Over the Block

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.  

I still stood.  

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.

Waihi Beach