The power of nurture

A billion realisations are running through my brain, and I think I need to share them; I’ve been trying but failing for some time to articulate something that feels really important to me . . .

When I set up Sapphist Writers, I had a very specific vision, and I think I’ve recently discounted my own voice and the power of that vision. Sapphist Writers was supposed to be something different, and its way of being, even though fluid and influenced by all its members had at its heart an important identity – part of which was not to be like other writer’s groups.

I’ve had a number of conversations recently, trying to get across something of what that original intention was, but I was struggling to articulate it. I spoke of wanting the group to be nurturing and supportive, but the counterpoint was ‘yes, but is that really any use to us in developing our writing?’

I realised that for such a long time I’ve been getting massive amounts of feedback on my writing from various other sources – from beta readers, from fellow members of my writer’s course, from tutors, from a particularly insightful partner, and even from other individual group members, so what was it in me that resisted the idea that the group as a whole needed to be more focussed on critiquing – that somehow without this, we aren’t sufficiently ‘developed’ as a group?

When I started the group I did extensive research, I had discovered that most successful writers discourage the joining of writers groups, and so part of what I wanted was not to be like those groups. How could feedback be more helpful? What is it we really need as writers? My attempts to express this have been woolly, and have left my fellow writers thinking I’m scared of feedback or wanting us all to “play nice”.

Then today I was talking about writing as something deeply personal rather than abstract, and I finally understood. Creative writing cannot be simply an intellectual exercise – we really do put a part of ourselves into our writing and it really is us that we’re putting ‘out there’ when we share our work. These parts of ourselves need, above all, nurturing and feeding.

My instinctive desire to create a space where women could come together and feel nurtured and free of judgement was spot on, because I know as a counsellor we only grow if we don’t constantly hit against other’s inhibiting conditions of worth. In counselling, many believe the safe space and the good relationship are necessary and sufficient for growth, and I’m not so sure things aren’t the same for writers, which is why so many successful writers try to discourage people from joining groups; an over-zealous group can quickly inhibit a burgeoning writer. As humans we tend to fall into the idea that to control and guide people is more essential than to nurture and love them, but this probably isn’t the case.

Recently somebody said to me ‘telling me my poem’s wonderful is useless to me’ and so it is. But telling somebody what’s really good about the way they write is probably a million times more valuable than telling them what’s wrong with it, because as we’re always being told, energy flows where attention goes, and who wants the focus of their work to be on what they do wrong? That’s not to say critical feedback doesn’t have its use or its place, but I guess for me, I’d unnecessarily come to feel the group I’d created was somehow lacking because this had not been the main focus or purpose of its meetings. Now I think differently – in a world where we’re constantly being bombarded with messages of how to be better, I finally see the immense power of a space that says we’re wonderful just as we are. In fact, that may very well be the scariest and most challenging feedback of all.

Sapphist Writers are wonderful just as they are and I’m finally realising my original vision was a worthwhile one, and worth preserving. And with this realisation comes profound love and respect for all the Sapphist Writers, past and present, who have touched my life so deeply.

Click here to read post in full..

The Writing's on the Wall

Yes, it's true - our words are framed and on display. In celebration of LGBT History Month, this week Sapphist Writers has an exhibition in Cafe Art at Duncan Macmillan House, Porchester Road, Nottingham. This is the headquarters of Nottinghamshire Healthcare NHS Trust which is flying the rainbow flag for the whole of February.

If you are able, please come and take a look. The exhibition has a theme of "Sexual orientation and mental health" and can be viewed during office hours from Monday 21 February to Friday 25 February. If you can't make it, don't worry, as we'll be posting examples of work included in the exhibition here, as well as new writing exclusive to the blog!


Thank you to everyone who has made this possible. Please help to spread the word:

Click here to read post in full..

Where were you when...

*this is from a free writing we did in a group meeting, with the above title as our lead in*

I was in traffic. Not just traffic--people were sobbing over their steering wheels, ignoring the fact that they weren't moving, ignoring that people in other cars could see their red cheeks and snotty noses. The morning had started so cheerful, so quiet. Why hadn't anyone called? Why didn't anyone knock on the door to say, "have you heard?" No one did. And I was in traffic for three hours on the freeway, listening to radio announcers over and over and over again, and then screaming some more as a second plane careened through glass and metal, through bodies and hope.

I sat there, unmoving, knowing he was on that plane, he and his fiance'. For three hours, with no cell phone and no company but other drivers lost in their own misery and loss. By the time I got to work, frantic, there was already a message:

They missed the flight.

They were stuck in traffic, running late.

They missed the flight.

