Thursday, 27 March 2014

Why Write

Writing is hard. I say this for anyone who reads this blog and isn’t a writer, although I suspect that most of you who read this have some kind of creative impulse. What creates this urge is beyond me. I cannot imagine being without it. Creativity is everything to me. Art, in its many manifestations, is something of a religion; my need to be creative comes out of a compulsion which feels like an addiction.

Why do I do it? I find it incredibly difficult and frustrating. I’m never short of ideas, but the fear of trying to articulate these thoughts in well-crafted lines of prose, poetry or script is crippling. I cannot accept that I have the talent, craft, or ability to get words to do what I want them to do. Then there’s the matter of taming my pen so that I do what every writer ought to do: leave rabbit-holes for the reader’s imagination to disappear down.

One of the chief aims of my writing, as I suggested in my wee blurb for the Village Pub Theatre is to ‘mess with the imagination.’ My short play, wonderfully interpreted by Jenny Hulse and Liz Strange (dir. Caitlin Skinner) was designed to leave the audience thinking, ‘what was that about’ – although it may be that the mystery was shattered by the rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ sung at me immediately afterwards. Very touching, if embarrassing!

My story Alice (and) the Elephant is another peculiar piece, open to a wide range of readings. Maybe people who know (or think they know) me will see it as autobiography – albeit disguised or transposed – but I can’t say that it is. A writer cannot see his/her hands. (That statement works both ways: lead us not into writing rubbish, but deliver us from the rubbish we write, since it is Thy will that is being done.)

As I say, writing is like a religion.

Presenting my story at Illicit Ink at the beginning of this month, I had the luxury of sending a recording of my reading to a dance-artist to create a new twist on the tale. I didn’t know Janine Melanie Wyse; we met only the day before for a coffee. But I knew from this brief meeting that, with her unique take on my work, it was going to be very good. ‘Whatever you come up with,’ I told her, ‘it will be great: it’s completely up to you.’ And it was.
Beyond my wildest imagination. 

So it is with these obtuse little pieces which I have called ‘cautionary tales’ – whatever they may or may not be about is not for me to decide: it is in mind of the beholder that the meaning must be construed. I’ll let you decide what you think Poppadum Poppy is addicted to. Whether you are right or wrong this is something over which I have no control, and that is fine with me.

As Pilate said, washing his hands: what I have written I have written.

 Charlotte & The Charlatan

– and other cautionary tales



Poppadom Anonymous

 ‘I have to admit,’ Poppy admitted, ‘I’m partial to a poppadom or two.’ The Charlatan knew, though Poppy showed no clue, this was only a partial admittance. ‘I spend a small fortune on pickles,’ she said – which the Charlatan knew was entirely true: comparatively, it was a pittance.
            Poppy’s passion for curry ran rather beyond her purse. Sometimes she could spend a week’s wages – or worse – on ready-meals, take-aways, or home-made curry – if she was not in a hurry. Sometimes she would splash out and dash to a curry-house, then order enough for two. Quiet as a mouse (although looking a little bit sad) at the end of the meal, took the left-overs home in a doggy-bag.
            If Poppy had a dog, or a human companion, perhaps her poppadom fetish might not have been spotted (let’s say, they’d have guessed it, unless she somehow suppressed it.) But poor Poppadom Poppy was more than besotted.
            She first let it slip when a mint raita dip was found at the back of her desk drawer at work. She’d taken to taking in poppadom crisps as a snack. The Office-Bore smirked: ‘Most women smuggle in cucumber!’ Nobody laughed, or understood the joker, but Poppy kept her face the most poker.
            From that point, Poppy kept her poppadoms clandestine, preferring to dine alone. But the Curry Club on a Tuesday at her local Wetherstones Pub was another public outing. If anyone ever suspected a secret desire, what they saw was beyond any doubting. From noon right up until closing time she had poppas and dips for £1.99. If she wanted to ‘add a desert’ to her plenty, an ice-cream kofte was two-pounds-twenty!
            But this behaviour the Charlatan saw (and so did her boss, and the Office Bore) was the thin end of a thickening wedge. ‘Poppy,’ he said, ‘Can I offer a pledge?’ At this point, the Charlatan, seeing her frown, frenetically started to search around for a corny rhyme such as Balti with faulty, Korma with calmer, Jalfrezi with crazy or Chutney with Muttley. (That last one he knew was a little bit crass, but he shitted it out like a chicken Madras.)
            ‘Dear Poppy,’ the Charlatan said, sympathetic, ‘Can I offer advice you might find empathetic? For years,’ he alleged, to curry opinion without any flavour, ‘I have struggled and striven to overcome passions by which I am driven.’
            So she went to a Group where the folk helped themselves (not to curry) to self-help books not on the shelves of the average bookshop or Grocery Store. But after twelve weeks (or steps) she wasn’t sure she had overcome her peculiar predilection, which everyone saw as a dreadful addiction.
            While the Charlatan thought he was onto a winner, to pardon the sin while forgiving the sinner, the truth about Judgement cannot be revoked: there will always be fire when you sniff out the smoke.
            The fact is, she wasn’t addicted to curry at all; a far greater contagion held Poppy in thrall.


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