In most writing how to and course books, they get you
writing a daily journal, be it the old Morning Pages idea (which never works
for me, for multiple reasons[1]),
or a place where you sort of therapeutize yourself and nick some of the
imagistic results for your stories etc.
Late last year I decided this was a fun idea, to journal in addition to
traditional writing exercises, so I began.
The way it often goes, is you sort of personify the Journal,
as if you are speaking to a part of yourself, or an idealised reader etc. The 2 exercise books I was writing from
encouraged me to try an Introduction to the Journal for myself, what I wanted
it to do, plus writing an imaginary advert for a Journal Keeper – someone (of
myself) who would see to it the Journal was regularly written in and kept
safe. Another bit of me would then reply
(or several would, depending how prolific I felt or how much time on my
hands…). Then there’d be an interview,
where I’d question and appoint the Journal Keeper.
All very (a) complicated and dumb sounding, or (b)
imaginative and silly, but possibly interesting…well, either way, here you
go. Self indulgence or genuine writing
exercise: you decide. This is what I
produced (when I probably should have been writing something more relevant,
snicker; or alternatively, solving crime[2]…)
***
Introduction to Journal, dedication:
I name you Alchemy. I
am no Cornelius Agrippa.
I am no Eliphas Levi, no Aleister Crowley.
You are but a notebook pressed on with my pen.
No secret spell ripples you different.
No incantation makes you any other than just mine.
And yet:
You and I together will take –
Sand and make of them diamonds.
Insults and make of them insights.
Cries from the void and make of them flying in the darkness:
free.
Joy will be captured and nodded at – not lost.
The world and all in it, will be larger and more clear.
Because you and I hold hands
And bend heads to paper: we can change.
Refashion. Resurrect.
We are magic.
Advertisement for Position of Journal Keeper:
Person needs to be
able to:-
- Instigate an immediate feeling of being calm enough to write.
- Capable of thoroughgoing emotional honesty.
- Take advantage of very short bursts of time and quickly get into a flow, producing something worthy of starting[3].
- Shoot The Critic down incontrovertibly if he shows up. (This harks back to an exercise I did with the Dennis Palumbo book, where I personified my inner critic. This has repurcussions, as you will see.)
- Keep the Journal Writer coming back – remind the Journal Writer of the commitment needed and the rewards commensurate with doing this.
Salary:
Greater than rubies.
By becoming the Journal Writer’s guardian, safe space, psychiatrist,
confidante, and sister-or-brother-friend, you effectively have the power of the
Gods. Use it well.
Location: Live in, 24 hour availability. Infectious energy.
Letter of Application from prospective Journal keeper/ Journal
Guardian:
Dear JW,
I was drawn to apply for this position because I must admit,
my ego jumped and leapt at hearing I would have the power of the Gods were I to
fulfil my post correctly.
I want to tell you, straight up, that I am doggedly
tenacious when I get into something. And
I rather like the idea of being named Alchemy.
I’m going to be honest here, and tell you that my own life
has not been specifically marked by these qualities, causing action and
palpable results. I may, by own
reckoning, be something of a coward.
But it occurred to me, reading your ad and being between
jobs, that what I might be good at, is assisting someone else. You see, it’s so much easier to defend,
fortify, release or glorify (or some other nice big fat word) another than
oneself.
I thought: to be all those things you list, to you – I can
see myself doing that. And in doing
them, not only would I help you uncover strength you only hoped for, within
yourself, but I might find it in myself too.
This is a highly unconventional application I know. I have been guilty of slightly pompous and
flowery language. I’ve been reading lots
of Victorian novels recently, sorry. I
understand if you receive better applications and choose not to see me.
But. My own life has
not been a success, in particular. Nor a
great failure. More of a
great…constraining of potential. I know
what NOT to do. What to avoid. And I know all about the support I would have
wished to receive for myself. I think I
can give these things to you. To be your knight in shining armour (the
Victorians were a bit obsessed with the whole Arthurian shebang, weren’t they?);
or your wise fairy godmother.
By holding hands with you, I think we could both end up
twice as tall. For you, I would have the
courage to slay dragons.
