Author Archives: Andrew

Days of the Dead

by Andrew | 6 Comments

Today is All Saints’ Day aka All Hallows aka the Feast of All Saints aka the Solemnity of All Saints aka (my fave) Hallowmas.

Tomorrow is All Souls’ Day, when we commemorate ‘all the faithful departed’.

And yesterday of course was Halloween, when we scared the hell out of ourselves watching episodes 3 and 4 of Midnight Mass.

I was going to post an All Saints’ Day writing experiment based on the idea of celebrating our own personal saints, but I realised I’ve done that before: Saint’s Day.

If I were writing about a saint today, I’d have to write about Saint Guinefort, the dog saint from France. Guinefort was a greyhound who saved a baby from a snake but whose humans mistakenly thought he’d attacked it and killed him. (Note to self: I called the baby it. Oops.) Discovering their mistake, they created a memorial to Guinefort at a well, where they planted trees. Locals visited, made offerings, brought belongings to be blessed, such as baby clothes to be protected. It became a shrine, it became a cult. Sounds like my kind of religion.

We find echoes of that story in the Welsh folk tale about Gelert, who gave his name to Beddgelert, where I went camping in my teens. It also makes me think about the scene where Tramp saves the baby from the rat in Lady and the Tramp. Dogs are the best! Dogs are saints, they are angels walking among us. They are tricksters. They protect us, they guard our homes, they teach us how to be patient, they teach us how to love.

Of course: I’m remembering today Charlie, our beloved whippet, who died at the start of last month. How will I ever forget. Grief is an ongoing process. Typing messages about his passing still makes me weep – every time.

Words really do fail – writing seems pointless. Limits are shown, particularly when we think about the vast power of those nonverbal forms of communication we share with dogs. Charlie understood an extensive English vocabulary – naturally! Two dads who’re writers, and a house full of books. But so much more was expressed in other ways: soulful eyes, shake-a-paws, a sigh. The heavy weight of a resting body using your ankle as a headrest. The electricity of another presence in the room. A subtle nod of his head in a certain direction told us exactly what he wanted. He was a playful imp – so much is expressed when we play with a dog. And there is no sight on earth more beautiful than a whippet running at full speed.

How can words replicate all that? What good does does writing do? We can write I Remembers. We can testify to the power of stories [insert generic writing festival cliché]. But I’m not feeling that currently. Doesn’t bring him back. A dog, a wood, a well … ingredients for a story, maybe. And there are other things to say. But another time.

Though maybe I’m wrong. Writing this, and posts (finally) on Instagram, have perhaps made me feel – not better, no. But fractionally more at ease and maybe able to get on. But never better, really. Maybe we never are – maybe we never should be.

I had to make those posts on Instagram today though. It was time. It’s just pictures we share of dogs (and plants and cakes and books), but there is a community there, and friendships have been made.

What I am now understanding more deeply is why people take part in temporal and physical acts of memorial.

The word memorial has often for me conjured up the Cenotaph-and-poppies style of memorial. Sorry – though I once honoured family who made sacrifices in wartime by wearing a poppy, of late I’ve found myself resisting the idea; it’s turned into a mawkish cliché remote from the suffering of war, doing dirty work for the liar classes of politicians and the media. Each to their own, but I guess I’m not performative in that way. I’d probably prefer to wear a pansy anyway. Not least, their blooms are more resilient.

I am talking about memorial in terms of personal things. Gathering things to remember your people. Things you can touch, hold. Little things, knick-knacks of no monetary value that are priceless in other ways, ornaments, toys. Things that resist institutions, playful things that enjoy intimacies. Things that hold memory and association.

More and more I find myself drawn to the idea of the Day of the Dead. I have been confused as to whether the Day of the Dead takes places on All Saints’ Day or All Souls’ Day, and I imagine there is all sorts of liturgical hairsplitting we could get into about who qualifies for being remembered when. Maybe we should plump for a three-day festival called Hallowtide for this time when the veil between the worlds is thin.

