Letter to the Future exhibition in Blagdon 9th May 2015

The letters hang on washing lines: pegged up works of art. A small girl charges in, attracted by the colours. She brushes her hands through silver ribbon hanging from a kite letter. She rushes out, then back in again several times. Her footsteps fall on rectangles of sunlight coming through the windows.

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Jane who runs Fanny’s café in Blagdon helps me put up the exhibition, draping  string and the large branch she places against the bar with fairy lights.

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Once we’re done, I sit in the corner and wait to see how people react.

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In 2015 we are lucky to find messages from our ancestors 10,000 years ago in the shape of scratches on cave walls, or carvings on bones. I asked Scouts, Cubs, Guides, Rainbows, Beavers and Brownies what they would like to leave for someone in the future. In our workshops we explored this by making a letter to someone in the future. We used different coloured home-made Mendip soil inks, plus a range of others such as beetroot, blackberry and elderberry ink. The children used feathers or sticks as well as pens, staples, even fussy felt. They made letters in pictures or in words about where and how they live, and what they can see, smell or eat. Sometimes they used images and ideas of animals or plants in prehistory. This is no rules letter writing: these letters are about having fun, being creative as well as engaging with Blackdown and its history. The project has been funded by Discovering Blackdown Project. For more about Elspeth’s letter writing project, see www.scent.buzz

Four boys search for the letter they wrote in the workshop. A mother points out to her daughter that she’s spotted her letter, and giggles at the words in it. A boy tells his brother that the letter he did is rubbish. It’s painted with local mud and has something about it, I tell the boy, it gives a lot of information to the people of the future, that’s why I laminated it and put it on display.

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One of the Cub leaders tells me that the children talked for weeks after the workshop I did with them. Though there’s no time for any thorough research evaluation here, this kind of verbal, even anecdotal feedback is welcome. It’s important to know that there are benefits.

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A pair of ladies giggle as they read things such as ‘Broccoli was never meant to have been eaten’ on a letter from one of the Cubs.

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A member of the village history society takes a long time over reading the words and looking at the images. She writes in the visitor’s book ‘Selfies and broccoli – brilliant. Really enjoyed looking at your exhibition’.

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‘It’s really quite moving,’ says a retired man who I’ve called in from the pavement, walking by. He loves children’s art having worked in a children’s hospital most of his life as a nurse, but hadn’t felt able to come. He likes the inks chosen from Mendip soil. He also likes a glittery splodge one child has made, and the mammoth.

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He visits again a little later with a bag full of jars of different coloured oche pigments, from golden to browny reds and one of the pictures he’s painting with them. ‘You can grind the ochre in a pestle and mortar, then sieve it, and grind it once more. That makes a very fine pigment.’

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A couple of Police Community Support Officers titter.

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One Cub, spontaneously tells me, ‘I loved doing all this.’ It reminds me how much the children enjoyed the process on those cold winter evenings.

A bunch of girls find it a good place to chat, amidst the letters:

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‘The rooms smell lovely – did the children use lavender?’ asks a parent. I say on one of the workshop tables there were a few bottles of essential oils, a few scents, lavender and eucalypus to dab on. That’s what you can do with a real letter.

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Next door, the film that year 5 and 6 made for Decoy Day is on a loop, and a lots of people are coming in to watch it. Some of them stay for three sittings. In between or at the end, they eat war time cakes – a fruit cake, or honey cake with a cup of tea, served by the school Class 4 teacher. Then they wonder into the room of letters.

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‘They have clearly been able to be free whilst creating these – they’re really special aren’t they?’ one mother says to me. Another writes in the visitors book, ‘Loved the letters and the film – what wonderful creative enterprises! Fantastic that the kids get to express their creativity and individuality. The inks are wonderful.’

I tell one spectator that I was really interested in what the children picked up from the information and ideas I shared with them. I showed a bundle of local maps to the Guides, amidst a lot of images of Mendips animals and plants twelve thousand years ago as well as now. One girl picked out a little bit of one of the maps and drew a field map. Others drew deer, hare and owls.

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Some images had real plants on them, or mushrooms:

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Others had stuck on fuzzy felt, playing cards or glitter.