Yours, etc etc etc…
Interview
It’s a light and airy room, with hardly any furniture. Three floors up. From the large open window,
full daylight and blue skies can be seen. The sun shines with the light of
midday. Sounds of a children’s
playground, that squawk squawking that carries on the wind can be heard,
washing in and out depending on the soft breeze.
There’s a strong smell of hyacinths. Its late spring, and it feels like early
summer. Fresh. Possible. The white walls echo the light, clean and
empty, calming.
I sit in the only armchair in the room, listening to the
ticking of the anonymous clock on the wall above the window. I dragged the chair across the room so that
it was strongly in the sunlight. Its
velvet covered, old. Has a soft worn
feel and smells musty, ever so slightly of frankincense; as if the last place
it lived was incongruously a Catholic Church.
I wait for the time of 12.15p.m. Re-reading that weird letter again, I worry
that I’m about to interview a stalker. A
mental patient. But the combined honesty
of this applicant and their lack of accepted job jargon, made her impossible to
ignore.
At exactly 12.15 I hear someone coming. What I hear is a confident step that falters
outside the room, and then softly sidles in.
I look up.
In the doorway is a shock.
This person looks exactly – no – considerably
is fairer, like someone else I know. The
Critic. They could be related.
Instead of greeting this person, I am aware I stare
instead. Then say: “Are you related to
The Critic? At all?”
The woman takes off her hat, an old trilby in beige. It’s seen better days, as has her raincoat. She regards me. With those same pale eyes, that same steady
stare. She stands just inside the
doorway and shrugs out of the thin raincoat.
It has a tired navy blue lining.
Navy blue is my least liked colour, ever. It doesn’t have the happiness of sky blue, or
any other shade of blue. It doesn’t have
the confidence to just get on with it and be black. It doesn’t go with anything. It doesn’t even contrast; just clash. When I see navy blue, what I see is sensible
shoes blending in, hiding behind ideas of efficiency and businesslikeness. In reality, to me, a navy blue person is no
person at all. They are a
background. Boring and bland.
I realise that I am still staring, that she has not yet
spoken. And that I am judging her based
on my personal prejudices alone…and on her raincoat lining. However, the rest of her clothes (and who
says they make no difference? They are cues, like all we see – signifiers; and
specially, coming to an interview, they are vital)…she wears a plain white
blouse, perfectly starched, no added detail whatsoever. Navy blue work slacks
and a pair of 80s flat brogues. For a
moment, my eyes blur a little, and she becomes a he, and also wears the world’s
most boring plain maroon tie. He is
thicker round the chest though still thin.
Either way, whoever they are, the hair is short, and pale pale
blonde, almost honey blonde, creamy set honey.
I am not taken with what I see at all. I can’t help feeling all this blending
conformity is stretching out to me and trying to smooth over my brain, to
amplify my placid tendencies. I practically
want to take a nap looking at this applicant.
What I see is completely at odds with what I read. This person wouldn’t have the energy to stalk
a snail. I am about to tell her the
interview is over, that’s it, when she finally says something.
She stands there, holding her hat between thin nervous
fingers. Not covered in thick silver
rings as his fingers are. Not active
like him. “The Critic is my father. I look very much like him, I know.”
Her stare is strange.
She looks directly at me. Once she
speaks, she has more solidity than before.
Her molecules come together in a rush and she is finally present. She pulls out the plain wooden chair and
positions herself in the traditional way; on the other side of the small table
from me. The hat goes in her lap and she
holds the brim calmly but tightly, puts her knees together.
“I didn’t think you’d see me if I mentioned that in the
letter. I can see it bothers you. I can see that even how I dress bothers you. But I am not him. So please, try to hear me as someone else,
someone you haven’t met before.”
I am a little bit gobsmacked. I turn to the clear jug next to me on the
table. (There’s every possibility it
wasn’t actually there a minute ago.) It’s
full of dark and cloudy apple juice. From
a farm that’s just over the hill, out of view, out of the window. If you listen, over the birdsong and children
still playing, you can hear the low mooing of faraway cows.
Quite obviously playing for time, and trying to think
through my own reactions and what she has said, I pour us both a squat tumbler
of juice. Its wonderfully cold and fat in my hands, thick and full of presence at
its base. I put one infront of her.
“Thankyou.” She says, nodding slightly.