The boss said no one could take time off because the world went on. So tears were shed over the little black and white television in the staff room, screams bounced off sterile white walls as all that metal and glass came crashing to the ground, tales of desperation, of heroism, of loss, of hope, of confusion, of need, of help, of bravery filtered through the terror laden broadcasts.

I was stuck in traffic that day.

v

Click here to read post in full..

Chicken Tales

At my first meeting, we got talking about chicken crossing the road stories and I remembered I'd written one (without the road) ten years ago when part of another writers' group. Here it is. Looking forward to the road ones...

The Yellow Chicken

The yellow chicken sat on the mantelpiece, yellow feathers arranged in permanent plastic ruffles. It dug in a plastic claw (only in its mind of course!) and contemplated the living arrangements for the fortieth time that day.

"I'd sit in the middle of the room," it mused. “On a medium-sized perch, with the odd jewel strategically placed. There'd be all sorts of birds of the highest order mingling. Every now and again they'd glance at me and dip their beaks in admiration."

As you've probably already guessed, the yellow chicken was not lacking in arrogance. A lifetime of confused mantel-perching had left its mark. The longer he sat there the more elevated he imagined himself to be. Having no bird society to compare himself with only exaggerated this tendency.

That night the room was full (of people not birds!). The yellow chicken had long ago mastered English. In fact he preferred it now to his native cluck, which seemed a little hoarse in comparison. From his vantage point on the mantelpiece, he saw Mrs Musson secretly brush her breast against Mr Donahue. “And he's not too averse either!" thought the yellow chicken, slightly judgementally. It was not the morality of the act that caused the yellow chicken such refined pain, despite the fact that Mr Donahue was, after all, married to Mrs Donahue, now in the next room. Oh no! The yellow chicken thought himself far too intelligent for such plebeian morality. Rather, it was the coarse physicality of the act that offended him. He had long since discovered a mystic streak and considered a higher state of spirituality to be incompatible with lust or physical pleasure.

He swept his gaze round the room, secretly hoping for attention in the form of a rapt discovery.

It turned out that he was not to be disappointed. Before long such praise was pouring over his shiny body that he feared he might slide off the mantelpiece. Of course, being so unusual an object in such a setting, the yellow chicken had received remarks before, but tonight seemed the culmination of years of longing for his own view of himself to be confirmed by an external source.

"That yellow chicken," he heard. "Unique, haven't seen the like."
"Ask Hettie," a deep-voiced man told the speaker.
"It's from Africa," shouted Hettie from across the room, "made from plastic bags."
"Beautiful! Unusual!"

The yellow chicken felt singled out, like a jewel in an otherwise dirty room.

It was thus that he found himself in a strange house. He sat high up on a shelf in a small alcove among delicate sprays of Japanese irises. He waited and waited but nobody ever came. Eventually he stopped waiting.

Click here to read post in full..

My Gay Icon

Hello there everyone,
Here's my first tentative contribution to the blog (though I posted this to the group already)...I figure if I can't come to meetings, it doesn't mean I can't be inspired by the themes you suggest. And when I saw the idea to write about a gay icon, I just couldn't help myself. I was writing it in my head ages before I actually typed the first line...so here it is, my description of my discovery of a gay icon and personal hero. A moment that changed my life. That sounds melodramatic, but it's true! If this piece is a little rambling it's because I wrote it based on flowing feelings rather than any logical plan.
(my gay icon is the fabulous Joan Jett and this moment took place at the Trent FM Arena, on 11/11/07)