What attracts me to the Day of the Dead, though, is its earthiness – how it uses tangible objects to remember and conjure up those who are no longer with us. I love the skeletons, I love the neon colours, I love the fancy stitching, I love the flags. I love the pagan reference points: the devils, the little imps (those imps). I love the candles and smoke, and the cloying sweet smells, I love the marigolds and the chrysanthemums. I love foody offerings: the breads, sugar skulls, tamales, hot chocolate. I love the music. The colour and rowdiness and gaudiness of all these mortal objects are joyfully embodied in the movie Coco – where Miguel’s Xolo, named Dante, is surely a type of whippet, and is even silver-grey too?!

And then too there is the idea of visiting cemeteries en masse – families, friends, strangers, all backgrounds and walks of life – a jumble of people dressed up to celebrate those they have loved and those who’ve gone before them, making merry and shedding tears as they sweep vaults and clean gravestones and say prayers and tell stories. I love this community of reverence and the irreverent. These rituals unify us with an honest and collective acknowledgement of not only that common destination, but also what is left behind – and how we got here.

Here I am thinking many of us could gain from a mark on the calendar for this sort of collective commemoration of body and soul, this festival of memory. E.g., I’m not sure the British are very good with how we handle our past right now, and I’m not sure we’re very good with religion either. We seem to just fudge it, e.g., by watching The Crown, or by wailing on Twitter.

The Day of the Dead is associated with Mexico, but holidays celebrating our ancestors are found all over the world. As with many religious celebrations, institutional observances have grafted church rituals on to local traditions such as Samhain, but too they have subsequently been adapted by family rituals and personal practice, accommodating the household and the everyday. We could/should think about cultural appropriation, and we should certainly be respectful of others. But I think personal shrines have a magpie glory all of their own.

I’m also thinking of friends and relatives with shelves or ledges where they keep photos and tchotchkes and vases of flowers for those who’ve gone before. I’m thinking of my friend Bhanu, who has taught a writing class called Shrine, Ritual, Installation. I’m thinking of my friend Alex, whose shrine has a picture of Tolstoy (Alex is obsessed with Anna Karenina).

As a writing experiment: create a shrine for Day of the Dead. Memorialise your own inspirations – writers, artists, influences, and especially those beings you’ve loved and been loved by, who are in truth your greatest literary influences. Your ancestors. Frame photos, clip postcards. Arrange knick-knacks. Light candles. Burn incense. Share some candies or biscuits. Put some dahlias in a jamjar.

Take some time there tomorrow, All Souls’ Day. Every day. You could of course draw upon the energy of your shrine to do some writing, and there’s plenty to consider there. Memoirs, elegies, prayers.

But perhaps, for now, just let the shrine be. Light a candle. Listen, behold. Just be with it, be owned by what’s there. Soak it up, and feel it.

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Another post for this time of year: Bring In The Light. Though Saint Guinefort does ask that you refrain from letting off bangers and firecrackers. Saint Guinefort is probably a better saint than I am, but – in memory of Charlie, and on behalf of all small creatures and the easily cowed – I might have to ask him to curse anyone who lets off noisy fireworks, okay?! Oh, and let’s also curse Thor and the thunder gods while we’re at it?!

And a sidenote: I dithered whether to add apostrophes and at first decided they’re fussy and to go for a streamlined style: All Saints Day and All Souls Day. Consistent in my villainy. Then I found further justification in thinking of All Saints and All Souls as adjectives rather than possessive nouns, but then I wondered: should these terms describe us, or should they own us?! So I shifted back to the apostrophe, and the idea of being owned by the dead. A haunting. See: punctuation is important! The devil – or the imp – is in the detail.

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And most of all: RIP Charlie – remembered always, and enshrined forever. He was such a good dog, and always will be. Such a good boy.

I Want (A Dyke For President)

by Andrew | 4 Comments

The idea of want crops up so often as a basic driver of stories – in defining a character’s motivations or yearnings, or in getting down to basics in a memoir.

I often suggest that wants have an inner dimension, which can be broad and abstract (love; a place to call home), but that they work best if also grounded in tangible and specific objects of desire that are located externally in our material world (two old shirts; a little ranch, or maybe a trip to Mexico).