I turn to her and try to read her face as she sips and isn’t
looking at me. Try to not see him, the
person who has interfered with my life possibly more than anyone else. Messing with
my mind and wasting my opportunities. I might
have learned to stand up to him (“go and do some knitting”, indeed!) – But that
doesn’t mean he hasn’t done me harm. And
could still, when I am low. And I can’t
be strong and brave all the time.
“ – which is why you could hire me for this job.” She cuts
in smoothly, putting the juice down.
I raise my eyebrows at her.
“I know the work my father does. He did it to me. I moved out a long time ago, but I didn’t
realise I took him with me. I’d listened
to him for so long that he had his own room in my head. He could wander in and
out at will. Running his finger along
dusty bookshelves, picking up half finished stories or paintings or songs I had
written. Sometimes he wouldn’t even
speak. He just made a face and put
something down again. Or just glance at
them and not pick them up at all. It wasn’t
even that he criticised. It was that he
never praised. Not for doing well, not
for trying, not for anything. I have
never had a mother. He would never
answer any of my questions about her. So
all I had was him. And he was never
proud of me. My metronome was him. Marking out apathy. Or just cutting remarks. If anyone can help you write more or better
or more often – without interruption and that damn fear: its me. Because I know your enemy like the back of my
hand. See, clichés are there for a reason
– use if accurate,” she adds, as an afterthought.
She has been very still and calm during this long explanation. I am a bit overwhelmed.
“When did you leave?”
I ask.
“When I was 16. As
soon as I legally could.” Her eyes are
on me, and I’m less worried by her now. I
see that in her hair is a very small clip, a sparkly butterfly, silver and coloured
glass. As she nods it catches the sun
and the wings seem to move, just slightly.
“Do you still see him, talk to him?” I ask gently.
“You know what he’s like.
He visits whenever he wants. Always
when it’s least welcome.”
“Hmm, that he does.”
“I heard you stood up to him the other day. For the first time ever. Congratulations. You completely wrong footed him.”
We share a rather triumphant smile.
“He has a new hobby,” she winks at me.
I clap my hands. “Really?! He knitted something?”
She smiles back and it makes her face a different one
altogether. She’s in that moment
entirely her own woman, mature, about 45, and there’s life behind her, life
before her. She is in the circle, spinning
and serene. She catches the sun.
“He made booties.” She says, surprise in her voice. “He did it very badly, and he put them in a
drawer afterwards and he hasn’t had them out since.”
“Baby booties?” I
feel a slight worrying frisson. “He didn’t
start with something simple, and he doesn’t have a baby, right?”
“No, he doesn’t,” she agrees. “I was mystified too. But I didn’t ask. You know how hard it is when you start something
new and it doesn’t go right. I didn’t
want to…”
“Hurt his feelings by saying anything?”
“Mmmm.” She says, as if as surprised as I am by this notion.
“Compassion? After
all he’s done to us, you gave him compassion?” I clarify.
“Yes.” She puts up her hands, palms flat out. “Don’t ask me why. I just…I’ve been there, so…his face…I couldn’t
say anything. The stitches were all big
and floppy. You could tell he was going
to have to sew bits of it up to hold it all together. Or just unpick it and do it again. They were a mess.” She says this last quietly, as if he’s here,
he might hear.
I feel a creeping respect for her. She sits there, hiding in her beige and white
and navy blue, and outdated shoes. And yet she is somehow more whole than she
should be, despite a lifetime of criticism.
Her back is straight, eyes calm, hands still. She has a measure of peace: a bit of herself
hidden away from what must have been a very unpleasant environment.
“Have you ever stood up to him?” I ask.
“When I left. He didn’t
want me to go. Said I was a whore, obviously off to play at my hormones with a
boy.”
“Did you leave for a boy?”
I am always nosy.
“Yes. I didn’t have a
reason I understood till the boy. And then
I did, and it made me feel braver.”
“I see. Ok…” I feel this interview has gotten right away
from me. I try and steer it back. “You’d
have to come and live with me, you know that?”
“That’s fine.” She
fingers the butterfly clip, which has slipped slightly. “I’m not living with anyone right now, it’s
just me. Rented. I can go.”
“And I might need you anytime. You’d have to stop what you were doing and
come and help me?”
