Climbing over Writer’s Block
An amazing teacher posted an opportunity through on our
email list – there were gaps in a short course for extension writers. I was in like a shot. The ability to get to third party
professional instruction for seniors especially, only two hours drive away (vs
nearly four hours to Christchurch or Dunedin), is very hard. Usually I would have to budget a large amount
the year before to ensure a visitor could come down, do half a day, stay
overnight, do another half day and then travel back to their hometown.
Another school had engaged the Christchurch School ofWriters and very generously allowed us several spots in the afternoon as their
seniors couldn’t make it due to exams.
Due to the very generous nature of my amazing colleagues, we managed to
get internal cover, and I set off after interval with six writers.
I’m not sure who enjoyed the afternoon the most – them or
I? The presenter ran us through four
different writing genres and activities in the course of two and half
hours. He read us examples and led us
through exercises before we had some creative constraints put in place. Apart from the last very different genre,
which was really difficult (writing without the letter E) I felt the cathartic
peace of actually taking the time to write wash over me. Even with the creative constraints, as my pen
started to move.
For the first exercise the teacher had us move into a space where we could imagine
the sea and all that goes with it. We
then listed about fifty words on the board that spoke of ‘our’ collective
seascape. The constraint then came – we couldn’t
use those words. Here is my piece – in its
raw state:
By the Sea
The long and winding road led me back again. Sand and surf beckoned as the car edged over
the last hill.
The turnoff.
The RSA.
The Z station.
Turn left then
second on your right.
They tumbled from
the car like eager puppies, yapping about who would sleep where and with whom. I stood. The ghosts
of yesterday held hands around the bach.
Poppa and Nana, slight shades of grey, tucked into the porch arm in
arm.
The
feijoa tree was discovered to gleeful yells.
The tents tumbled from the open boot.
Again, eager voices edges closer to me.
The ghosts smiled at me and I smiled back.
A step.
Another.
Pull back the
manhole.
Reach in and grab the keys.
Back for the summer.
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| Waihi Beach |
