Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
Oh god, this is the most painful exercise. I feel exposed, like my pedal’s been forced to the metal
and I can see where I’m going. My hand is starting to cramp already and I can feel my breath
hitch. How strange, this isn’t a race, nothing of value is on the line and yet I fear my feet tripping.
No one is likely to ever read it, my voice, punctuation, spelling don’t matter, yet I’m running where
the ground is giving way.
For this task I just need to keep writing, so why don’t I just slow down and follow my breath? My
breathing will continue if I push or pause, so why panic? Perhaps if I concentrate on breathing, the
tension in my right forearm will ease and I’ll be able to release the strange panic building in my
throat caused by my own cruel judgement and fear.
I’m a cunt, I’ve done this to myself. Something of joy is becoming a pain and I’m resenting the
thing I love. The written word, the ability to be both precise and flippant, recording my profane
thoughts to posterity, where future generations can discard them as easily as I do.
Oh look, a bug, another thought, an itch and is that an SMS?
Surely these can distractions can save me from this task. They don’t. Only the ticking time will.
How interesting to see the changes in my handwriting in line with my breath,mounting and ebbing
panic. The width of the letters, the legibility. Could I turn this into a meditative practice, just watch
the flow of my words, be my own thousand monkeys on a typewriter, just observe what happens?
Perhaps I could just watch my fingers hold the pen and observe the lovely squiggles flow, flowing
squiggles, no calligraphy or arabesque, just squirmy wormy lines on a gum tree.
My daughter noticed this morning the similarities between our handwriting, the long hook on g’s
and y’s. Her handwriting has grown up so much in the last year, it has shrunk. As she gets taller,
her letters get smaller, but I hope her voice stays as loud and she remembers she is welcome to
take up space.
How much of my writing aversion has come from my fear of my handwriting,the incessant criticism
of the aesthetic form, without acknowledging the work, the effort, the thought. Allowing fear of
expression to fester, and showing surprise when creative expression manifests in subversive and
potentially disruptive ways, inviting the mockery of tricksters to undermine ridiculous assumed
authority.