“I learned a long time ago how to switch on and off from
tasks,” she says. She’s warm from
sitting in the sun; her face has a bit of a blush on it now. She looks way better, undoes her top shirt
button. “It would be an honour to look
after you. To try to,” she concedes.
I look at the clock. 1.20 p.m. An hour has passed. Where did that go?
She’s finished her juice.
“Can I have another one please?” she gestures her hand at the jug. “I don’t usually talk so much. Thirsty.”
As she holds out her glass and I pour, I see a tiny tattoo on her inner
right wrist as the sleeve rides up. It’s
a perfectly rendered Daisy.
“Gosh, that’s pretty,” I point, always a sucker for what I see
as the intense courage of anyone who’s suffered the pain of a tattoo. “You’re brave!”
“Me?” She looks at
her wrist. “I was drunk, was the only
way I could get myself in there!”
We laugh.
“Still brave! And really cute.”
She looks at it, as though she’d forgotten it for a long
time and is only just now reassessing it.
“It’s a symbol,” she says.
“Of what?”
“He always tried to define me. To nothing, to dust, to inertia. When I left I wanted to do something he’d
never do. Be separate, be me.”
“He disapproves of body art?”
“He disapproves of individuality.” She answers.
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
In that moment I realise I know all I need to. And can take a chance.
“You’d really slay dragons?” I smile at her.
She colours a bit more.
“That was a bit over the top wasn’t it?”
“A bit, but I got the point.”
“Yes I would.”
“Right then.”
I extend my hand over the table to her. She takes it hesitantly.
“You’re hired.” I
say, feeling a bit odd. I’ve never been
a boss before.
We chat a little, and she starts to get ready to leave. We arrange that’s she’ll move into the spare
room in the attic tomorrow.
As we part, I spontaneously give her a hug. She smells of outside, of meadows.
I pull back and realise I’ve left out something huge.
“I don’t know your name!”
She points at her wrist.
“I’ve changed my name. Now I’m
Daisy.”
When she puts on the trilby, it doesn’t seem battered or old
anymore. It seems jaunty and brave. It suits her.
After she has left, I watch her walk away over the hill,
from the window.
She takes off her raincoat, holds it over one arm and rolls
up her sleeves. Impossibly, strapped to
her side, how could I not see it before?, is a large silver broadsword.
The chick was armed!
Daisy Defender.
I sip juice, feel the sun on my face, and watch as she
passes out of my view for now, and away.
[1]
Which are: I get very little sleep at night and absolutely no peace first thing
in the morning. The chances of me
getting up earlier to write crap,
after a night where I was up 4 or 5 times with Fluffhead anyway, are remote to
zero. Also, letting my brain just talk
first thing in the morning, which is my most hairline trigger time of day (because
I am very tired and at a low ebb) can prompt a massive downward spiral that can
ruin a day or much longer. Self
reflection at this time is NOT a good thing for me; the random thoughts that
come out are mostly sad, angry or just plain nihilistic. Evening Pages used to work better for me, as
my brain used to start kicking in and roaming free after the days obligations
were starting to wind down. Again, with
the troubled nights I have and little space at this time for writing, I’m
currently unlikely to do them. In fact:
this idea does not work with my life at all, despite its fanatical devotion by
people for whom it does the trick. Just
thought I’d state that, in case there’s anyone else out there bullied by the
tyrannous ideal of Morning Pages as a psychological writing tool…
[2]
Yes, my Criminal Minds obsession is
still ongoing. I’m up to Season 7 now,
which is very slow for me. This is
because I got distracted by both The
Mentalist and Castle. I suddenly felt the urge to solve lighter
crime as well as heavy crime. And was
very happy to discover the lovely similarities between Remington Steele and Castle.
In that whilst both can be wondrous light and jokey, they were also capable of
a full emotional palette when it came to the crimes: both have had me in tears,
sap that I am. The Mentalist is a weird one.
The supporting cast make it, oddly.
The lead character is played so lightly and ambiguously, and against
grain for his backstory that he remains almost too sketchy to identify
with. Plus he doesn’t do quite enough
mentalist tricks to keep me as engaged as I could be…but then, I’m only up to
season 2 on this one, we’ll wait and see.
[3]
Shoot me now, if I EVER use the phrase: ‘hit the ground running’. Argghhhhh.
