Writer’s block-buster

Writer’s block. It’s one of those things you just never want to experience. But over the last few days I have. I sit down with the screen blinking back at me and I think about the clothes that need washing, the drain that needs unblocking (it’s right outside the window that’s next to my desk and gurgles periodically), what to cook for dinner later. It’s worse, I think, because I’m in the middle part of my book. The character’s are all there, but they’re still a little prone to moments of withdrawal. Where they decide to act the way THEY want and not the way YOU have planned. It’s that no man’s land where it’s easy to lose your way. Easy to lose focus. Easy to pontificate over the purpose of all this.

So, what do I do? Surrender to the urge to go window shopping – not real shopping, God forbid, as that takes real money, the paper variety if you’re lucky. Or, gorge myself on Fruit Shortcake’s washed down with Redbush tea? No. I take the pressure off. I break my writing time up into smaller chunks. I write something else for a bit – like this blog entry. I move location – my local library’s Reference section is great and you can even drink and eat so long as the food’s not hot (or smelly! That’s the fried fish out then…). I put my deadlines to one side for a bit and remind myself that I actually enjoy this writing lark when I remember to.

Far from revolutionary, perhaps, but worth a try don’t you think? These block-busters seem to work for me…

Wasafiri New Writing Prize 2011

Wasafiri New Writing Prize 2011

There’s still time to enter the 2011 Wasafiri New Writing Prize. Renowned worldwide for featuring some of the best and brightest new talent, Wasafiri launched an annual New Writing Prize as part of its 25th anniversary celebrations in 2009. Now in its third year, the competition is open to anyone worldwide who has not published a complete book.

The panel is looking for creative submissions in one of three categories: Poetry, Fiction or Life Writing.

The closing date is 5pm GMT on 29 July 2011. Visit http://www.wasafiri.org/prizes.asp for more info.

Hair and now…

Ok, so I rolled up a little late to the Hair Power, Skin Revolution book event at the fabulous Arc Gallery last Thursday. But that certainly didn’t take away from the quality of the evening when I eventually arrived after an hour-long trek from work…

It was my first visit to the gallery – a longboat that’s moored on the canal at Tottenham Hale and if you haven’t been I’d definitely go as it’s pretty impressive http://www.artarc-collective.com. Inside are real wood floors and beautiful works of African-inspired art on the walls. It’s an intimate space without feeling claustrophobic and holds a surprisingly large  number of people.

 

A view of the Arc Gallery

 

 

I arrived in the middle of a lively audience discussion about natural hair and was shown to a seat at the front by the curator and event organiser John Egbo. I’d missed Nicole Moore’s (the anthology editor) introduction and the first reading by contributor Collette Machado, but enjoyed Brenda White’s Hair to Stay and an impromptu performance by poet Leeto Thale. I also read my own contribution. But what really made the event for me was the input from a creative, interesting and talented audience. There were writers, artists, mothers, fathers, poets, actors and students, all with something interesting to say about our individual and collective journeys with our hair.

For me, the icing on the evening’s cake was having Judith Jacob share a wicked new way to style my locks. Priceless…

 

From left: Brenda, Nicole, Me

 

 

Stepping out of the fold

It’s been quite a while since my last post. You know how it is. Life always seems to get in the way. The commute to work, eight hours sat behind a computer or in a classroom or lugging breeze blocks on a building site, the commute home, cook dinner, spend time with the kids, collapse on the sofa in front of the tv, drag yourself to bed. And then to start all over again the very next day. No wonder we’re always tired. But we got to keep the roof over our heads, right! Damn right.

So it was with some anxiety that I recently left my job to become an ‘entrepreneur’. Basically I’m responsible for my own shit now. If I work hard and do well I reap all the benefits. If I don’t then say goodbye to that roof. I’ve stepped out of the fold. Out of the secure feeling of knowing exactly how much money will be on the table at the end of the month. I say table, but I mean bank account – you get my drift! I’ve also applied for an arts council grant to create a bit of time to actually work on my novel. My writing has always been the thing that suffers the most and the grant will give me the ‘OK’ to put it first. Centre stage! Hoorah!