I also relate the idea of want to the idea of intention. When working with writers, I often start by asking them what they intend their writing to do, and direct them to discussion of the subject in Susan Bell’s The Artful Edit (a book I recommend to all writers). Among other things, she asks simply: ‘Why do you want this piece of writing to live? Your intention lies in how you answer.’

We can take the ideas of want and intention further, into the idea of manifesting. I am thinking of the creative desires expressed in Octavia Butler’s notebooks. So bold, so powerful – and eventually so prophetic!

I’m also thinking about Bernardine Evaristo’s memoir Manifesto. Which I’ve yet to read – only just out. The idea of the manifesto is such a good way of making your wants real in the world. I’ve posted a writing experiment about this in the past: Write! A Manifesto.

The text that excites me most when I think of want in writing is Zoe Leonard’s I Want A President. Leonard was inspired to write this poem when her friend the poet Eileen Myles ran for president of the US in 1992, as discussed in this video. I always think of its title as I Want A Dyke For President, because: yes, so do I, and ALL of the rest of that fierce and brilliant poem too.

Oh! It’s so good and so powerful. The power of the simple repetitions, the power of the simple syntax of Subject-Verb-Object, the stark imagery of nouns, the simple expression of want. Also, the clever variations – the patterning, the emphasis created, the reinscribing effect of the repeated want. And of course its content – its transgressions and taboos and what it reclaims, its urge for social justice. And its eternal truths: those last lines speak to us even more strongly thirty years later. Above you can see it displayed as a huge poster on the Highline in New York during the 2016 presidential election season (though a lot of good it did then! Which does beg questions … Another time).

Perhaps more than anything the power of this piece lies in its VOICE: strong, direct, uncluttered. Back in the olden days, at a Fire workshop with Words Away, we had great fun with theatre maker Kate Beales running us through drama studio exercises in which we acted this poem out in different styles and voices. Modestly, sarcastically, quizzically – defiantly, fists in the air, we all cried out in unison: I WANT A DYKE FOR PRESIDENT! What a rush that gave us – what a charge.

So: as a writing experiment, let’s charge ourselves up by writing about our own wants.

* First read I Want A President to yourself. Here is another version. You might want to print it out – such a fantastic document to hold in your hands.

* Then: read it aloud to yourself. Try it in a few different styles – timidly, boldly, with curiosity, with rage, with love.

* After reading it, watch performers who’ve interpreted it too, e.g., Mykki Blanco, activists in Washington, Zoe Leonard herself.

* Now, right away, write for ten minutes using the prompt I want. Maybe write about who YOU want for President (or Prime Minister). Or write more freely, seeing what arises for your wants. When you stop writing about one want, carry on writing about a new one. Harness those desires, and let your voice ring.

* You could adapt this for other wants. What you want your book to do. What you want as a writer, professional wants, personal wants.

*  You can use I want within a programme of fieldwork for a larger work too, also exploring, e.g., what characters Can and Can’t do, what they Must and Mustn’t do, and what they Remember. Writing in their first-person voices, or adapting for third-person He/She/They. Or even try second-person you: you want. How might your characters’ wants conflict with each other to create drama? It works for fiction, and it works for real-life stories too.

* And try reading your pieces to friends/family/colleagues – it is a good one to share for its directed energy, even if it’s just as a voice note in a message. Get them to join in too! This is a fun and powerful form for writing.

Must and Mustn’t

by Andrew | Leave a comment

Once you’ve established what your characters Can and Can’t do, you can make things more interesting by feeling your way through what they must or mustn’t do. This might even be the starting point for a character.

Personal obligations and legal boundaries that define what we must or mustn’t do introduce constraints and possibilities to our stories. Duties observed – or disregarded? Promises kept – or broken? Laws respected – or disobeyed?

The Oxford comma, telling instead of showing, misgendered pronouns. Thou shall not kill, wearing white shoes after Labor Day, making an illegal crossing into another country. Rituals, niceties, taboos, transgressions: what we must or mustn’t do brings energy and thrills to plotting in fiction, layering in complexities, seeding conflict, and launching change in the world. It can also draw out the urgent matter if we are writing about real-life experiences.