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There were even letters on a stone I’d brought to pin down paper.IMG_0665

They have really thought about the words, taken care to think what the people of the future might like to hear, and then chosen inks, writing slowly with feathers and wooden sticks, and got on with communicating in the best way they can to the future.

‘What’s going to happen to these letters?’ a few people ask. ‘Something should be done with them, they should actually be given to the future.’ A dad says he can find a box for them, he’ll have a look and perhaps they could be buried in the village? By the end of the day, I’ve found a little money to make this happen, if the children will let me bury them…. and they can have them back in 25 years time.

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More comments from the visitors book:

‘What a Joy’.

‘In discussion with one of the parents the project has really made the children of Blagdon think ‘outside the box’ and it has inspired them to talk about all their involvement and matters discussed.’

‘Lovely imagination – brought to life. I love the idea that ‘anything goes’.

So – thank you to all the children – Scouts, Guides, Brownies, Cubs, Beavers, Rainbows for all your work, to all the group leaders, Jane Adams for helping me put the exhibition together and Andy for helping take it down, Ruth Coleman for sharing the exhibition, and Stuart Bardsley at Discovering Blackdown Project for funding the workshops and exhibition http://www.discoveringblackdown.org.uk and all the people who came to see it.

Battersea Arts Centre Live On

I am saddened by the fire at this wonderful arts centre last Friday. Yet warmed by the news that donations are already pouring in to help rebuild the damage – such is the will to keep hold of the bricks, space and spirit of this place.

Driving through Battersea today, I remember the play that I staged there when I was 30. I had just finished the (rather long titled) National Theatre Young Directors’ Programme at the National Theatre Studio which Ian Rickson, the talented, mellow (and gorgeous) Director of The Royal Court at the time, had put my name up for, for which I am truly grateful. “After the course, you want to be putting on a show quite quickly,” Ian encouraged me, so I looked for my opportunity.

Tom Morris was Artistic Director at Battersea, and after attending a workshop with him at the National Studio, I was brave, introduced myself properly and we chatted about my idea – a play about a dystopian world run by ecologists and based on bee society. Soon after he invited me to stage my show as part of a music and theatre programme ‘A Sharp Intake of Music’. This was a fantastic and terrifying opportunity to write and direct my first show in London – it was called ‘Beauty and The Breast’.  The script came out of a week of improvisation, a lot of filtering of ideas and then writing up a structure and a script of a kind, though there was as much physical theatre as words and that’s quite difficult to fix in a script. Matthew Barley improvised live on stage and two talented actors, Helen Laing and Nuria Bennet moved, danced and spoke. It was a true collaboration of theatre and live music, and was properly experimental. I’m not sure which other venue at the time would have been so open to such an idea.

It was very enjoyable a process and lots of the audience were impressed and moved, though I was embarrassed to have made the mistake of employing a young Australian lighting operator who got all the cues wrong. Gah!

In the press cuttings, the show is described as work in progress. My life took a different direction immediately afterwards. I started to teach at BA then MA level, write animation and TV. Then babies arrived…. However, I have had a little interest recently in exploring this topic again with a writer friend who works at the RSC, so perhaps it will have a chance to progress.

Thanks Battersea Arts Centre for giving us this opportunity, and I really hope you recover quickly.

The Battersea Arts Centre programme…

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Our flyer…

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Press cuttings…

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Photos of Matthew Barley, Helen Laing and Nuria Bennet with Throb, the god of this dystopian world…

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Stunning hand written design sketches from Sally Daniels…

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Shelf Life: what’s in a bookshop?

All those put your hands up if you bought books online in the last week.

Now all those put your hands up who bought books in a bookshop.

Let’s go back in time. 1978 – the North East, and I was ten. The picture you may have in your head now if you’re a Southerner may be of grim, cold, windy tragic scenes: a second cousin of mine once said he felt sorry for me because I didn’t come from London. Well, it really wasn’t too painful to be brought up there, that is when they let me out of the broom cupboard. The elders of my tribe taught me how to create warmth, and what made it even less painful was that I was brought up in a bookshop.

