Tag Archives: nature
I cannot work in silence when I am writing; I need music all the time. For me, silence can be painful and headache inducing, as much as having television on in the background is also another disturbance and headache waiting to happen.
There are only two times when silence suits me without invoking a headache; when I am walking in nature, woodlands, pathways next to canals and fields etc., or being driven somewhere by car. I dislike conversations in cars, I don’t like talking, and I like to zone out and forget I am in the car because I tend to feel sick when I acknowledge I am in a car. I can imagine other places quite easily when I am not spoken to and in a car, this therefore makes it difficult for my body to realise it should be sick. I also cannot read in a moving car, but I am perfectly relaxed at reading on trains and in busy cafes.
Travelling on buses and in cars makes me tired as well as daydreamy and any more than an hour in either and I am asleep, unless I am very tired or woke up early on the day, I tend not to sleep on trains, I love trains, I have a passion for them which has certainly rubbed off on my son Henry.
We take regular trips on trains just because; we are trying to get into a habit of going on the Severn Trent valley steam railway every couple of months. I like to look at the scenery around there, the river Severn is the most beautiful river I’ve ever seen, which doesn’t say much because I’ve only ever seen three rivers personally up close.
Music therefore is a very important tool for my writing. I like listening to instrumental music mostly, such as that found from Nox Arcana, Apocalyptica, classical music, but sometimes I will listen to lyrical music from all styles and eras, such as Patsy Cline’s Honky Tonk Merry-Go-Round, Movie Soundtracks, Kesha and many others.
If it weren’t for music I don’t think I could be as emotional in my writing as I am with it.
When I was little I had no imagination, seriously. I didn’t find my imagination until I was around 9yrs old, I remember teachers from the couple of schools I was allowed to go to complaining that my stories were too realistic and that I lacked imagination. I was browbeaten by them to develop an imagination and my mum helped with that – by the time she was finished with me my life was destined to be a writer from the age of 11. It was decided for me and I have to admit I fell into it.
I am not saying for one moment that I don’t enjoy writing, I do. But a writer’s life was chosen for me, not something I found I wanted, it was literally thrusted upon me.
When I look back through my therapy and my creative recoveries, I have noticed that when I was a child I had planned to be a mother or a teacher and that I had a huge interest in art and fashion. I had quite vain thoughts as a child, but all of this was discouraged out of me and by the time I was 16 I had forgotten the art life I had wanted for myself and writing took its place. I know writing is an art form in itself, but I meant painting, sculpture etc., all those other art forms were discouraged simply because my talent lies in writing, not drawing my mum often told me.
I was thrilled when my cousin Shane bought me oil paints for Christmas one year, my mum dreaded it and didn’t encourage me to continue, despite the good painting I did of some obscure Aztec ancient god. My dad was proud of it, but she looked at it as an expensive past time that she wasn’t looking forward to smelling.
Since living with Paul, he believes I have talents in both but my main skill is writing simply because I don’t practise art enough. In fact he is right, because I practise less than two hours a time approximately once every couple of months. Whereas writing, I am practising almost every day for over an hour.
A lot of the time I just draw with pencils or a biro and never colour it in. When I do really good drawings I am scared to paint them, because I tend to ruin good sketches with painting them wrong. I have done excellent work that was ruined by paint. A large African elephant in the Sahara, when painted, all the excellent detail was destroyed and it became cartoonlike, yet it was coloured in with watercolours, watercolour is my main medium.
I do chalk pastel art too, but again, I am frightened to preserve it, as I tend to over spray and my work is literally washed away.
I am self-taught in both art and writing.
Music is vital for me to work, this is the primary reason why I can’t work when my son is awake or at home, his noises drown out my music a lot. He also wants the TV on all the time and that drowns out the music too. Unlike most writers and artists I don’t like isolating myself in a room alone, I like to be around people, particularly people who respect music and respect the fact that I am working – a child can never do those things, they don’t understand; So, reluctantly I have to work around him and this is something I am dreading when I become professionally published – my time then has to work around the editors I am appeasing and for me, that’s going to be a nightmare.
