A Writer's Life
A writer has to be a seer, a noticer, has to see every nuance of
body language as well as noting their own response to other
people.
They have to be aware of every change of light in the sky: the speed with which the clouds shape-shift, the scent drifting on the breeeze, their breathing, the cat purring, the dog snoring, the blackbird chitting a warning of intruders, the song of the robin as he claims his territory, the distant sound of laughter, seagulls, the thwak of a tennis racket swiping a ball; the return hit, or not, the chuff of a steam train as it leaves the station, the whistle across the hills as it puffs into the distance, a passing car engine, a door slam, a rustle in the foliage, the wind surfing through the pine trees, the sound of an autistic child screaming it's frustration into the void.
Then back into to their own body, the sense of warmth or cool on the skin, the sensation of the body against the chair or lounger; you can travel as deep within as you like, the minute descriptions of our internal world a match for deep space and the universe - both look the same under a powerful microscope and telescope.
When we walk people may step over items that they see as detritus but a writer and artist sees the beauty in them, may even bring them home; objects like sea glass, turquoise or more rarer blue, feathers, shells, pebbles, dried twigs, driftwood, dried seaweed, a dried shrunken orange which may have fallen into the sea in Spain or Portugal, a seed head from a reed that has travelled downstream to the sea, rolling back and forth on the tide.
A sweet wrapper, a broken spade, and sometimes you are rewarded with a real find like a flint tool and transported to the senses of another human standing on the same shore thousands of years ago.
And only a writer can catch the sea shillings that dance upon the water on a hot, bright morning.
Does anyone want to walk with me?
They have to be aware of every change of light in the sky: the speed with which the clouds shape-shift, the scent drifting on the breeeze, their breathing, the cat purring, the dog snoring, the blackbird chitting a warning of intruders, the song of the robin as he claims his territory, the distant sound of laughter, seagulls, the thwak of a tennis racket swiping a ball; the return hit, or not, the chuff of a steam train as it leaves the station, the whistle across the hills as it puffs into the distance, a passing car engine, a door slam, a rustle in the foliage, the wind surfing through the pine trees, the sound of an autistic child screaming it's frustration into the void.
Then back into to their own body, the sense of warmth or cool on the skin, the sensation of the body against the chair or lounger; you can travel as deep within as you like, the minute descriptions of our internal world a match for deep space and the universe - both look the same under a powerful microscope and telescope.
When we walk people may step over items that they see as detritus but a writer and artist sees the beauty in them, may even bring them home; objects like sea glass, turquoise or more rarer blue, feathers, shells, pebbles, dried twigs, driftwood, dried seaweed, a dried shrunken orange which may have fallen into the sea in Spain or Portugal, a seed head from a reed that has travelled downstream to the sea, rolling back and forth on the tide.
A sweet wrapper, a broken spade, and sometimes you are rewarded with a real find like a flint tool and transported to the senses of another human standing on the same shore thousands of years ago.
And only a writer can catch the sea shillings that dance upon the water on a hot, bright morning.
Does anyone want to walk with me?
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12 Comments
I would love to walk alongside you on the beach! Jx
I think we can all relate to this, at least I know I can.
Thanks for posting!
Made me think for a moment. Thanks.
I walk to work every day and only really see beauty in the trees and the sky. Some of Guy's Hospital has romance and there are some laege trees in a small park, but the earth underneath the trees has been concreted over.
More than happy to come along for the walk!
I never believe I can write I must learn to trust.
I could not think of anything better than all you dear people sitting at OceanBay cafe watching the tide - and then perhaps taking a stroll.
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