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So.
As I've probably mentioned many a time (oh, so many times, I have terrible memory for keeping track of what I have said to who, and this includes people and journals on the internet) I attend a monthly creative writing course, run by two lovely professionals, one who has extensive connections to the, er, writing side of things, working for the BBC etc, and the other has connections to the local government (it's run by my county's Arts and Education Project). I'm terribly lucky to attend and I love the people I work with, even though my old partner left - it's made up of young adults of all ages, and she thought socialising with a few kids younger than her was beneath her, but that's a story for another time.
Last session I attended after having not been to a session for months, due to them being on hiatus for the holidays, before that not attending due to GSCEs, and also because the month before, the aforementioned partner had kind of deceived me as to when the session was. (I think she was angry that I wanted to carry on the course, but hey, she's not the one who wants to write.)
So this one I was a little wrongfooted! It turned out that once I'd been introduced to new members and sat down, a group of Unfamiliar Adults walked in, and I assumed they were part of the couple of people doing a mini documentary on our course.
(The women running it are damn good at their job of making the course worth while, and promoting themselves - but it's best to just run with whatever they go month to month, I've learnt).
Turned out they weren't to do with any of that, nor were they guests come in to talk about their field or give us insight into writing for a specific industry, or anything like that (much).
No, they were actors. Actors, it turned out, that had commissioned our group to write a series of scripts and poems on the theme of christmas shopping for a port city in my county, to be performed in the street, in shops, and in public places like theatres and museums.
And I hadn't come prepared.
I vaguely remembered getting the email, and lamented that I wouldn't be able to contribute; our last commission was to retell fairytales for children in Malawi, to be sent as little books to schools with a severe dearth of stories that weren't written in the Twenties for British kids, and I'd missed out then.
But our course leader turned to I and the other guy who hadn't been there last week, and informed us we'd be writing something Right Here Right Now, whilst the actors did test readthroughs with the others, and with that she chivvied us out the door for Inspiration.
Luckily I'd been given the task of writing on the subject of Christmas shopping, and whilst none was on in my lovely collegecity at present, I'd had a sufficiently traumatic experience that Wednesday to draw on, so I used my Experience Time wondering around with the other chap and buying myself a coffee before returning to the library's conference room we were stationed in (up three flights of stairs; a pain in the arse when your course leaders are obsessed with setting writing exercised out and about in the Real World of the city) and writing the poem.
I didn't take it too seriously, to be honest. I had my college bags from the day before, and I pulled out the Sylvia Plath anthology we'd been studying for inspiration, sipping my coffee and chatting with everyone before we were told to quieten down and get on with it. After about quarter of an hour with no inspiration and just over ten minutes left I began to scribble as if my life depended on it, and I didn't even edit it. Since I had to leave early, I kind of threw it at the pile of submitted pages after copying it up in a neater hand, and got on my three hour bus journey home (thank god for my laptop and second season of Adventure Time, because we broke down four times on the way home, bringing up my travel time to a lovely four and a half hours).
So when today I get an email from said course leader, saying that
'Dear ___, Just to say have seen your poem performed twice now – once in the ___ Museum and one in the theatre and I think you would love it. All 6 actors read it in the theatre and it turns into a bun fight with them all clamouring for words like bargains off a shelf. Your poem finished the evening as it was a good finale. So well done to you – you really captured the spirit of what was needed! Happy Christmas, ___'
I was pretty bloody happy. People performed something I wrote! That they commissioned in the first place! And they interpreted it awesomely! It was enough to give me delusions that I could Actually Poetry, considering that a fortnight ago that weird haiku-thing my lecturer had made me do was put on the college intranet and got lots of positive comments. All in all, a lovely early Crimbo present.
And, uh, this has been a long long post gloating about my course and the fact that I got some of my work performed. Sorry.
As I've probably mentioned many a time (oh, so many times, I have terrible memory for keeping track of what I have said to who, and this includes people and journals on the internet) I attend a monthly creative writing course, run by two lovely professionals, one who has extensive connections to the, er, writing side of things, working for the BBC etc, and the other has connections to the local government (it's run by my county's Arts and Education Project). I'm terribly lucky to attend and I love the people I work with, even though my old partner left - it's made up of young adults of all ages, and she thought socialising with a few kids younger than her was beneath her, but that's a story for another time.
Last session I attended after having not been to a session for months, due to them being on hiatus for the holidays, before that not attending due to GSCEs, and also because the month before, the aforementioned partner had kind of deceived me as to when the session was. (I think she was angry that I wanted to carry on the course, but hey, she's not the one who wants to write.)
So this one I was a little wrongfooted! It turned out that once I'd been introduced to new members and sat down, a group of Unfamiliar Adults walked in, and I assumed they were part of the couple of people doing a mini documentary on our course.
(The women running it are damn good at their job of making the course worth while, and promoting themselves - but it's best to just run with whatever they go month to month, I've learnt).
Turned out they weren't to do with any of that, nor were they guests come in to talk about their field or give us insight into writing for a specific industry, or anything like that (much).
No, they were actors. Actors, it turned out, that had commissioned our group to write a series of scripts and poems on the theme of christmas shopping for a port city in my county, to be performed in the street, in shops, and in public places like theatres and museums.
And I hadn't come prepared.
I vaguely remembered getting the email, and lamented that I wouldn't be able to contribute; our last commission was to retell fairytales for children in Malawi, to be sent as little books to schools with a severe dearth of stories that weren't written in the Twenties for British kids, and I'd missed out then.
But our course leader turned to I and the other guy who hadn't been there last week, and informed us we'd be writing something Right Here Right Now, whilst the actors did test readthroughs with the others, and with that she chivvied us out the door for Inspiration.
Luckily I'd been given the task of writing on the subject of Christmas shopping, and whilst none was on in my lovely collegecity at present, I'd had a sufficiently traumatic experience that Wednesday to draw on, so I used my Experience Time wondering around with the other chap and buying myself a coffee before returning to the library's conference room we were stationed in (up three flights of stairs; a pain in the arse when your course leaders are obsessed with setting writing exercised out and about in the Real World of the city) and writing the poem.
I didn't take it too seriously, to be honest. I had my college bags from the day before, and I pulled out the Sylvia Plath anthology we'd been studying for inspiration, sipping my coffee and chatting with everyone before we were told to quieten down and get on with it. After about quarter of an hour with no inspiration and just over ten minutes left I began to scribble as if my life depended on it, and I didn't even edit it. Since I had to leave early, I kind of threw it at the pile of submitted pages after copying it up in a neater hand, and got on my three hour bus journey home (thank god for my laptop and second season of Adventure Time, because we broke down four times on the way home, bringing up my travel time to a lovely four and a half hours).
So when today I get an email from said course leader, saying that
'Dear ___, Just to say have seen your poem performed twice now – once in the ___ Museum and one in the theatre and I think you would love it. All 6 actors read it in the theatre and it turns into a bun fight with them all clamouring for words like bargains off a shelf. Your poem finished the evening as it was a good finale. So well done to you – you really captured the spirit of what was needed! Happy Christmas, ___'
I was pretty bloody happy. People performed something I wrote! That they commissioned in the first place! And they interpreted it awesomely! It was enough to give me delusions that I could Actually Poetry, considering that a fortnight ago that weird haiku-thing my lecturer had made me do was put on the college intranet and got lots of positive comments. All in all, a lovely early Crimbo present.
And, uh, this has been a long long post gloating about my course and the fact that I got some of my work performed. Sorry.