Back to 2014. I am witnessing this show of hands in an audience listening to a panel – ‘What Future for Words’ – introduced by Vikki Heywood, Chair of the Warwick Commission on the Future of Cultural Value. I put my hand up for both.

‘Slightly more people in the room’, Vikki says, put their hands up for the bookshop one. ‘Perhaps’, she adds.

To put this in context, this is Cheltenham Literature Festival, where people have chosen to attend in order to explore words and books, so it doesn’t represent a random cross-section of the British public.

I am reminded that one of my own children proudly told his head teacher last week that he wouldn’t be buying the book at the school book sale even though he desperately wanted it, because he could get it cheaper online. Ouch.

The question that these hands in the air are making me ask is, what exactly is it that we risk losing if bookshops or hard copies of books disappear?

Newcastle in the 80’s. It was a survival strategy of mine to spend as much time as possible in the bookshop. I’d never have seen my real live mum in the flesh, or got fed, if I hadn’t gone there.

Home did not have any in-date food in the fridge and was sometimes not very tidy and was quite often filled with pale skinned spotty goths and dope smoking teenagers.

I liked them, they taught me how to smoke, and they seemed to think I wasn’t too irritating but I knew even then that they were into a little bit too grown up kind of stuff for me to be hanging out with them all the time.

At the shop, reference books became my grandparents, poetry books became my well-stroked pets, novels my big sisters, art books gave me my special treats and cookery books read me bedtime stories. It was warm (the heating was on, unlike at home) and it smelt of Italian coffee.

Sometimes the bookshop spilt into home life. My siblings and I had a joke that when Mum wanted to say something, like ‘Time you knew about sex’… she’d just casually leave ‘the latest’ book hanging out on the kitchen table at home for us to find.

The Bookhouse was an independent bookshop with a coffee bar. We thought we were terribly original and that it was before anyone else in the UK had thought of that combination, which might be true. The Bookhouse was my very own mother’s shop. It was around that time I copied my brothers and sister and started to call her Iris: ‘I don’t want to be called Mum when I’m 77 years old,’ she said.

Whilst I was attending my father’s wedding and getting to know a new bunch of step siblings, and – more importantly – discovering my sister’s Lou Reed and Bowie records (which she had stolen from our eldest brother), Iris was busy. Somewhere or other she was persuading a bank to give her a loan, choosing the location (13 Ridley Place… spooky since my dad had married Mrs Ridley), shelving out two floors of the shell of the shop, then ordering the books.

Her dad – a Geordie grocer – sat on the sidelines, as he died slowly of a smoking related lung disease, warning her gloomily that she probably wouldn’t succeed. She was a single mum – not that we used that phrase – and a feminist, and we knew that his words just fuelled her resolve.

When the first book orders were delivered, a team of us slid knives into the tape holding the boxes together and opened them up one by one. Oh for that unmistakable inviting fragrance of a box of brand new books. The silky smoothness of a quality hard-back cover. The sensation and thrill of sliding each volume out, carefully so as not to damage it, holding each one as though it were a new-born baby, checking it for eyes, ears, nose, mouth and then working out which section to put it in.

They might well have been called worlds: worlds of ideas, for that’s what each one was, and the whole lot together on the shelves was a universe, and I greedily wanted to read them all.

My daily routine, once shop life started, was to walk there after school, or get on the Newcastle Metro, once that was installed, and get out at Haymarket. When I arrived in my creased school uniform, with half my school dinner down my front and my homework in my bag, Iris would suggest I got myself a hot chocolate in the coffee bar and do my homework there.

Then she’d open the till and give me a fiver to get garlic chicken from M&S, maybe also enough for my brothers if they were around, because she’d always stay late and I’d be being helpful if I could put it in the oven, and it would be extra brilliant if I’d walk the dog.

She had to switch off the coffee machines in the coffee bar, and count the takings at the end of the day and tot them all up each week (takings ranged widely and often determined our family mood for the week), and sort the stock cards, when we had that system.

If I resisted buying joss sticks or retro hats from the Handyside Arcade with some of the money, I might manage to get chocolate éclairs or a lemon tart for pudding.

