Empty bench atop a hill with a single tree.

Morning Tea

Writing

Author’s Note: I’m experimenting with world building via short stories at the moment, and hoping to write a series of discrete works that take place in the same realm but don’t necessarily fit together in a sequence. This is the first of them.

Morning broke weakly, and with it the sounds of day were slowly pulled from the darkness of night. Shades of dawn slowly formed amidst the shadows, and life in the old ash tree high above the village began to rouse in sleepy chirps and warbles.

Amongst it all, a familiar shuffle and clank echoed down the empty street. There was but a single path here. No more than that was needed. The ancient lane began as a causeway in the lowest cluster of humble shanties, and gradually meandered its way upwards in a slowly tightening spiral, past row upon row of once bustling homes. But for a few inhabited exceptions, all sat silently abandoned now, the rhythmic shuffle and clank a lingering reminder of a once vibrant community.

With the sun not yet over the distant mountains, the mists held sway for a time. Yet slowly, inevitably, they began to give up their secrets. From the fading dawn fog emerged an old man and his walking stick, wearily shuffling along the damp cobblestones towards the pinnacle of the village.

Draped in a damp, brown cloak, the man periodically stopped to gingerly wipe dew from his knapsack. Then, with a deep breath, a groaning stretch, a wistful gaze upwards, the shuffle and clank would begin anew.

Nearing the peak of the town, the man smiled as the first rays of day struck the entryway to his favourite place. The living archway, woven from vines and branches, marked the sole gap in an otherwise perfectly manicured hedgerow encircling the top of the village hill.

Gazing fondly in each direction, the man breathed deeply of the complex aroma wafting from the interior of the garden, where the lingering moistness of dew intermingled with fruit, flowers, and tilled soil. Opening the thin white gate, he stepped across the threshold where the cobblestones ended and the garden’s brick path began.

Closing the garden gate softly behind him, the old man turned inwards with a smile. Across the hilltop, the morning light glistened upon the dew-laden leaves, petals, berries and brambles, and birds of all shapes and sizes had already begun to feast upon the bounty of food that lay for the taking.

Continuing his way along the path, the old man paused periodically to silently brush leaves aside that had fallen on the bricks overnight. The garden could shed as it wished, but the path was his.

Spiralling inwards, he finally arrived at his peaceful place. Reflection, contemplation, and serenity were all to be found here. A set of wrought iron chairs and a small table sat beside a fountain in the heart of the garden.

“Looks to be another beautiful day today, my heart,” the man smiled. “I’ve brought a new recipe for us to try, lavender and lily. I’m quite excited to see what you think.”

Sitting delicately down in the first chair, the man cradled his back gingerly and groaned slightly.

“That walk is not as easy as it used to be, but the view is always worth it. Wouldn’t you say, darling?”

Setting his old leather knapsack softly upon the bricks beside the table, he carefully unfastened the tassels and lovingly lifted a wrapped parcel from inside. The cloth was meticulously folded and held in place with twine, tied in a small bow.

“I bother with presentation too much, I know,” he smiled, “but our mornings together are special to me.”

Slowly untying the parcel, the old man carefully placed the looped twine and folded cloth back into his knapsack, and pulled out a porcelain tea kettle from the box, followed by two cups and saucers, a flat stone plate, a spoon, a flask of water, and two biscuits.

Surveying the cups, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and polished them briefly, until they too glistened in the morning light. Setting the cups and saucers on each side of the table, he placed the stone plate in the middle, lifted the lid, and poured in the water.

“I’ve been drying these leaves by our fire for the last few days now,” he remarked, deftly plucking the flowers from their stems and placing them in the kettle. “I was worried we wouldn’t have enough water for our tea, but thankfully the rain overnight has refilled our barrel.”

The old man gazed intently into the kettle to ensure he’d added an ample amount of tea, then softly closed the lid and set the teapot atop the stone plate. With a whisper and a roll of his fingers, the stone plate began to glow and the kettle was soon boiling.

“I’m sorry for resorting to magic instead of fire, love,” he said bashfully, “but I’ve grown too old to carry wood up this hill anymore. I hope you don’t mind.”

Grasping his handkerchief in one hand, he picked up the whistling pot, filled each cup to the brim, and lovingly set each place with a biscuit.

“You always were a better baker than I,” he sighed, “but I’m improving slowly. The finches certainly don’t seem to mind eating my mistakes.”

Sitting back in the chair, he lifted the steaming cup to his lips, breathed in the aroma deeply, and warmed his hands before finally taking a sip.

“Oh this is lovely, indeed,” he exclaimed. “I must write down this recipe for another day.”

