So, I’ve just sent out the invites to my next Share Out Loud event which I am going to hold at my humble abode and feeling like I’m really gaining confidence in my writing. I’ve wondered for a long time whether to use this forum to share some of my poetry and I’ve decided to brave it and see. I think it can offer a different aspect to what sharing out loud can – a different audience, a different medium. As well as a writer I’m also a keen photographer and I think by publishing some of my poetry here I can also find a nice way to pair up some of the hundreds of images I have stashed away too. So, I’ll be sharing lots of my work here over the next few weeks. I hope you enjoy reading it.
I’m still locked in a dilemma around when and how and with whom exactly I should share my writing. It seems to me it is quickly becoming a bizarre paradox. It is through my poetry that I find it easiest to express my true, authentic voice and yet I don’t know that I want it to be heard by anyone. Or at least not anyone who could see the mouth from which the voice emerged. I think my anonymity around my poetry is important, still, at this stage. It gives me the freedom and licence to be truly authentic and expressive and not worry who I might hurt, or disgust, or offend, or any of the other things I fear they might do. However, I think to start sharing them in that anonymous context would be useful and timely now, so they get an airing at least.
I lost my voice this week you see. My real voice, I mean. It was a few days after returning from Wales, when I hadn’t had cause to speak to anyone much, if at all. It occurred to me in an irrational moment that that could well have been the cause of it – that I was living testament to the truth behind ‘use it or lose it.’ I’m still not convinced that’s such a ridiculous idea. I have at least started some solitary vocal exercises, mainly focused around verbalising a bizarre one-person progress check:
‘Have I still lost my voice today?’ I might enquire, politely of myself.
‘Why, yes, but it’s a little better than yesterday, don’t you think?’ I might reply.
It seems ludicrous because that’s not what a voice is for, is it? Talking to yourself? It’s for communicating with others. I think my poems have been talking to themselves long enough and if I don’t start to use this voice I’m on the journey of discovering, in the presence of others, then who knows? Perhaps I will lose it too.
As my contemplation of Dylan Thomas and his undeniable genius continues into today, there’s one very real aspect of his life as a writer which I have been focusing on and that’s his dependence on alcohol. It’s always been fashionable to draw these links between alcohol and substance abuse with the creative process, not least of all writers. There’s a long list of critically acclaimed (and dead) literary genii who are well documented alcoholics and the list of writers who abuse drugs, particularly opiates and other psychoactive drugs, is rich in tradition and depth. I only have to mention Thomas de Quincey and his Confessions of an English Opium Eater to put that into some sort of context. However, in the belief that it is either the alcohol or the drugs that leads to creativity or the great process of mind expansion that allows such is, I would suggest, putting the cart before the horse.
My reasoning for this is crude but nonetheless unshakeable: that in today’s society there are increasingly people of all classes, intellectual abilities, backgrounds and social groups given to experimenting with an abusing drugs and alcohol and if the relationship were as simple as these theories suggest, then they would ALL magically become creative genii. And they don’t. Not at all. You only have to subject yourself to any given episode of UK talk-show Jeremy Kyle if you require any further evidence of that. To suggest there is a simple, direct correlation is naïve and romantic at best or just plain ridiculous or even dangerous at worst. To live in a world that continues to glamorise and romanticise this (non) connection troubles me deeply. If anything it muddles and fogs the brain so that you are unable to produce anything of any great coherence, structure or substantiality. So where has it come from?
I would suggest that it is because if you put the horse and the cart the proper way around then there is the possibility of a connection – that many gifted, artistic, sensitive and creative minds have a great need, a hunger, to quiet the constant chatter of new concepts and creative thoughts, to quash the painful passions and perplexities presented by every minute of every day and so they turn to drugs or alcohol to tame – not unleash – the creativity already surging through their soul.
As a result, the voice that presents itself under these conditions, through their writing, is as you would expect – slurred and slowed and disjointed. In my view, they haven’t unlocked their authentic voice by running headlong to these false doorways, they have killed it. They are the doors of deception, not perception. They push their way through them, hastily searching out a hiding place from their authentic selves and only then – safely hidden away – do they have the courage to confront the ‘curse’ of their creativity – now that it is safely contained and calmed.