Working at The Bookhouse on Saturdays and holidays from the age of ten was cool, and getting paid in Collins English dictionaries or play scripts or postcards, even cooler. Sometimes I made chocolate brownies or dodgy Florentines to sell in the coffee bar. Occasionally they were good enough to sell.

Iris even let me select books from the reps: ‘Just get any that you think look interesting’, she’d say. How exciting was that? I got to order any book I felt like, as well as choosing what we’d have for supper, aged 12!

Spotting shop-lifters was an essential part of working on the till, and I developed a nasty glare for anyone I thought might EVEN BE THINKING ABOUT IT. This studying also gave me quite good lessons – I am ashamed to say – for my own subsequent (brief, I hasten to add) phase of shop-lifting nasty eighties earrings (from chain stores, never independents… that was my questionable moral code) which I didn’t need or even want that much, along with a very naughty friend.

Sorry shops, I would now pay you back if I thought you still existed. Guilt. Shame.

There was a host of staff in the shop – far too many to be economical – including Gran and our rocking horse in the children’s section (the horse got the highest wages of any of us) and Aunty Ruth and sometimes my friend Didi. Beth Kessler, Mum’s choral singing friend, and Elizabeth Hammill, who went on to set up Seven Stories, the children’s book centre in Newcastle, were also there from the beginning.

Neil Astley had free rein in the poetry section, which was tucked up on the shelved section on the left side under the stairs. Neil could often be spotted at our house drinking wine, planning and discussing with my mother how to bring to the attention of the reader the slim volumes (obscure volumes as I saw them at the time), but which in fact comprised a huge collection of modern international poetry which deserved an audience. This was in the years that he was setting up Bloodaxe Books, cutting and pasting cover design in the kitchen of his flat.

Sometimes there were two people working in the coffee bar, down the spiral staircase, and also Mick, the guitarist on Saturdays. We had visitors too – illustrators like Michael Foreman and Colin McNaughton drawing wicked monster and witch pictures for kids (I still have some).

Royal Shakespeare actors dropped in to recite works such as Beowulf – in between sips of mulled wine – on winter evenings. There was a bunch of us, (including – most exciting for me – the boy I had the hots for) who often visited after we’d been to the People’s Youth Theatre, on a Saturday morning.

Reams of Newcastle Literary Festival writers and opera singers came back to our house for parties. At least that’s how I remember it. God knows how my mother did it all. She was even on Woman’s Hour once for winning Young Firm of the Year, awarded by the Newcastle Advertiser. Agony to listen to your mum talk on the radio when you’re 16, but in retrospect, that’s not a bad accolade is it? Especially for running a shop, which never really made quite enough money.

As A.L. Kennedy says at Cheltenham: “If money becomes the sole purpose for words, it becomes bit depressing”. Iris was not, you can fairly say, into selling words for the sole purpose of making money.

Our Bookhouse got sold ten years later for not very much, as an ongoing concern, which really is an unfortunate phrase. It didn’t survive that chain – Waterstones – arriving in town and setting itself up in Northumberland Street, where there must have been an astronomical rent, but, as we’d put it, ‘Everybody is always walking past, so they just drop in’, unlike the Bookhouse which suffered from just-off-the-high-street syndrome.

I truly hoped that some of the books that were still hanging out on the shelves unsold were not ones that I had ordered, randomly, in those early days, but I suspect quite a lot of them were.

For a long time, I would not go into a Waterstones anywhere, out of loyalty to our shop. Iris didn’t ever ask me to have this loyalty. I even sent unfair sour glares (learned from the shoplifting spying) to the staff in there, especially if they’d opportunely side-stepped from our shop. It’s odd to me that we are all now hoping that the chain won’t go bust. Waterstones is now one of the rare surviving bookshops.

The longest I’ve spent in a bookshop for years is at Cheltenham Literary Festival, and that isn’t even a bookshop, it’s a marquee. It’s filled with the books by the writers giving talks, the public who are listening to those talks, and the writers signing the books, which they’re giving their talks about. What a party again! I have indescribable urges to join in, but I don’t quite know how to not be part of the team organizing the event and whipping the writers off for a meal or a drink afterwards.

