, bollemakiesie, abjater, pypkan, verkneukel, ietermagog. I could go on for hours. And don’t get me started on word etymologies, tracing a word back to its first blooming hundreds of years ago.