And I’m happy to report that my application has been successful! So, not only have I launched a new business (check it out at www.writeontrack.co.uk) but I’ve been given some time to focus on my work. Woohoo, bring out the bunting! Now the hard work really begins…

Hair power, skin revolution

Moore's new anthology

I was excited to receive a copy of the third volume in Nicole Moore’s series of anthologies by women of black and  mixed race heritage in the post recently. Part of that was seeing the piece I’d written for Moore’s hair blog in October 2009 actually in print. But beyond this was the chance to browse the poems and essays, which on the whole speak of each writer’s  journey to self-acceptance.

Much is made of the movement from chemically treated to natural. Straight tresses to kinky waves. It’s a familiar journey for many women and thus many of the contributions touch on similar ground – mine included. So those that approach the subject matter with a slightly different take stand apart.

I loved Elayne Ogbeta’s culturally amended take on a fairy tale  in Rapunzel, Rapunzel. Ellen Aaku’s To Bleach or Not to Bleach is a brutally honest (and saddening) confession to an addiction to skin lightening  she has yet to cold turkey from. Dorothea Smart’s Hairdresser triptych is lyrically powerful.

We will always have something to say about those aspects of ourselves that define us as women. Hair Power, Skin Revolution gives ample voice to these opinions.

Immersion is the key

I’m a great believer that if you’re passionate about something you should immerse yourself in all things related to it. I’ve said so to many friends over the years. Friends who have been interested in everything from nutritional therapy to fitness. From dance to learning an instrument. But why is it that the advice we give out is so often hard for us to follow ourselves?

I’ve been working on my novel for a number of years now. I say working on it, because that hasn’t always involved actually writing. It’s lived in my head for so long, sometimes it feels almost impossible to get it to the page. Then there are the diversion tactics. There was always something else that I had to be doing. Editing someone else’s work; teaching; running mentoring sessions. I spent endless hours impressing upon other writers: “immerse yourself in the practice of writing”, “join a writing group”, “write every day – even if only a paragraph”. But it never occurred to me that I should do the same. Taking your own advice is often the hardest thing to do.

But something changed recently. A 15 minute journey to work became one hour. My transit time became regular writing time and I ‘immersed’ myself. I set up this blog. I joined a writing group. I filled my first notebook and am well into a second. Writing surrounds me. It’s taken some time, but my own advice has sunk in. Immersion is the key…

The skill of Ife

Wole Soyinka

I haven’t had the chance to visit the Kingdom of Ife exhibition at the British Museum so seeing the great Wole Soyinka in conversation with Granta Deputy Editor Ellah Allfrey the other evening was an interesting preface to my own visit. When asked how he felt about the exhibition Soyinke was quick to point out how good it was that the museum had stressed the fact that these had been ‘borrowed’ when in actual fact there were probably many similar such items that had found their way to these shores sitting in the museum’s cellar somewhere far below the auditorium where we now sat.

It made me chuckle for sure. I remember the early press before the exhibition opened. In the Metro one feature emphasised how surprising it had been to find the bronze sculptures. There was much debate as to how these had come to be in Africa. How these couldn’t possibly have been created in Nigeria. How the craftmanship that went into them was something beyond the skill of the people at the time. How patronising to believe that all artisitic skill is reserved for one race and not another. As Soyinke hailed the exhibition with one sentence, he lambasted the ignorance surrounding the true heritage of these fantastic sculptures with the next. A true artiste at work…

Seventies vibes

(from l to r) Michael, Simon, me, Mason

I find myself looking at this picture a lot just lately. It almost certainly has a lot to do with the fact that I’m writing about life in the early 1970s at the moment as my novel jumps back and forth from then to the present day. It helps me recall memories, emotions. And as such, is great material.

