story – and so she thinks

Explore Your Story, Review Your Life Script and Start a New Chapter in Your Life with Jacq Burns

admin — Wed, 19 Jul 2017 10:35:24 +0000

The words we use and the stories we tell ourselves matter. Narrative therapy for example is grounded in the idea that by shifting the accounts and descriptions of our selves and experiences we can change our lives. Suzy Greaves at Psychologies is also great believer in story telling and that’s why the magazine invited literary agent Jacqueline Burns to run a workshop all about our life stories – and changing them to be more empowering. Called Explore Your Story, Review Your Life Script and Start a New Chapter in Your Life, the promise was high. But Jacqueline Burns knows her stuff. Co-director of the London Writers’ Club and author of Write A Bestseller she helps novelists and non-fiction writers tell their stories.

The tool we used was simple. A line drawn across the page and plotted with events or experiences. But simple doesn’t mean ineffective. Looking at the things we choose to put down and the emotions and words that surround them tell a great deal about what sticks in our minds and what we focus on.

Mixing storytelling with neuroscience, we worked through exercises that explored names and labels, habits and attitudes, events and experiences. Like directors, we reviewed the script that we live by every day. As editors we explored what to keep and what to drop. Like designers we storyboarded a plan for the next chapter. There’s also wider practical applications. The tool can be used to map out a presentation and selecting the most important messages to be taken. Seeing the plot of a book and charting the emotional ups and downs within it shows how the reader might experience it – and whether more or less drama is needed.

Stories are ultimately about connection – connection with others and ourselves. Through the words we use and the framework we place them in those connections can be more empowering, strengthening and enlivening. Seeing where we have been can help us work out where we are going – and if it’s the destination that we want. It’s all about knowing the kind of story you are telling and exploring whose story it is – your story. All from a line on a page.

A story of mine…Lady Blue

admin — Sun, 28 May 2017 17:01:04 +0000

Where elegance meets eloquence, you’ll find Lady Blue. Even when grappling with some of the most difficult, incomprehensible human trials through which we all go in one way or another, we find a way to thrive, often using art to express our progress. Throughout the process and creation of this publication—the anxiously-awaited second edition of the Lady Blue Literary Arts Journal—no other theme became as prevalent as that of our uncanny will to survive and the beautiful, heart-wrenching, sometimes hilarious determination to use whatever means necessary for that end.

Here’s April 2017’s issue, featuring some of my words….

Soul Relics – Memories and Story

admin — Tue, 28 Mar 2017 13:25:18 +0000

I’m thrilled to be collaborating with Vanessa of Soul Relics for a Memories and Story writing workshop as part of London Arts In Health week. On Wednesday 14th June, 6.30-8pm we will be at Eastbourne House Arts, London, to explore objects and memories.

We all have memories, and we may own objects that evoke, hold, or remind us of them. What are the stories that these memories and items hold? What do they mean? How can we bring them into the present to comfort and support us? We believe everyone has a story to tell.

In this workshop we will guide you through ways to creatively consider these questions, tell your stories, and write your way to a sense of wellbeing.

Using techniques drawn from writing for wellbeing, narrative therapy, creative writing, psychology, and mental health, combined with experience in facilitation and arts engagement, the workshop will be engaging, enlightening – and fun!

Tickets are £10. But we won’t turn away anyone if cost is an issue. Please consider more if you can afford it, and ‘pay forward’ a space for others.

For more info get in touch!

64millionartists – Day 13

admin — Fri, 13 Jan 2017 21:13:38 +0000

I’m being creative everyday in January for 64 Million Artists challenge!

Day 13 – It’s Friday so it’s time for a group challenge – today we would like you to collectively write a story.

This one was done in person, via text, email, Facebook, across Kent, London and Newcastle, and with friends and family.

It was snowing outside, white and wispy like talcum powder. People were slipping on the ice – giving rise to sudden gasps of surprise as they slid in a direction they had not intended to. As the precariousness of their situation became apparent to them, they adopted a shuffling gait, arms outstretched waiting for the fall, as though they were penguins shuffling across the Antarctic Tundra. To an observer watching from his seat in the warm and safe cafe opposite, it appeared that they had become afraid of the ground itself. As if the very earth was in a temper and people dared not set it off. He checked his pocket watch; it would be doubly difficult to be both unstable and late. It was almost time for the cafe to close up, at which point he’d to be forced to go outside and join the trickles of people slipping and sliding across the pavement. He stood, the pain in his lower back making him jerk upwards robotically, while his eyes and fingers scanned and reached for winter’s armour – scarf, gloves, hat. Thank goodness he was flying home to Havana in the morning.