What happened to my own regular bookshop browsing habit? Whilst having those delights called very young kids, who have tendencies to rip out pages from books then vomit all over what is remaining, I tried to make sure I was a good book Mum. I gathered enough books to feed their hungry souls, read to them as soon as they could sit up (in my womb) and then just left them to rip out pages and vomit as much as they liked.

We were living in deep rural Devon in a seventeenth century kind of way, where it was hard to get a proper radio signal, and the ghosts spoke more loudly than my husband, and books made a contribution to keep me in modernish times. I hardly noticed bookshops then, because I hardly noticed the outside world at all in that time, but when I did sit up and notice, all the bookshops had started to close. The one in our nearest town – Tiverton – closed suddenly, before I’d even been in it. The person who pointed it out to me, was Iris.

Now I’m a bit more normal, living a bit less of a sheltered existence. I actually have neighbours, and there are cities quite nearby and in those cities there are bookshops though some of them only have remainders, the cheap books that publishers want to sell off. If I have time, I will give myself fifteen minutes to check over the titles and buy something. I still have some getting back in the groove to do. After all there is so much to know and follow nowadays if you’re interested in words, ideas and communication. How can you be expert of digital media, of film, music and art and dance and children and school and housework and earning money and looking presentable and try to eat the food in the fridge in time, then read regular papers and novels too?

There have been a few conferences which work has taken me to… such as Sheffield Documentary Festival, Cinekid in Amsterdam, Kidscreen in New York, Vision in Bristol. Fast paced adrenalin vehicles for pitching, selling and flirting. The focus is often multi platform: words and ideas across media. Telling stories over the internet, TV and on mobile devices.

This is my first visit to Cheltenham Literary Festival and to a literary festival at all since 1986. I am gate-crashing Iris and Aunty Ruth’s annual expedition, and they’ve been really kind taking me out for lunches. The festival is gentle, thoughtful, relaxed. It’s reminded me of the importance to put away your mobile phone and forget about text messages, slow your pace and read words in print, and then let the thoughts wonder.

At the ‘What Future for Words’? debate which I attend, the debate has the feeling of scratching the surface of something enormous. I come home wanting to know more about all the panelists: Amereh Saleh, a spoken word artist who has a strong online presence; the shrewd, confident writer A. L. Kennedy, Rebecca Levene who is a cross-platform writer and the publisher Gail Rebuck. I find them all on Twitter, and I also look up The Warwick Commission on the Future of Cultural Value.

The question of what exactly is it that we risk losing if bookshops or even books disappear has taken quite a bit of answering, and I haven’t covered all the points by any means. The bookshop I was brought up in might have parented me, but it didn’t change my nappies and it didn’t give me hugs. However, the people in and around the bookshop, including the customers, did give me hugs, or at least warmth. Luckily by the time I was 10 I was out of nappies, so they didn’t have to do that too.

For me then, it’s the people in a bookshop that makes a bookshop. It the talking about a book, enthusing, knowing about the book you’re looking for, sharing, giving advice, suggesting, looking together for an author or a title. Online does do that, but it’s not quite the same when there isn’t another human being in front of you, is it? It’s a need I don’t think I am alone in having…. I need that sharing, and that energy. The same energy and need attracts us to live comedy and live music and brilliant theatre, doesn’t it? Otherwise we’d all just sit at home in front of our screens right?

The Bookhouse was a place where a bunch of Northern people could explore a little bit about who they were, for a decade. It was a place where artists, even Southern artists visited and shared their ware. It was a place for creative folk or just any folk to get a book and have a coffee, have a giggle or feel sad, just something human…. and then get on with the rest of their lives. For me, as a teenage bookseller, there was the tantalizing mystery and excitement behind the question of which book would a customer buy? Was it for them or was it a present? It’s the customer, and the future reader that eventually gives a book its breath.

Iris doesn’t sell books anymore, but my sister and I reckon she singlehandedly props up bookshops all over England with the amount she buys, and it’s great visiting her house for a weekend: each time there’s a month or two of fascinating material to get through.

My own children feast on library books, spend their earnings or savings on books and read anything else they can get their hands on in their spare time… I have to limit it in order to get a conversation out of them, and it has to be juggled with playing Terraria and Minecraft.