I had a conversation with a tree today.
The tree told me about the deforestation that his friends were experiencing in some parts of the forest.
He told me that this didn’t bother him much, you see, you have to see the positives of life; that even in death, there is everlastingness.
I asked him what he meant and he explained that nothing that dies is wasted, not truly. Even in death you have your uses, you are needed, and you still exist.
I asked about spirits and reincarnation to him, but he simply replied, perhaps, but there is more to it than that.
Take me, for instance, said the tree. When the woodcutters come to claim my life, I may still have my roots to keep me alive, but if that isn’t to be the case, you must think. What do the woodcutters make from me? Wood to burn to enhance their life for a few hours so they do not freeze to death in winter? Then I become ashes and what becomes of those ashes? Those ashes are still a part of the wonderful circle of life; I become potash for various floras, bringing life into this world, simply by my dying.
I sat fascinated and watched the wind rustle his leaves, too in awe to speak.
The tree continued on with his explanation, with patience and love. I am made into paper, for your journal, enriching the lives of humans by whatever the pages contain within, a store of knowledge, a canvas for art, a visual guide to places you may never have a chance to go to if it weren’t for me.
If not a book then shelves to put them on or I might become the chair that you sit in to read those books, or the bed that you lie in to dream about those books and art pieces.
I may become part of the tools that cut my friends down, giving them a new lease of life and usefulness.
When I am gone and I am cut down, homes may be built in place of where I stood. Perhaps farms will develop here and feed the world? Or perhaps my offspring will grow in my place?
Death is not the end, but it is the beginning of new things.
As to the subject raised earlier, yes, I do believe in spirit and I believe that with the spirit of nature everything is eternal; it just depends on your perception of it; of course, most people’s perceptions about it are wrong.
They cloud themselves up in the dark negativity of everything, which they don’t allow themselves to see the light and what a positive thing it can be.
I thanked the tree for his insight and went home to write this for you.
The night is chilled and the air is icy
Winter nips at your cheeks and nose
Wandering far into the forest, you are lost my little Rose
Simplicity doesn’t exist where complexity plays
A daring youth like you amaze me in all ways
Hark! Hear the sound of the midnight wolves
Playing a melody to attract lost fools
You follow their tune, blissfully ignorant of the dangers they bestow
And onwards you follow, and onwards you go
Through the nocturnal world you flounder
From tree to tree you flow
Further into the orchestra, into something you don’t know
Into the jaws of hunger
Into the mists of time
Into the raging beasts that are ready to dine
And now you’re here, cold in my arms
A little Rose you’ve been
And I have plucked you from the world and you’ll never again be seen
Not by mortal eyes no how and you’ll stay forever with me
No mortal shall hear your cries when you beg me for release
And now you’ve joined the shadow world
A place that’s made from fear
And you will sup upon mortal babes and breed with me more fear
And nothing shall stop your pain, when you can’t kill anymore
You’ll always give into the hunger and eat their flesh that’s raw
And I’ll be here for you always
My precious little one
To remind you of who it was, that hid you from the sun
Oh my little Rose, look at what you’ve become!
The sky above the spinney is pale blue before the night
Darkness becomes denser and the shadows form under the royal coloured sky
The sky turns into shades of lilac, pink and violet before disappearing into the darkness with the deepest of indigo
The whole place turns silent in the coming of the dark, like some stark memorial from events that happened years and years ago
This time of day is known as “twilight” it’s something that I try to see each night
It calls to me, deep from within my soul
Something deep and dark but right
Up there in the far blue sky
Flying circles in the air
Oh what comfort they give to me
Their bad reputation, it does deceive
For they’re just birds that fly on by
Whether black or blue like the sky
A rose has come into bloom
Death will be upon it too soon
Its life is short
This I’ve been taught
Happiness soon turns into gloom
Who has ordered this to be? Whom?