This is a love letter to the act of sharing in a creative life. It’s about sharing space and sharing words. Both can be such beautiful and scary things and I’ve recently been reminded of their power as every aspect of work has focused, in some way, on the act of sharing.
Sharing Space
Last week, I wrapped up the first block of Glasgow’s first Write Like a Grrrl course. WLAG is a total powerhouse collective, started by Kerry Ryan, and carried by some of the most beautiful folk and I have ever had the joy of working and writing alongside. I’ve benefitted massively from being both a student and a tutor in the WLAG family.
When ‘returning’ to work (that thing we say, as if caring for tiny humans isn’t labour), I wandered back into teaching and I am S O G L A D that I did. I love teaching and I love learning from teaching experiences.
In this particular workshop, students aren’t asked to exchange work or expected to read aloud. Instead, we focus on making a safe and supportive environment where they can learn from, and support, one another in a shared creative space. And what a magic thing.
For five weeks in January and February, they got together in
, drank tea and workshopped ideas around their growing writing lives. They close read together and they wrote together in short bursts that led to longer sprints. Towards the end of the course, we hired the venue for an additional unplanned week and met amid the glimmer of candles and fairy lights for cake, tea and drinks.During this social gathering, the group really wanted to share their work. And wow, oh wow, did they share. They shared characters; drag queens, archeologists, distressed curators and acerbic aunts. They shared settings; whisky soaked Copenhagen streets, murderous coastlines and a bus stop at the end of a doomed relationship.
They shared their words and they shared their hearts. Holding that space for them was a very powerful thing and I’m so lucky that I get to have that experience as part of my working life. It’s good for any writer to be reminded of the power of collectivity.
The quiet radicalism of writing and learning alongside other folk as you scribble and type is something I’ll never tire of. It’s also something we don’t often get a chance to do in adult life once we’ve fallen off the conveyor belt of mainstream education. It can be so easy to forget co-working with coffee or drinks as an integral part of our working life and mental health. As creative folk, it seems to me to be an integral part of it all.
So, shared creative space must be carved out of late-stage capitalism’s clunky and individualistic machinery. We must make it for ourselves. There’s such creative power in meeting for co-writing sessions in cafes and libraries and parks. When that’s not possible, Whatsapp groups and online discussions shouldn’t be forgotten. All of these spaces give us the opportunity to prioritise collective exploration and thought in a world that doesn’t always want us to be together, let alone be together in creativity.
Sharing Books
This week, I did some early years poetry facilitation work in an outdoor learning environment as part of World Book Day celebrations. It was a beautiful thing.
The staff had transformed some woodland into a magical forest of reading. Families were invited to donate old books for a book exchange. These books were hung from lines across the trees and children were invited to choose stories for themselves and their friends; half for home and half for their nursery ‘pods’. What a beautiful lesson in the importance of sharing and exchanging words and ideas.
I read them a long poem about frogspawn after one of them told me - so excitedly - about the frogspawn beginning to appear in a little pond nearby. They helped me act it out, with each and every child bouncing and ribbiting and leaping in the little patch of woodland I had been invited in to. This was their way of sharing an intimate knowledge of the rhythms of the woods and the pond. This was, what Robert Macfarlane calls, the experience of hearing ‘stories of masterful miniaturism’ (p.327), straight from the mouths of those who live them every day.
We then collected objects to write our own poems. I listened to them describe sticks, stones and leaves with wonder and love. We arranged the words in such a way that seemed ‘poetic’ and - then we had it - a poem that speaks to their shared experience of living and playing in those woods. I may have been the one to transcribe these words, but they belong to the children. I was just lucky enough to have them shared with me.
Sharing Words
I’ve been getting better at sharing my own words. Substack is the space for that, right? I love reading reflections from other writers who are figuring out the tricky territory of modern writing and publishing. I love the honesty of folk like
and. I love hearing about the processes of and and .I can already feel this space becoming important for my own process. Having somewhere to share little ideas as they percolate and stir and (hopefully) grow is a really useful thing. It’s daunting but I feel it getting easier with each post and the constant interactions with other folk who prioritise writing and showing up in this world in a way that is both creatively and politically engaged.
I’ve also started sharing the latest manuscript of the B I G P R O J E C T with people. It’s gone to a mentor (the beautiful
) whose response was so incredibly moving and supportive and insightful. So far, this process has been affirming in a way I wasn’t entirely expecting. I hadn’t realised how stuck I was getting with these words and the muddle of feelings and ideas that surrounds them.I’m beginning to believe that this is a story that should be told in the way I’ve chosen. It’s hybrid, strange and a bit raw. It’s a YA (I think…more on that soon). It’s a work of autofiction that lays out some uncomfortable truths in a quasi-fantastical narrative of traumatic sibling bereavement. It’s mythical and ecological. It’s full of threading mycelium and ashen lichen. It’s as embedded in the deep time of rocks as it is in the fleeting grief of humans.
Mentoring is obviously an incredible privilege, and I’m so grateful to be in a space where I can make that decision for my work. But the most basic form of this support exists when we share our work with peers or friend. It’s so easy to write ourselves into corners with big ideas and projects. Sharing words diffuses the intensity of it all. Ask for help with the pieces you’re struggling with. Anticipate criticism and find those critical friends who can help you navigate your way out of word mires.
In the spirit of sharing, here are some words (the very first ones, actually) of the Equinox manuscript as it is:
It begins in a forest
In a spinney of birch.
It ends in a basin of stone.
And so ends this quick wee letter.
I’d love to hear how you feel about sharing space and sharing words.
K x
I could not love this post more. You have spoken so deeply to this idea of gift and community. And the woods are where it all begins, always. And with children. What joy beyond all words to have been entrusted with your incredible book. I love it and it was such an honour. Cannot wait for folk to read it x
I love that you're finding your way towards what this space might hold for you creatively and collectively, Kirsty. There is so much potential, isn't there, and I sense a freeing up in this post that tells me you're settling in. How lovely!
I completely agree with you that there is value in so many ways when we work alongside others. An emboldening that you saw in your cohort of writers who were not told to share but relished the chance amongst peers they could trust to hold space for their words. You created and tended that space for them, and they won't forget it. Mentoring comes in all shapes and sizes, and sometimes it's the gentlest form that can have the greatest impact. I can't wait to hear how Kerri's insights have served you. I know she'll have been so tender with your work and will help you to clarify where you're going next. Excited for you, pal.xx