The old man gazed around the garden for several minutes, silently enjoying the sounds and smells of spring, and the serenity of a well-brewed cup of tea in his beloved garden. Flitting across the branches, butterflies, and blossoms, the birds, bees and brambles, flowers, fruit and fauna, the old man finally fixed his attention on the fountain.

Ringed by the brick path, in the heart of the garden, at the pinnacle of the village stood the statue of a young couple, eternally bound in a loving embrace. The spiral he walked daily, from the fringes of the village to its peak, carried him here.

He gazed upon her with adoration and longing, and smiled wistfully. Slowly he rose from his seat, and reverently set the second cup of hot tea at her feet, softly tipping the cold contents of the cup from the previous day into the fountain.

“Enjoy the tea, my heart,” he whispered. “I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

After reassembling the contents of the parcel back in his knapsack, the old man began his slow journey home to the fringes of the village.

Nurturing the void

Writing

Which sin is worse for a writer, self-censoring or over-indulgence? I could have asked ‘why we write,’ but I feel I’ve done that before, and balking in the face of the twin fears of creative cowardice versus introspective navel-gazing seem more on-point tonight.

When we step beyond private, handwritten spiral notebooks and diaries and into the digital realm of blogs and self-published works, there is an immediate sense of being seen and judged. Likes, comments, page hits, tweets, Facebook posts, reshares. Intentionally or not, they become the metrics against which we judge our own efforts, where one cruel word is too many and 1,000 compliments not enough.

In a sense this is what drives us to post our work only to begin with – the hope that it might be seen and appreciated by others. Yet in doing so, we inevitably find ourselves staring into the soulless void that is the anonymous internet, and we freeze, then begin to second-guess ourselves – or at least I do.

“Should I use my blog to practice, to ponder, and to hone my craft, or shall I only share completed works with which I am wholly satisfied (if there is ever such a thing)? What if I post something and hate it later. What if someone else hates it? When is it good enough to share.”

There is no single set of correct answers to these questions, of course. What matters is our purpose for writing and sharing in the first place, and that is a question we must each answer for ourselves; not once, but many times. Many times, because self-doubt and fear of criticism are insidious, pernicious adversaries we must face each and every time we click ‘Publish.’

My personal mantra is “I write to think.” It is the justification and the encouragement I need to continue writing and experimenting. I feel happier and more accomplished when I’m writing, whether or not the end product lives up to my expectations. A work written is infinitely more worthwhile than an idea abandoned.

Likewise, we must support and encourage each other. I’ve heard enough artists and best-selling authors speak of imposter syndrome to realise it is an affliction from which most most creative people suffer. Each of us has experienced times where a once great idea no longer appears that way, and we despair as inspiration gives way to disillusionment and frustration.

A kind word can make the difference between a crumpled fist of anger, and a third, fourth or fifth draft attempt. Creativity is an endeavour to be nurtured and embraced, in both ourselves and others. Share your works without fear, because I appreciate them.

Inkwell and quill sitting on an old desk.

Writing as Process

Writing

I lay in bed this morning listening to the rain softly drizzling on our corrugated steel roof when a curious question floated through my mind. “Why maintain a blog that no one will ever read?”

It was not a self-conscious feeling of disappointment or longing for attention, but a sincere question. Phrased in a different way, I began to contemplate about the purpose of writing. Why is it worth doing? And particularly, why is it worth doing when what you contribute to the cacophony of public thought is never seen by anybody?

There’s no one right answer here, clearly. Everyone has their own motives for putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard. From private, leather-bound diaries to public blogs, it’s the process that’s important. But the question of “why write” is an important one to revisit periodically. The motives that lead us to pour out our thoughts may not remain the same over time, and it’s worth tracking your intentions, because it helps you stay authentic.

I’ve always said I write to think, but it’s worth unpacking that further. What is important about thinking? Why is it an avocation of value?

“Now, what do I feel like talking about today?”

When I first started going to college in the early-1990’s someone said to me: “It doesn’t matter what you major in. You’ll never use it anyway.” That statement stuck with me longer than I wish it had, because it led me to approach the experience with a casual, laissez-faire attitude in which nothing really mattered. I’d do my best; but in the end, my best was ephemeral. In four years time the whole affair would be over, good or bad, so long as I finished.

The result was 3 years of absentminded, half-hearted participation. I’d fall asleep in class, when I bothered to show up at all; my textbooks were as pristine and untouched at the end of term as they’d been at the beginning; I’d sit in the back of the class and spend more time doodling than taking notes; I even went to the pub before my exams once or twice. My heart just wasn’t in it.

It didn’t help that I had teachers during this period who seemed as disinterested in the process of learning as I was. One in particular stands out from everyone else in how little he seemed to care. He’d show up at the start of class ever day, shuffle lazily to the front of the room and lean casually against the blackboard. He’d gaze blankly and dispassionately out across the rows of students, draw in a deep, almost groaning sigh, and say “Now, what do I feel like talking about today?”