As a writing experiment: For ten minutes, and following the list format of I Remember or I Can, use I Must as a prompt for a character or for your own personal experiences.

For another write, use I Mustn’t for that character or yourself.

Another variation: using the list format, alternate I Must with I Mustn’t sentence by sentence (or paragraph by paragraph).

Use these prompts for different characters in your story. You might also want to play around with tense forms and perspectives, e.g., I had to, He had to, She had to, They had to.

Do your prompted writes in ten-minute sprints, without stopping, feeling the energy as it travels from gut to heart to shoulder down your arm to your hand and on to the page. Each Must or Mustn’t is as long as it has to be: a couple of lines, a few words, a whole paragraph. And when that’s done, on to the next Must/Mustn’t. Let the pressure of timed writing force stuff out of you.

You can also use these prompts for brief free writes if you get stuck at any time in your writing. A ten-minute dash of mustn’ting might free something up for your work. As fieldwork for a novel or short story, you could work with these prompts for a set of different characters across the course of a week – you could also apply this to different players in a memoir or a real-life story.

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In other news: I’m reorganising and refocusing my work and also space online. Welcome to the Andrew Wille Writing Studio!

I like the word studio, because I feel writing is a studio practice that gains from trying things out. I also feel that writing belongs as much to the art school as it does within the English department – if not moreso.

More to come, but for now I’m concentrating on: launching a few Zoom classes (coming later in the autumn); developing structured mentoring programmes tailored to writers’ needs; and building online community on Instagram, where I shall be posting tips, guidance, news, and reviews.

I’ve also added a page with a few testimonials from people I’ve worked with: Endorsements.

See you on Instagram, I hope! It’s where one of my better selves resides.

Can and Can’t

by Andrew | 1 Comment

I often suggest that writers who are looking for fresh perspectives on their manuscripts take a bit of time away from their drafts and instead devote a little energy to some writing on the side: the same characters and settings and concerns, but approached in new ways.

Something that can be useful is a block of time devoted to I Remember exercises for different characters, using their voices or points of view. Stick with one character for a whole week, perhaps, adapting the prompt every day, e.g., I Remember School, She Remembers Her Mother.

I also suggest variations on this form of the list. A good One is I Can … or I Can’t …

Can: to be able, to have power to, to know. In this case, the simple verb form stresses a character’s powers – or limits. What strengths and talents or knowledge is the character endowed with, and what might that lead to? Or what is a character unable to do, and what are the consequences of that?

The cumulative energy of this form of writing, gathered at a pace in list form, sometimes like a chant, often taps into the unconscious mind and draws out powerful material. What surfaces is often surprising, or reaches whatever’s important quickly. It’s not always/often writing that goes directly into the project word for word, but it can help with focus, and also energise your writing with purpose when it is flagging.

As a writing experiment: For ten minutes a day for a week, use the prompt I Can for characters in your book. The following week, use I Can’t for the same characters. You can also try this as a one-off, when you get stuck.

Try the prompts as ten-minute sprints of free writing, without stopping, preferably writing pen to paper, connecting hand and shoulder and brain and heart and gut. Each Can is as long as it has to be: a couple of lines, a few words, a whole paragraph. And when that’s done, on to the next Can. Quick, quick – keep the pen moving, don’t stop; it’s just for ten minutes. Often some really juicy stuff comes around minute eight or nine – to be continued … Write for longer, if you wish.

And above: cookbooks, because I can cook. Sometimes I can follow a recipe, and sometimes I can’t. And sometimes I am successful, and sometimes I am not, and sometimes it’s related to being able to follow that recipe. But other times I can trust my instinct to, e.g., add add a pear but also less milk to pistachio-oat pancakes, and judging by this morning’s efforts I can safely say that trusting your own ability is a good thing to do.

Gnarliness and Writing

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Something we discussed earlier this year at a Words Away Zalon on mindfulness and writing was the idea of gnarliness.

I first encountered this term in the context of writing via Californian novelist Rudy Rucker at a Naropa University summer school. I learned that gnarly was a word used in surfing, and brought away the idea that a gnarly wave is a difficult wave – one that could kill you, but too one that could give you the chance to really prove your worth.

