Gutterflush
Summer was supposed to be for writing. Sound familiar? Anna Brizzolara, reflects on what she has or rather has not achieved and what that means for her creative practice.
September has started and I feel disappointed with myself. As I walk the dog down to the river, our usual route, I mentally run through my ‘to-do’ list:
School uniforms
School shoes
School coats
School trip payments
Dinner money
Extra-curricular activities
Chase solicitor about the divorce
Chase the other solicitor about the house sale
Check in with the kids – are they okay? Really okay?
Check in with my mum, my dad, my step-dad, my step-mum, my brother...
Dog food
Loo roll
Toothpaste
Etc, etc, etc.
Eventually, after prioritising the day-to-day necessities, I get around to adding ‘writing’ to the list. Writing. One loaded word at the bottom of the list, the one ‘to-do’ that bothers me more than any of the others.
I stop walking. The pace of the river has changed, no longer a lazy meander but rather a frenetic frenzy, charged with a determination to reach its destination. The rain of the last few days has run down the sun scorched fields and the belly of the river is roaring. At this time of year, when the children are with me, they stand on the wooden bridge and stare, awestruck at the velocity of the muddy water gushing beneath their feet. After first witnessing the water’s force they took to calling it the ‘Coca-Cola’ river and the name has stuck ever since. As I now watch transfixed, I wonder if this apparent fierce side of the river’s character is actually sweet relief? This sudden gathering of momentum forces the expulsion of swimmers and paddle boarders, as if the river has had enough of summer’s escapism.
At the start of the school holidays, I had promised myself to write every day. I think back to the work I was going to revisit, work that had been ‘left to rest’, how I was going to submit to the many competitions and opportunities that regularly fill my Instagram feed. I had planned to start my creative journals ready for the new and final year of university; attempt to ‘get ahead’ and come up with a solid response to the innocently asked-yet void conjuring question of ‘So what are you going to do when you finish uni?”.
All these plans to sit and write and yet I haven’t written a thing.
Coca Cola River
August has been and gone. I’ve let a whole summer pass and I feel like I have broken my promise to write. How can I be a writer if I can’t sit and write? When writing ‘A Little Life,’ Hanya Yanagihara would sit and write every day for two hours, I always remember reading that and immediately drawing a comparison, naïvely thinking it was achievable. Now in comparison her achievement hits home hard. Have I got what it takes to be a writer?
My doubts tumble in my head like the pebbles on the riverbed. Out of the corner of my eye I spot the spring ducklings, no longer a uniformed waddling line, they now confidently patrol their patch, strong on the experience of summer. During July I chose to fill my days with trips to the beach and ice cream from our favourite place. My daughter has become more adventurous with her choice of flavour and my son wades into the sea, no longer clinging to my knee. I’ve enjoyed trips to London – theatre, art galleries, coffee and cocktails with my best-mate from school; passing the baton of reassurance between us, born of the confidence and comfort of a long-lived friendship. We swear we won’t turn into our parents and hope to stay curious. The pleasures of summer and the ever-growing ‘to-do’ list made it feel impossible to sit and write, despite the constant pull to put pen to paper.
I’ve spoken to a fellow creative writer about my sense of failure and disappointment. My head bowed, palms upturned, empty, I confessed “I’ve not written what I wanted to write, what I said I would write.” Listening she nodded and her gentle acknowledgment has prompted me to consider the value of a writer’s productivity. The value of the written word comes from the potential to elicit financial reward or an appreciative audience, preferably both, but how do we measure or put value to our creative practice? When I bought ‘A Little Life’ I was paying for Yanagihara’s words on the page, or at least I thought I was. Now I’m starting to think about the cycle of writing, like the seasonal cycle of water; writers are inspired, they collect and curate, then they write, edit, re-write and back round again. The seasons bring heavy rainfall, drought, sometimes constant drizzle, there is a cyclical rhythm which I feel chimes with my creative practice. Identifying this process, I’m starting to connect my broken promises to my writing. Yanagihara didn’t just sit down one day and start to write, that was only part of her art. Has my summer, despite the lack of words making it onto a page, been part of my writing practice after all?
The pebbles of doubt have been rattling around for long enough. I take each one, each broken promise and I line them up. I connect them to the conversation I had with my creative writing friend and think about all I’ve experienced over the summer. I’ve performed poetry, I’ve written blog pieces, I’ve spent time with my children, I’ve absorbed art, theatre, books. All of this, like the water running from the streams through to the river will feed my creative practice.
The connections I’m making remind me of a phrase I’ve coined with my writing group. We’d had a conversation around the feeling of needing to write, the build-up of ideas and energy when suddenly you’re compelled to sit down and let the words pour out. We’ve come to call this ‘gutterflush’. The unstoppable, hour-eating experience of having words travel from your brain to your fingertips resulting in words on a page.
I chose, in hindsight to gift myself the time to enjoy summer. Rather than squirrel myself away, ‘shush’ the kids, rather than ignore the sunshine and freedom of summer, I chose to embrace it. I haven’t achieved any of the writing I promised to but having had some time to reflect and consider how I have spent the summer and weigh the value of the experience, attribute its value to my creative practice, I can forgive myself my broken promises. I have given myself the gift of gathering. Maybe come spring it will be a time for tending, caring and growing what I’ve found over the winter.
The rhythm of the river has changed, the comfort of my desk is now calling, and I feel full of inspiration. I’m ready to sit and write, the time to ‘gutterflush’ is here.
Anna Brizzolara is studying for her BA in Creative Writing at Leeds Arts University. She has performed her poetry alongside TS Eliot award winning poet Joelle Taylor and was chosen as the first Spotlight Artist for Leeds Poetry Festival. Anna is currently working on her creative non-fiction writing whilst looking forward to entering the final year of her studies. She is also interested in writing for stage and screen. Anna is next performing her poetry at Spoke Manchester on July 20th and again on August 7th as part of Leeds Poetry Festival's one year anniversary celebration. She lives in North Yorkshire with her two children and her dog. You can find her on Instagram @anna_brizzolara