I don’t doubt that this is, for some, a huge comfort and that without that safety mechanism many truly great works would never have struggled free from those constraints of intoxicated conformity within ‘creative circles’ and into the world. However, I would suggest that it would be far more interesting to explore other ways that creativity and insights truly can be enhanced, that greater clarity and can be obtained and that the authentic voice to express those can remain loud and clear and true. Perhaps this whole notion of the tortured and toxic creative soul was created by those very people who would seek to destroy it because maybe, just maybe, without those self-imposed distortions, those creative minds could really push some boundaries in a way that’s not masked by a smoke-screen of substance dependant semantics. Now that really would be something radical.
After all, what’s the point of ‘broadcasting’ on a frequency that nobody you seek to reach can tune in to? Because what those lists also tell us is that if you’re waiting for people to catch up with you on your jolly jaunt through wonderland, so they can really understand your message – you’re probably going to be dead before they get there. And, as a teacher, how could I possibly guide a generation to embrace their own authentic creative voices, if I was so terrified of my own that I had to hide from it in an alternate reality?
These aren’t my thoughts on the morality of drug or alcohol abuse – they belong somewhere else. These are my thoughts on the mistaken and misinformed theories about the relationship they have with the creative voice and the dangers, dumbing-down and deaths that can occur because of it.
I haven’t posted for several days. Mainly because I wanted to avoid the trap of someone who spent their time principally writing about writing, rather than actually forging ahead with my own creative projects, which are the anchor and the reason for this exploration of voice in the first place.
Recently, as part of the Festival of Chichester, I went to a talk by a very knowledgeable lady entitled Writing Your First Novel. Though she had a wealth of knowledge and had brought with her several published authors whose own experiences she has drawn on with depth and diversity, there was no evidence of her own completed first novel at that talk; indeed, no reference to it. It wasn’t until I was sharing that experience with a class that they made me aware of the aching gap this left, the sadness and shame of it. So often, I find, the teacher really is the student. More than anything, they made me aware that I didn’t want to become this person. I don’t want to just be able to philosophise and produce manuals on the mechanics of the craft – I want to lead be example, to be a master at the craft myself. And so I have spent recent days making progress with both my novel-in-progress and my poetry – which I am coming ever closer to convincing myself to share in this forum.
In my previous entry I was considering the fact that despite a rich culture and history of writing in Welsh culture, a certain amount of this was done through the medium of English and wondered about how this affected not only the ways in which they used their voice for expression, but the things they were able to conceptualise in order to express them in the first place. One of those writers that sprang to mind was Dylan Thomas and it was probably these recent thoughts of him that led me to an adventure in Laugharne today, to consider these ideas further.
I can’t help but feel a tiny bit of affinity with Dylan Thomas, being a Welsh writer through the medium of English myself and was made instantly aware of something else we had in common – an apparent love of being near water. I, myself live only a stones throw from the ocean and I was delighted by the views and idea of his little writing shed.
I have no need of such a thing since, theoretically at least, once inside my own four walls, I have no distractions from writing but I have definitely been inspired to do some furniture shifting in order to make the most of the sea views that could act as such a force of inspiration.
This started to get me thinking about how, so often when I shut everything off and sit and listen to the ocean (one of my greatest pleasures) I’m often hypnotised by the rhythm and so in this way, it can act as a multi-sensory inspiration for my writing. I’m certain that if I went back to review particularly the poetry I have written on these nights, I would find a distinct ebb and flow, or perhaps a regular smattering of crashing crescendos, depending on the conditions. Now that I’ve considered such a thing, I’m interested in trying that consciously – perhaps as a stream of consciousness exercise.
It was still with these ideas of rhythm in mind that I arrived at his boathouse, a little further along the pretty waterside walk.