It feels important to Tweet about this after the festival. I want to say I was brought up in a bookshop, but Twitter doesn’t let me have enough words to say why this has any relevance at all. Then it crosses my mind (ok, I admit, I am a bit behind everyone else) that I can tweet a link to a blog post. Brilliant. This is what I will do. I spot one of the battered dictionaries that I now prop my laptop on so that I don’t get neck ache when typing – ‘The Collins Dictionary of the English Language’. I pull it out, and find on the first page an inscription in it in spangly young writing.

“Elspeth Penny.

In payment for working in the Bookhouse.”

You could say – couldn’t you – that my words literally came from the Bookhouse and are still literally propped up by the Bookhouse.

The morning that we leave, we finish off an enormous breakfast at the hotel. It’s Mum’s – oops, I mean Iris’s 77th birthday.

What do Ruth and I give her?

Books.

PT (Postscript Tweet)…

Elspeth Penny ‪@elspethpenny‬

Love books, love digital both. Thanks ‘What future for words?’ panel ‪#cheltlitfest ‪@GailRebuck ‪@Writerer, ‪@Voiceofthepoets ‪@RebeccaLevene

Amereh Saleh @Voiceofthepoets has retweeted it! Yay! I now feel a little bit part of it all again.

Any ideas or thoughts this article has prompted in you? I’d love to know.

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The neuroscience of writing inspired by music

At the Pen in Pubs session last week, Bob Walton and I led some exercises that explored writing inspired by live sound and music. Nigel, one of the group, wrote this after listening to the beautiful experimental sounds of another participant’s music, and other exercises: – “Incongruous, unconnected, the wrong beat on the right bang. Coming together though now slowly. Harmony arriving on a wave of confidence.”

Bob and I thought this described how the creative process sometimes is: it often comes together if the incongruous and uncomfortable (the ‘wrong beat on the right bang’) is explored. Perhaps it describes some writing workshops too, which push us further on in our creative journeys? Or does it even describe progress as a whole? It’s uncomfortable to push our heads out of our cosy comfort zones, but can lead to extraordinary new inventions, ideas and creations.

I am not promoting the idea of deconstructing people’s souls in order to reach finer art, which some drama schools believe in, but just finding ways to take risks in a safe environment. In the end if we can bring confidence to a writer, I am happy. After writing about these ideas to a neuroscientist friend of mine, he wrote back to say,

“It makes complete sense to me. I personally tend to look at these kind of things from the way the brain seems to work, then work onward/back from there. What you describe here is what I would consider a change of ‘state’, or moving from one brain network to another. When I mean ‘state’ I do not refer to consciousness or unconsciousness, but modulations and alterations in our own; awareness, mood, emotion, engagement, memory recall, perception etc.”

“We do this all the time, without often being aware of moving or changes from one to the other. It makes sense that the more you explore using the different networks in your brain, the more creative capacity you might have to interpret exactly the same sensory inputs (sounds, words, music etc.). It is a 2-way process; creative sound/music can alter brain states; creative brain states can help create conditions for creative writing.”

“Over time, the brain can of course create and develop new and novel networks using exactly the same neural networks, but in different orders or degrees. There is no element in the brain that says complete order should necessarily be better than some degree of disorder – its is largely habitual and cultural than we associate 4/4 time as being ‘right’. Other more random musical orders can in fact have more depth and meaning than something which sounds always even.”

“As with all music, its interpretation is subjective of course. Complicated by the fact that musical scales are often culturally biased & based with Eastern music using very few notes at all to reach the same degree of listening pleasure as an extensive Western classical musical scale. I am sure you are right that if writers can learn to move to creative and productive states using mediums like music, without the need for self-criticism/drugs/drink/self-harm, their writing confidence should naturally improve…. win;win :)” IMG_9494

Dragon’s Love: a story

Green she was, moss green,

So to see her was to see a creature emerge as if out of the landscape,

The curves and rolls of valley,

Somewhere between here and Dolbery Hill.

Down she flew, from high above, breezes billowing,

Drifting in warm air currents,

Down down the valley,

Over the rounded shadow streaked hills, over rivers gushing.