I have a copy of this on my mobile so I can refer to it when writing on the move. But the photo also sits on my mantelpiece so when I’m watching tv my attention often drifts over to where it sits in all its glory, centre stage among the other favourite, though random, pap shots. I remember that the picture was taken on a Sunday. I know this because my brothers are all wearing their Sunday best and I’m wearing a bonnet. Something I’d conveniently erased from my memory. I mean, who wants to remember themselves in a bonnet. If I didn’t have this picture to remind me of the unfortunate state of headwear back then, I truly would have argued blind that the frilly hat you see here never once graced my head. But, I digress…

I remember it’s Sunday, but I don’t remember whether we’re on our way to church or have just returned. What I do know and what is reinforced in the picture here is that I wasn’t happy about it. About the bonnet or going to church I suspect. I didn’t choose to go to church. We had to. And in looking at the expression on my face here it’s clear that some sort of internal struggle was going on. Maybe the patent leather shoes (with probably the biggest buckle I’ve seen on a shoe) were too tight, perhaps it was cold and I could feel the nip in the air on my exposed knees, but certainly I remember, vividly, that I didn’t want to go to church. That I didn’t enjoy sitting through the hour-long Catholic service, with its ritual, repetition and riposte. I didn’t understand then that it was ok to have your own relationship with God, outside of all that. But I do now.

I like to think my defiance shows in the way I’ve refused to hold my hands in prayer pose. A hint of rebellion, perhaps? But there’s something very vulnerable in my expression that doesn’t quite fit this explanation. I think, in reality, we were prodded and arranged and coiffed and re-arranged so the picture would be ‘just so’.

My mum took this shot. I can imagine how proud it made her. Her middle four children, scrubbed up and looking Sunday school sharp. But looking back, what this does for me is bring back all those childhood memories of reluctant Sunday morning excursions up to St Luke’s on the high street, sitting in freezing wooden pews; listening to Father Breen espousing the Catholic faith and me counting the minutes before a rice and peas and chicken lunch. Yes, really great material…

A delicate situation

So. This morning I’m writing on the train. I’m plugged in to my Ipod, listening to Wayne Shorter Blue Note recordings.

My boyfriend – lets call him Jazz Boy for the purposes of this blog – recommended the jazz trumpeteer  as the perfect writing companion and the suggestion has revolutionized my writing practice. The recordings are good because they’re instrumental. Listening to anything with lyrics disturbs the flow of words from my brain to my hand.

We stop at Marble Arch and a man gets on through the door on the right. The seat next to me is empty so he sits in it. Fast. Before the woman who gets on from the door on the left can make her way to the same seat. He takes out a copy of the Metro and starts reading. The problem is he’s breathing. A casual, involuntary action, I know, but one that becomes infinitely more complex and uncomfortable when each outward breath involves a severe case of halitosis.

Each exhale drifts my way and immediately my concentration is broken. There are no empty seats and I really don’t want to stand. I lean away from him and write a few more lines. With his next exhale, another blast of breath drifts my way and it stops me again. In the seat opposite a young man is writing in a notebook. He’s writing quickly, the pen flying across each line and moving swiftly to the next in a constant, fluid motion. I wish it was me. He looks up and catches me looking at him. He smiles then looks back down at his notebook.

I don’t know what to do so I do nothing. I sit there, trying to match my inhale to his. It’s a delicate situation. I mean, you can’t exactly say, “Can you stop breathing, mate.” And I wouldn’t want to either. It’s not his fault. Not really. There’s an abandoned Metro behind my seat so I close my notebook and pick it up instead. My journey goes right to the end of the line so I’ve still got a fair few stations to go. The man with the breath rides the train with me. All the way. When the train stops and we get off I realize it’s got nothing to do with the man with the breath. This is more about my way of avoiding the process. We writers are good at that. We find anything and everything to stop writing. Even the most delicate of situations…

Pages written: one and a half!!

Hello sunny days…

It feels as if London has been grey for much too long. We had grey skies. We had lashings of snow that turned grey then slushy and then froze solid into grey, hard ice. And now we’ve had the volcanic ash cloud. And what colour is ash? Grey. Ok, so it’s suspended far enough above us that it’s invisible to the naked eye. But we all know it’s there. We all know it’s grey. But waking up this morning I felt good. The room was brighter than it had been for weeks. The sun was shining. Ok, so the garden was overgrown, the sky wasn’t quite that endless river of blue and it’s probably still cold in the shadows, but the sun IS shining. Sunny days make me think of that Roy Ayers’ tune Everybody Loves The Sunshine. The song brings back those deep summer days, lying in the park with the sun on your face… listening. Can you feel it?