Bodies pressed to my sides and back, the cold dividing rail in front of me. Abrupt darkness produced a hushed, reverential silence, heavy and tense with expectation. Thunderous chords heralded the appearance of dark shadows moving onto the raised platform, vague and shrouded. Excitement erupted around me upon the first glimpse of those shades, but for what? My expectations were muted, bewildered. I did not realise that the momentary gloom masked a goddess.
Sudden bright illumination revealed her, clothed in brutal black leather, hips jammed hard forward against the instrument strapped to her body. Supple, scarred hands caressed its length, strong fingers flexing. Ecstasy erupted around me, screams of enthusiasm, encouragement and undisguised lust. Bodies surged forwards, twitched and writhed close to me. Only I was still. Transfixed.
For the most desperately fleeting of moments the dark, knowing eyes of the goddess connected with mine. It was impossible that she could see me, surely she was blinded by the light that shone white in her face, and yet I felt exposed and raw before her.
She flexed her knees and bounced, in a way a true goddess never could. She was of this earth, a creature like me, connected by our joint humanity, a bond of womanhood that was unique between us and at the same time shared with half the crowd around me. We shared a secret, which was not yet private.
The music rumbled suddenly from the instrument and filled the high-ceilinged space with rhythmic thunder. It penetrated through my skin and into the depths of my body, wrapping around my hidden soul and drawing it out. She drew in a deep breath between pink lips, which I saw in the expansion of her latex enclosed chest, and then she began to sing.
Her voice was not that of a goddess. It was of the real world, of pain and struggle and heat and lust and sex and love and going beyond limits. It was liquid filth and joyful rapture, the snarl of an animal but tuneful as any man-made instrument. It was the grunt of an engine and the purr of a tigress. It was defiance and protest and insurgence condensed into words.
One song merged into another. Rebellion became passion became lust became challenge became revolution became exuberance. The energy around me swelled in surges, voices rising with hers, echoing hers, moving as she commanded. I could not join the words of the virtual chants, they were unfamiliar. I was crushed between hot bodies and yet isolated and motionless, transfixed still. Sweat poured, glistening over her skin and drenching the floor below her. Still the music thundered and there were cries all around me. The heavy drum beat altered the cadence of my heart and made it beat to her unique rhythm.
I was apart from everything around me. There was only her in the spotlight of my gaze. Inside me a transfiguration occurred. I had not expected or invited it, but with every chord, every snarled word, the confusion ebbed away. My uncertainty waned. Mystery evaporated and the world was suddenly clear and bright. I knew, as I stared at her, I knew.
It was so short a time she was before me on the stage, before she retreated, leaving her platform for the unworthy act to follow. My cheeks burned the rest of the night, feeling her presence and her absence all at once.
Later, in the chill of the night air, I was warm still. I knew, at last. I knew what it was to have an icon, a hero. And I knew what it was to know myself, my desires, and my truth.

Click here to read post in full..

Invitation to The Fifth Annual Brigid in the Blogosphere Poetry Slam

Hi All, I recieved the following and thought I'd pass it on...

=====================
Feel free to copy the following to your blog and spread
the word. Let poetry bless the blogosphere once again!

WHAT: A Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading

WHEN: Anytime February 2, 2010

WHERE: Your blog

WHY: To celebrate the Feast of Brigid, aka Groundhog Day

HOW: Select a poem you like - by a favorite poet or one of your own - to
post February 2nd.

RSVP: If you plan to publish, feel free to leave a comment and link on
this post: moondrummer.blogspot.com

Last year when the call went out there was more poetry in
cyberspace than I could keep track of. So, link to whoever you hear
about this from and a mighty web of poetry will be spun.

Feel free to pass this invitation on to any and all bloggers.

This is now an annual event, started by Reya.

Click here to read post in full..

January Meeting

Hello fellow scribes,

It was a heroic coterie of women who risked life and frozen limbs through Nottingham’s early wintered streets and tucked themselves snugly into Minxy’s plush apartment this month. After making sure that everyone was seated and sated with tea in teasing mugs (you should have seen them), and a barrel of baked biscuits, we proceeded to attempt to complete the now yearly task of producing relevant writings for February’s Notttingham Rainbow Heritage exhibition.

The suggesting themes were as follows...

1. Gay icons – inspired by the London exhibition, who were your icons?
2. That’s so Gay! – any piece of writing inspired by this popular denigration
3. Write about something that has happened to you, relating to your sexuality, that you would either love or hate to see happening in the future
4.Imagine yourself at age 80, looking back at the differences, good or bad, that your future world has with the current year 2010.

The following was my 15mn freewrite... there were many other inspired pieces, and it would be great to see more added to this blog, so please post yours here soon :-)
---------------------

I stared out of my window as I do every morning nowadays. I love to watch the birds swinging from the feeders. They’re so rare these days that I sometimes wait half an hour before glimpsing a single one. Once upon a time I’d find whole families of blue tits and sparrows fighting over a ball of fat. These days a bag of food lasts all winter. Anyway, there I was, dreamily soaking up the dazzling winter’s sunny snow rays, when a couple came gliding out of the church opposite, swallowed up soon into the fold of family and friends. People were throwing confetti and capturing the event on the life recorder. Their virtual relations, beamed in from abroad, were observing from their Holoslates, foot-square sheets that emanate a reconstituting light from their position on the ground.

My thoughts were propelled back to fifty years earlier, when marriage was legal for friends of mine. It had taken fifteen years of couples using the commitment ceremonies successfully, year after year, before the government agreed to allow commitments to become marriages, and there’d been much questioning about whether this was the right thing to allow, or whether any single-sex couples even wanted marriage anymore. Then, all of a sudden it was allowed, and there were a few years of celebration before it really sank in that this was now an accepted process for all to be able to demonstrate their love, no holds barred.

All was well until the food started running out during the big freeze, and people were looking for scapegoats.
------------
See you all next month... and don't forget, come to visit us at the exibition in February at the Broadway cinema.

Click here to read post in full..