Creativity Bootcamp

Can creativity be taught? This article from today's Independent argues very nicely that a residential writing course can do writers a power of good.

Independent Enjoyment

For years I've looked longingly at prospectuses for writing courses and retreats with both Arvon and Skyros.

In the past I've had no time for such courses. Now I have the time but no money. Ain't that always the way!

A True and Faithful Inventory of my Bedroom

with apologies to Thomas Sheridan)

A rumpled, tousled unmade bed
With cat-claw rips upon its head;
A mighty merbau writing desk
With mess and muddle made grotesque;
Several pencils without lead;
Journals waiting to be reread;
Notes for articles uncompleted;
Drafts of stories, half deleted.
The Idiots Guide to Yoga poses
Beside the bed. On top reposes
A dictionary with well-thumbed pages,
A guide to Zen down through the ages,
Good Housekeeping mags all in a pile,
Clipped recipes wait for a file;
Last night’s forgotten water glass;
A stopped alarm-clock made of brass;
And then upon a china plate,
Odd earrings dreaming of their mate;
Cobwebs adorn each wall,
And thus my bedroom you have all.
And of course, since you’re my friend,
I’ll willingly my boudoir lend;
The right place for romance or tryst.
Just don’t play psychoanalyst!

Redrawing Myself

What fun! Mercy sent me copies of some photos she took of me on Friday night in Bangsar, she being snap happy with her digital camera. The camera is just too good - the tiniest imperfection magnified to an extent I just can't cope with. I need soft focus, not glaring reality. So I've justed wasted more than an hour playing around; redrawing myself in charcoal and ink, turning myself into stained glass, pouring myself onto cavass. I am now become a cartoon of myself, which is all for the best.

First Steps

It's like stepping out into virgin snow.
Like being the first to walk along a stretch of beach smoothed by the waves.
First footprints.

The first post must be auspicious, the feet solidly planted.

What shall I write about?
About how it feels to be addicted to books and unwilling to kick the habit.
About writing - process and pleasures, pain and prose.
About my own altercations with the printed page, trying to knock some kind of sense into my words.

And

About being here - Malaysia, my home of twenty years.
About a life lived between here and there, and the rootless in betweens.
About the people who matter to me.
About life and laughter, love and language.

Of cabbages and kings.

One think I've learned about journals, is that though you may begin with a clear idea that you are going to write about precisely this thing or that, your writing takes on a life of its own and decides where it wants to lead you. I'll go with the flow.