A deer darting below, a fox, a bear, a bird,

A flurry of fairies, a gaggle of goblins,

And a lonely siren in the sea that washed up to the village of Thorverton.

She flowed and hung above Cadbury Castle a while,

And blew hot air out of each enormous nostril.

Claws and prickles on her back scared off attackers when she slept.

They also hid her amongst woody skeleton trees and hedgerows,

Amongst wrinkle like marks where fields have slumped down hills.

She was made out of fire and gas.

Her ears could hear a sound five miles off, so never was a secret kept from her.

Her teeth were sharp and silvery white, they tore up her prey –

A sheep or goat, sometimes a doe or a villager,

But never would a rat or cat or dog fill her up.

Gertrude was her name.

Her roar would reach inside your bones and shake them,

She’d only roar in anger when someone told the secret of the treasure…

First, let’s go back a bit in time, in fact a thousand years before,

There lived a wizard called Baldwin who lived in the land of Cadbury,

He was sure he’d discovered the trick of turning things to gold,

Though all the magic he’d stored up over years was only any use for one large spell…

So he thought of the largest creature in the land to turn to gold,

Which would make him rich forever.

So creep up on Gertrude Baldwin did do.

Hows Pickle and Dickle

Four hens in a pot – biggledeeboo, biggldeeboo!

The cream of a ewe’s milk,

With a pie made of rat’s poo.”

Now Gertrude was reading stories to the dragon she loved,

More than any other dragon in the whole-wide world.

And that was Cuthbert, her little boy dragon, who was naughty,

And not always helpful, but was always a joy to his Mum.

So ready was Baldwin to cast the spell,

When little Cuthbert saw what was about to occur and leapt to his mother’s aid.

‘No….stop’, only to arrive just at the wrong time and got turned into gold himself,

Never to know anymore about it.

Baldwin was furious, as Cuthbert was an eighth of the size of his gigantic mother,

He wouldn’t make him rich at all.

But what about Gertrude? She tore Baldwin from the ground, crunched him up.

Spat him out.

With the loss of her son, came her monstrous roar over lane and farm,

Over hump and bump, reaching far and wide….

Haunting, hollering, flowing, blowing, searching, hurting, broken, soaking,

Hoping, only just coping, only just cruising, heart bruising, mother of babe Slain….

So she buried her golden son,

And swore to guard that gold until the day that a wizard found a way,

To bring him back to dragon boy.

Only one person knew of the treasure at first –

A little boy who’d seen it buried and sworn he’d never tell,

Though tell he did one foolish day, and eat him up the dragon did.

Gertrude the dragon couldn’t find out who was the one he told,

Until she discovered it was a farmer’s wife, who told a girl, Agnes Fursdon,

…. and Gertrude heard.

What happened to the farmer’s wife?

She got chewed and swallowed.

Agnes Fursdon, well she knew it dangerous to tell,

Kept her mouth shut ‘til she was one hundred and four,

Then she fell dead to the floor and the secret died too.

No-one else knew and the dragon roared no more,

But guarded the Fursdon house and the family there,

For seven whole centuries.

The treasure lies safe still today –

Somewhere between here and Dolbery Hill.

The End

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(I  wrote this story for Thorverton school. Sara Burnand and Laurie Steen were running a creative day workshop on dragons at Fursdon House with Catriona Fursdon and Thorverton Head mistress Tania Beard. I wanted to join in because at the back of our house we looked up a little valley and we could see Cadbury castle, an iron age fort in mid-Devon, at the end of it. Catriona and I met up and she told me that there was a mythical dragon at Fursdon, which flew over the area. Dragon’s Love is an embellishment of this tale.

On the day of the workshop, Catriona read out the story to the children on top of Cadbury castle. The children walked back to Fursdon where they made pictures out of red Devon mud.

One sunny morning near Taunton, I read the story to Pete Davies and Stu Derrick of Dream Machine Media (now Navmotion). They said it was just what they wanted, and chose the story. They commissioned an illustrator to work up some images for their e-book template, funded by the Technology Strategy board. The e-book didn’t get made in the end, but I was pleased that Eric Huang at Penguin liked the story.)

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