Rudy covers the subject in further detail in his essay What Is Gnarl?, where among other things he states that ‘a gnarly process is complex and unpredictable without being random. If a story hews to some very familiar pattern, it feels stale’.

I’ve perhaps adapted or simplified the idea a bit for my own teaching. I relate it particularly to the idea of seeking out whatever is difficult or challenging or unpredictable in your work, or something you’d prefer not to deal with.

I also relate the word gnarly to the idea of knottiness – a knot in a tree that’s craggy but just unavoidably there and a defining feature of it. Think of a gnarly piece of wood, and the personality contained in its shape and working.

From The Origin And Meaning Of The Word Gnarly on Surfer Today:

The name is often used to describe a person, a situation, or something that is simultaneously exciting or cool, dangerous or challenging, and even bad or gross … Within the surfing community, the adjective is mostly used to highlight a big wave, rough closeouts, or an extreme surf stunt.

Like many slang terms, it can embrace opposites of meaning.

The word “gnarly” can be used with both derogatory and negative connotations. It can be used to describe something or someone awesome, cool, excellent, wonderful, amazing, radical, incredible, tough, great, intense, extreme, or fantastic. On the opposite side of the spectrum, it’s a negative or derogative term to describe something or someone grotesque, gross, difficult, dangerous, treacherous, complicated, challenging, difficult hairy, or rapidly changing.

Which perhaps reminds us that many things in creative practice require us to embrace paradox, or take on board the idea of negative capability, where we grapple with uncertainty instead of taking the easy route.

I also relate this to many of the ideas that come up in the teachings of Natalie Goldberg. How the writing comes alive when we are handling scary material. Going for the jugular. From the chapter ‘Go Further’ in Writing Down The Bones:

Push yourself beyond when you think you are done with what you have to say. Go a little further. Sometimes when you think you are done, it is just the edge of beginning. Probably that’s why we decide we’re done. It’s getting too scary. We are touching down onto something real. It is beyond the point when you think you are done that often something strong comes out.

In Wild Mind, Natalie quotes Ernest Hemingway: ‘Write hard and clear about what hurts.’ The point of suffering could be something that’s personally painful. Handling pain truthfully is going to make your writing richer and more authentically felt; you might choose to edit or adapt it before sharing the writing, but you probably have to go there first. Tackling the gnarly material will force you to go deeper in ways that will enrich your writing and extend you as a writer.

And sometimes the gnarly issues are more everyday: unresolved technical issues that have solutions waiting to be found. That extraneous character who might need pruning (put them in another book!). Or that scene of dialogue that’s not working but could be rewritten as reported speech in first person. Or that lack of a clear focus that demands a different form, or maybe a more obvious central character. Or that dip in pace that calls out for a total restructuring that really going to make everything stronger.

As a writing experiment: make a list of the gnarly points in a piece of writing – points of difficulty you’ve encountered in the writing, things you’ve avoiding saying, technical problems, unresolved matters, annoying bits of feedback, things that feel complicated or grotesque or extreme or exposing, things that make your heart beat faster.

Then take the gnarliest point, and write through it. Ride it like a gnarly wave! Make it even more complicated or grotesque or extreme, let it make your heart beat even faster. Identify its force – then tame it, and really use it as a powerful strength in your writing.

You don’t have to make a big deal out of this. A timed write of ten minutes might flush out something alive and interesting. But too, think about giving over an hour to gnarliness, or maybe even the revision of a whole draft. You will still have the un-gnarly version to go back to – though maybe you’ll see that in a different light now.

You might also like to refer to my post on Field Work, which offers writing topics that cut to the heart of many of these gnarly matters.

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My monthly blog posts seem to have become quarterly. Maybe they’ll become more frequent again in the near future. What funny times we are living through – what gnarly times.

But while I’m here: a note that on Wednesday 21 July (5pm-6.30pm, London time) I’m leading a workshop on The Four Elements of Editing for The Literary Consultancy’s Being A Writing programme, and a limited number of tickets have just been released for non-members. I’ll be talking about the Four Elements practice I often apply to writing, and specifically talking about ways to use it in revising and self-editing.