Inside the boathouse there are several of Thomas’s letters on display. At once this raised a further question – the idea of the distinction between a public and private voice. It certainly seems hugely relevant in today’s society, when even your most private outpourings, if sent via digital communication, could be shared with the world at large with one simple screen shot. It makes trust vital but also, perhaps, has changed all of our processes as writers. I wonder how conscious we all are when using media, of how others might judge us. Has it raised our awareness of audience or desensitised us to it, preferring instead to communicate in our normal way, regardless of who may eventually witness that communication? The fact that Facebook now has an ‘edit’ facility, so that users can go back and review the content, or perhaps the spelling and grammar, of their posts, suggests that there is at least a degree to which we have become conscious in our everyday lives as writers of every kind, of how we might be perceived through our choice of words. Controversially perhaps, as a teacher of English, I can only applaud this development. However, I wonder how ready Dylan Thomas would have been, long before the days of Facebook or screenshots, to have his private communications (written in a time when he would have had no need to even consider that they would ever be anything else) shared with the public at large?
There’s a certainly a literary quality to his letters and not just the more famous and much-published love letters to Caitlin. Even in letters detailing how he had received notice that his cheques in Laugharne had all been refused and on returning to Laugharne, being notified that his cheques in London had also been refused, there is an unmistakeable sense of crafting behind them – a lyrical delight in the words and phrasing. I’m certainly not suggesting that he wrote them in anticipation that they would one day reach a more public audience, rather that as a writer – a wordsmith – you are never truly ‘off-duty’ – that you always have that imagined response very readily at the front of your mind. That you cannot help but put the words to work for entertainment and effect, to create nothing less than delight or devastation in whatever reader they might be intended for.
In considering this, I returned to a familiar idea – the idea of a person possessing a written voice either as distinct from, or as an extension of, their spoken voice. Certainly, Dylan Thomas is widely documented as being a wonderfully verbose and vociferous orator, as well as a gifted writer. The fact that much of his writing was intended for radio also suggests the close relationship he perceived and perpetuated between the spoken and the written word. And in relation to the original question that led me on this fascinating journey, this is hugely interesting because it’s immediately apparent to the enquiring eye that although he doesn’t write in the Welsh language, he most certainly does write in the Welsh vernacular – in the sing-song lyrical lullaby of the homeland he so often criticised. There are plenty who would disagree with me here, who would claim that any trace of cynghanedd (harmony) or cerdd dafod (tongue-craft) evident in his work is accidental at best. And this leads me back to ideas of authentic voice because I believe that even underneath this inherent need to craft, to crush and cwtch the reader as appropriate, there is something that cannot be crafted – something that permeates the ancestry of the ages, the soil you tread, the air that you breathe, something that is as much a part of your heritage as your family name. Whether this is more specific to location or language is interesting in considering writers like Dylan Thomas because it is clear (to me at least) that he does use many of the features of the literary and vernacular language of Wales, even though it is expressed through the medium of Welsh.
Even the grammatical quirks of the Welsh vernacular are evident. You need look no further than the opening line of ‘Do not go gentle into that good night.’ There are various theories as to why an adverb doesn’t appear hear – the most charming of which, I feel, is that since it touched on the topic of how to approach death in old age, he was unable to share the work with his dying father – a Grammar school English Master – who would have soon pointed out the irregular choice and Thomas would have corrected it on his advice. Since Thomas himself died only a year after his father, we have no real bank of evidence to either confirm or deny this theory which casts his father as his ever-faithful editor.
However, what I will say is this: it just sounds the way a Welsh person would say it. It’s one of the grammatical quirks that I spoke of earlier, that in the Welsh vernacular of the English language, the adjectival form is so often substituted for the adverb. That this just seems a more natural rhythm for the Welsh tongue, even if that Welsh tongue does speak English and that this is something quite distinct. As a student of English myself, I was often handed back drafts of essays with ‘syntax’ scrawled all over them in red, to my increasing frustration. Even then I had some consciousness that this different rhythm, this vernacular was peculiar to my Welshness, as in one fit of frustration, I scribbled ‘I’m Welsh!’ as a response to each red ‘syntax’ – an exercise which in practice, probably took me at least as long as any minor edits required would have. It just seemed astonishing to me that this man, this Professor of English, didn’t speak MY English and I was extremely reluctant to have to change it.
And perhaps this is one thing further that I can claim in my mission to adopt Dylan Thomas as a kindred spirit. Because I don’t think (I or) he ever did. And in that sense, he truly was a champion of maintaining an authentic voice, as the most Welsh of all English poets.