The Arvon foundation has just posted a call for contributions from writers on how the writing process works. These contributions may end up in a book called ‘Gists’ , along with pieces by famous writers.
I came across a set of questions here, and felt compelled to answer the lot in about five minuets. My motivation was not to get into the publication, although of course this would be nice. I really am interested in these kind of questions, and when I looked back on what I had written, (typos, spelling mistakes and all) it was almost as if this outpouring had been written by someone else. I’ve found this exercise insightful, and have reprinted the questions and my answers below with typos and spellings corrected. It isn’t a polished peice of writing, but in a way it is more honest for not being considered at lenghth. I recommend visiting the link above and answering the questions honestly and at speed; it might lead to publication, or maybe better still, be revealing .
How does a book or piece of writing begin to take shape in your imagination? Do you feel your writing is a process of inventing or discovering?
I write poetry, and my poems may be generated by memories or might triggered by something I read or hear on a radio programme. The material might be outside of my experience, for example, a programme about ballooning in the Ukraine in the 1970′s. I will sit with my pen and somehow enter the space in time until the experience feels personal. In this way a poem will hopefully be ‘true’ even if it is a product of someone elses experience melded with my own imaginative exploration. I belive this to be a process of both invention and discovery. Often, what I feel to be my best work will arrive unbidden, and I will not know the destination of the poem until it is written.
What things trigger your imaginative process (for example, significant personal experiences, particular people, places, objects, dream imagery, myths, history, etc)?
Much of my writing has been about childhood, my own and my son’s.
Having relatives in Italy and traveling there as a child has provided me with a rich seam. My childhood visits appear in Kodachrome colours which I try to translate into words. The characters seemed larger and more vivid than my english family. Also, being born in the 1960′s, I am fascinated with the era and have written several poems which include characters from the time including Richard Burton and Jimi Hendrix.
How do you work – do you plan carefully or explore in the dark, trusting the process?
Some poems are planned in the sense that I will have an idea and work towards getting it on paper. At other times poems will arrive at speed and I will grab a pen and get caught in the flow of words.
Do you feel in control of your writing or are you responsive to the requirements of the work as it unfolds?
When a piece of writing is going well there is a point at which my sense of being in control and my need to respond to the requirements of the unfolding work are in perfect balance. An analogy might be a motorcyclistr who has found a rhythm as he rides a perfectly set-up machine on a challenging track. This state of mind is wonderful and unforgettable. It produces a feeling of excitement and calm, a sort of perfect cocktail.
Do you write a first draft quickly and then revise it, or build carefully from the start?
Generally I will write a first draft quickly. This enables me to capture any ideas or words. I may re-draft and be satisfied with the result or still be re-drafting years later.
How do you deal with blocks in the writing process?
I don’t use the term ‘block’. I regard periods of non-writing as natural and necessary. I don’t panic if I’m not writing, preferring instead to trust that poems will come when they and I are both ready.
Do you write in service of any particular values?
I think all writers are unable to keep underlying values out of their work. One of the values explored in my case is the importance of family connection and continuity between generations, for better or worse.
What have you learned from the practice of your craft?
That an apprenticeship that must be served.
That to be a writer one must write.
That talent alone will not suffice.
That the judgement of others should be considered,
but that one must write for oneself.
What is the relationship between the writer’s imagination and that of the reader?
Readers will bring and invest their own experience and vice versa. For example, a reader told me how a poem of mine took her to a particular time and place in her own life. I had created the poem purely from imagination, yet the reader actually had the experience and could remember what I had written about. This is why I write; There is no boundary, no limit between the imaginations of writer and reader and no telling the outcome of their meeting.
Do writers have any moral responsibility in their work, wider than fidelity to their personal vision?
I do feel some moral responsibility to address political issues, however obliquely. I have once or twice consciously addressed ’moral’ issues, for example the sending of National Service personnel to war in the 1950′s, which I regard as shocking abuse of the power of the state. I sometimes feel obliged to write on an issue, and although it may be true that ‘poetry changes nothing’ , at least the poet might make a reader reflect once more on a subject which should not be ignored. This is why Wilfred Owen’s work is relevent almost a century after it was written.
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