Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
She arrived early. A whole 10 minutes early in fact. Which was not like her at all, she never seemed to be able to get anywhere on time; dinner invitations, catch ups with friends, doctor’s appointments, the hairdresser’s, work! Her excuse was that she’d been born late and had been trying to catch up ever since. So, she surprised even herself when, for once, she managed to get somewhere, not on time, but even before the appointed hour with time to spare. And the reason she did so was twofold; she was excited about the day ahead and what magic it might unleash in her, but mostly it was because she was more than a little afraid that the person running the event could be more than a little scary. Because this facilitator, this creator, this deliverer of wisdom was known for speaking their mind, consequences be damned. This writer, comedian, social commentator showed no obsequious observance to redundant social niceties when a dose of profane bluntness was needed to make a point. Well, that and the fact that the email had said, in no uncertain text, 10am SHARP. Capitals for good measure – yelling – least it be taken as a mere suggestion rather than a non-negotiable start time. Oh hell, let’s just call this person Miss Trunchbull.
And why was she in Miss Trunchbull’s class today? Because Miss Trunchbull, who turned out not to be at all like she’d imagined, was going to help her unleash the magic. Find the key to unlock the writer within. Because Miss Trunchbull, although she claimed not be particularly brilliant had nonetheless been writing for over two decades. And was imparting her wisdom or, in her words, ‘providing the creative enema’ would be writers needed. And she certainly needed an enema because she was constipated with words. All sorts of words. Nice words. Horrible words. Beautiful words. Scary words. Angry words. Sad words. Words of all shapes and sizes. Comforting words and distressing words.
But all these words, and the images they painted, were locked away in her mind, spoken only to herself and she needed to get them out. Needed to see the shape of them in print. Feel the impact of them on a page. She needed to let them go……to take on a life of their own outside her head.
But she didn’t know where to start. She didn’t know how to start. What if all the words just started tumbling out one after the other, an avalanche of them racing down the page sweeping away the story in a rushing torrent of random letters? Letters making words that made no sense? But why would that happen? Because! Because she was afraid. And she was afraid because what if, once she started, once the flood gates were opened, she couldn’t control the words that flowed out. What if secret words and thoughts, long buried, came seeping out of the dark recesses of her mind? Secrets long buried because they came with demons. Demons that she’d long forgotten and couldn’t control. Would the demons destroy the writer she wanted to be? Or set the writer free to fill the empty page? And if they came, would these demons sit neatly on the page? Would they tell her stories with equal measure of desolation and redemption? Of heartache and hope? Or would the demons, once out, finally finish the thing they’ve been driving her to, from their dark hiding places, un-named and unrecognised, all these years? Or would they, once exposed to the page and the light of day, wither and die like neglected grapes on a vine? And if they withered and died, what would be left of her, devoid of all her demons?
Yes, they were her fears. Well, that and the fear that maybe she couldn’t write at all. That those books she’d been writing in her head all these years would just turn to shit on the page. But Miss Trunchbull would say ‘yes, of course you’re going to write shit – but do it anyway. And keep doing it. Keep doing it until it isn’t shit any more’. So that’s what she’s going to do. Write, even if it’s shit until the shit becomes merely mundane and then eventually until the mundane becomes interesting and somewhere she can find words that are lucid, coherent and precise. Until amongst all those words there eventually appears a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph that is a thing of uncommon beauty – something that touches the soul and shifts the earth just a little on its axis. Until she brings out the magic!
No, Miss Trunchbull wasn’t at all like she’d imagined. Oh yes, she was provocative and brassy and probably took no prisoners when crossed. She was full of self confidence and self assurance but not in a bad way, not in a full-of-herself kind of way. More like, well, sure of herself and her place in the world. The perfect kind of person to administer a creative enema to unleash the magic.
I fucking love Miss Trunchbull.