I don’t know about anyone else that term, but that class felt like an utter waste of time. A sheer formality and box to tick, where an instructor who didn’t want to teach droned on to students who didn’t want to learn. It was a perfect storm of pointlessness.

Then, in the last semester of my last year, I took a class on Environmental Impact Assessment. It had absolutely nothing to do with the Economics degree I was more or less sleeping through, but it piqued my interests and I decided to give it a go. It was a revelation.

“When you know what to think, you’ll know how to act.”

This man was everything that my other instructor wasn’t. He was passionate about his discipline, he was concise and effective in his teaching; but more than that, he truly wanted to be in the classroom, and he sincerely cared about us. He wanted to make a difference, and leave us with thought-provoking ideas that didn’t necessarily have clear conclusions. He wanted to get us to think.

It was this last point he came back to time and time again, in the form of a mantra he repeated ad infinitum throughout the semester. “When you know what to think, you’ll know how to act.” Use your mind, explore your opinions and subject them to scrutiny. Test your theories, and see how they hold up to reality. Don’t assume anything. What you think is important.

He shook the cobwebs from my mind and actually got me interested in discovering what I believe, and whether these beliefs are justified. He inspired an interest in contemplation and reflection that has been with me ever since.

As a result, I threw myself into studying with an enthusiasm that had been utterly absent previously. I discovered subjects that excited me and fueled my curiosity, and I learned that I really, really like to write.

At the best of times, my head is a jumble of conflicting thoughts. Writing provides me with the structure, scaffolding, and sequence I need to make sense of it all, which is why I find it such a valuable way to explore ideas. I don’t write to express my thoughts. I write to discover them.

Dawn rising over the clouds as viewed from atop a mountain.

Twilight Rising

Writing

I used to go to bed at dawn, bleary-eyed and befuddled. Now I get up even earlier than that, when the moon is still hanging high in the sky and has only just begun to make its sleepy descent towards morning.

For a long while, I hated this habit. Now it’s my peaceful time. The period when the world is asleep and I am left to my own thoughts, my own pace, my own breath.

I love these moments. The peace is thick and full this time of day. There is no urgency to rush or worry. Music lilts softly and the air is still. Family and pets lay blissfully asleep. Coffee wafts and the rocking chair creaks. There is space to simply sit and be.

On Writing

Writing

Without a doubt, the written word is my favourite medium. I prefer it over speech; I prefer it over video; and as an introvert, I definitely prefer it over face-to-face interaction. This has been the case for as long as I can remember.

In uni/college, long-form essays were always my preferred mode of assessment. Not only did in-class exams spike my anxiety, I found I had a natural aptitude for sequencing thoughts and arguments in writing to form a broad discussion on a concept. And not only that, I actually enjoyed the process.

I grew to explore poetry for a while, and when I began to play music and experiment with songwriting, this easily transitioned to lyrics. Professionally, my enthusiasm for print evolved into technical manuals, user documentation, online support materials, and eventually project documentation. Bizarrely enough, despite it being the bane of many of my colleagues, I grew to relish the opportunity to get stuck into the process, which is perhaps why I have done so much of it over the years.

But it wasn’t until very recently – perhaps 3 years ago – that I tried my hand at fictional prose. For some reason, I had come to see myself as inherently non-creative, despite the shorter-form creations I’d produced when I was younger. Now having made several attempts at novellas, I’ve grown enraptured by this particular form of writing, and yet sadly it’s the one genre in which I have the least confidence in myself, and am the most reluctant to share my work. It’s an edge of mine, there’s no doubt about it.

Yet in that discomfort, there is opportunity; in the uncertainty, there is potential growth. Every story I write, every attempt I make, helps me learn. It gives me a chance to try things differently, then review, observe, and try again. Truly, it’s one of the wonders of the creative process. Each creation becomes an artifact that documents the best effort I could make at that time. Yes, I may look back later and cringe at a given piece of work, but this simply reflects the fact that I have improved since then, and that’s a source of immense satisfaction for me.

One of the questions that I’m slowly beginning to explore is what to do with my creations once they feel complete. I’d love to say that the creative process is its own reward, but if I’m truly honest with myself I realise that I need to feel validated externally. It’s as if I cannot call myself a writer until someone else has labelled me one voluntarily. I need to hear what other people think of my stories. Praise is wonderful of course, but in and of itself that doesn’t help me grow. External perspectives feel crucial to me at this point, I’m just not sure I’m brave enough to ask yet.

If you have experience in this area, I’d welcome any insight in the comments!