Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
I’m intrigued – captivated – by her. She has a a cheeky glint in her eye and something gentle in her manner. I feel she has charming, clever, funny, maybe even salacious, stories to tell. I want to know more. I want to read what she’s written. I want to ask her questions, over coffee and scones.
I’m in Catherine Deveny’s Gunnas Writing Materclass and she’s just told us to spend five minutes writing. And not to stop til she calls time.
How do we not stop? She tells us when we get stuck for the next thought write things like “I’m in Catherine Deveny’s Gunnas Writing Masterclass and…”.
I feel at risk of stopping. To stop and think about what it is I want to say about the slightly older classmate who’s caught my attention. I want to do thinking and planning and editing. But I’ve heard it before and I’ve heard it again today: just keep writing.
As I keep writing this tumbling jumble, I notice I really enjoy the physicality of writing like this. I love the feel of my hand, my pen, racing along the lines of the paper. And it does race. I’m writing. It’s like when I was learning to ride a bicycle and suddenly sensed my father wasn’t holding me upright anymore – I pedalled away as fast as I could.
I’ve noticed how I have a particular way of writing when I’m ‘doing writing’. It’s different to my writing when I’m writing out my to-do list. (I do list-writing a lot. Procrasti-listing.)
I notice how when I’m writing writing, my script leans forward hard to the right. Leading itself, my hand, even my thoughts.
Right now, I can’t tell where it’s coming from. It’s just coming. Flowing. A mindless jumble of nothing, but it feels good.
It’s freedom. It’s introspection. It’s delight.
My hand hurts as I grip the pen too hard, much more used to tapping away on my iPad than scribbling with a pen. Maybe I need a new pen-holding technique. I might look that up. Surely ergonomics have a recommended technique that’s different to the one I learned in school nearly fifty years ago.
No. Procrasti-research. Just write.
I sense that soon Catherine will call time. And what if I’m going to be reading this to the class. I’d want my piece to end at a critical point that will leave the audience wondering, wanting more.
But I realise I’ve gone way off track. I remember I started on a story about how I’d been particularly touched by one person and her story. It’s time to go back to that.
I stop. No, pause. Okay, stop. I’m concerned about not making the subject of my story uncomfortable with my fan-struck outpourings in this small group. I think. I edit my thoughts. Procrasti-censoring.
I haven’t written down anything for a while. I have barely started my story.
“Okay, let’s wrap it up.”
I want to keep writing.