Glastonbury Secret

admin — Sun, 28 Jun 2015 19:30:20 +0000

A short story I wrote for Yellow Door Storytellers, a storytelling night taking place at Natural Born Philosopher, London.
‘It’s beautiful isn’t it?’ Charlotte whispers to me.
She’s right, it is. Nothing has even happened, at least not down there, not officially, yet my heart is ready to burst at the wonder of it all. Hills covered in multi coloured tents, like someone has shook Skittles all over the fields, roll down to a valley of lights, speakers, stages and rigging all prepared for what can only be described as a massive epiphany. The toilets don’t smell yet, the ground is still firm, and our beer is still vaguely cold. The lull of anticipation feels so peaceful, but soon we’ll be bounding with naked hippies, dancing with ten foot tall animals, throwing ourselves into shapes with drugged up revellers, healed by bearded yogis, and suspending ourselves in the inexplicable and bewitching space opened up as the earth tilts on its axis and a million little drops of magic collide in a field somewhere in the shire of England.
‘Bloody amazing.’
‘It’s hard to imagine that only a few days ago there were cows mooing right here.’
The landscape spills out, neat hedges making tessellating squares, grid like on the countryside under the milky guaze of moonlight. The night has an oneiric quality, at once perfect and sad, perhaps as I know that deep down this moment doesn’t last.
It feels sort of nice to not be talking right now, as we’ve been talking, like really talking, all night. There’s something about the night air that always makes me more verbose than usual, and on a June evening in Somerset, on the eve of something great, words spill from my lips like a rushing tap unquelled.
My blue jeans stretch at my thighs pulled up close to my chest as the air cools, and I wrap one arm around Charlotte to keep her warm, as I raise another to take a swig. It was empty, and I tossed it to the side before picking up another. The hiss of the can opening mingles into the hum on the hill whilst the breeze rustles in the trees trying to get comfortable.
A few thousand people are sat in twos, threes, tens, discussing music, love, and life in its all its vicissitudes. Flames flicker and make the cheeks glow even more. It’s funny how this is often my festival highlight, sitting on the hill and waiting for the sun. No music, no art, no entertainment – none of this has even begun. People are sat in jeans and jumpers, not neon, crazy hats or fancy dress. A bud before its crescendo, a blank canvas waiting for magic to begin. The sunset is a gorgeous blur of pinks, oranges, flaming reds swirling across the sky, evaporating into the night, and its rise promises to be just as stunning.
Charlotte and I have both been here before, numerous times – well, four for me, but she can’t remember if it’s five or six for her – and this is our first time together. We’d sat at the computer for hours, bashing away, getting jitters in our stomachs as we waited in line for tickets. I was so happy when we did, partly because I love the festival, and partly because my left leg was going dead under Charlotte’s weight.
She looks up at me, her curls falling down her shoulders, and her eyes weary. It was her eyes that first caught me that night, at Sarah’s birthday party, then the disarming curve of her smile, before she finally danced me into loving her whilst the indie pop melodies faded into the background. The arms that waved sporadically and randomly, no conscious thought but just excited energy, a fission bursting forth her. She twirled like a child playing ballerinas, having never lost that sense of wonder, before shimmying her hips as the waistband of her jeans slipped to reveal black lace. A glazed look went over her eyes as she looked to the floor, lost in the moment. I was lost in her.
I couldn’t wait to see those moves again, accompanied by the shivering reverb of guitars and thrashing of drums, in a field of collective effervescence. An expansive flurry of emotion from the music heightened by booze and drugs could be a wondrous thing, especially in the company of Charlotte.
An eyelash became loose and I brushed it from her nose.
The blackness of the sky starts to dissipate out, waiting for daytime to announce its arrival. Creeping in swathes of light, whirling like a disc of anticipation, before its announcement like a crashing cymbal.
‘Shall we go get some rest?’ I ask.
‘Or you could kiss me.’ She says, a pretend coyness about her.
I lean in and kiss her, just me and Charlotte in this moment. I can’t wait for the festival to properly begin, but I want to stay here, right now, forever. Tomorrow it will seem as though every song is about us, beams of discourse through the melodies, but now, in the near silence, it really is about us.
As we get up and walk back towards the blue peak of our tent, in amongst hundreds of other blue peaks, I pull my phone out of my pocket and tap out an email to work.
‘Awful migraine and fever. Won’t be in for a few days. So sorry. Paul.’
Glastonbury will be our secret.

The Bark of the Cinnamon Tree – Ashoka Sen

admin — Sat, 08 Nov 2014 19:37:00 +0000

The sensual image of The Bark of the Cinnamon Tree is an apt one for this collection of eighteen short stories. Simultaneously warm and severe, wintery yet growing, simple whilst highly stimulating. Ashoka Sen aims to articulate the difficulties and battles that spring from the fertile space where Indian and British cultures meet in her varied anthology, and does so with an acute eye and perceptive talent.
It’s all here.Tradition and legacy is explored in the aptly named Tradition, consumerism and labels in My MG, the place of a woman is the central tenet of The Silver Birch, ethical dilemmas are explored in An Imperfect Baby and April is the Cruellest Month is a pure romantic story. In a world where boundaries can often seem so flexible in theory but become rigid when testing, the communication of the exploration of culture and life is important, particularly when lending a weight to abstract affairs. Sometimes lyrical, sometimes conversational, sometimes contemplative, the anthology blends numerous styles in its attempt to traverse the muddy waters of identity and culture.
Whilst focusing upon British and Indian backgrounds it is made plain that those themes are muddy no matter what your familial roots or current abode, and in making the personal and specific universal Sen has positioned herself in the craft of great fiction.
Buy The Bark of the Cinnamon Tree.

White lips, pale face, breathing in the snowflakes…

admin — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 21:59:04 +0000

Recognise that? Course you do, but for what reason?

Literally every girl on the universe has taken a picture of themselves, posted it on Facebook with those lyrics as the caption and suddenly after 34 seconds of having been posted, the picture has 14 likes and 17 pretty similar comments reading ” omg babe u stunnaa!xx lolz, no jkee u beauuut!xx♥”. Not that thats a bad thing, they’re obviously talking about the lyrics and not the seemingly moody girl with a duckface pose. Yeah, you know the type…
You have amazing taste in music, and therefore have heard Ed Sheeran’s The A Team.
You saw example number 1, searched example 2 and you are now on example 3, the most probable answer.

The A Team is an acoustic yet rather sad song that tells the story of a young prostitue who suffers from abuse and drug addiction, the song tells of her struggles through life and ends in her death. I thought that either the song was that it sounded almost too real to have been purely fake or, this an excellent example of Sheeran’s creativity, but a quote from Ed Sheeran reveals that The A Team is based on a true story: ‘The song is a true story and was written by Sheeran after meeting a girl called Angel, whilst volunteering at a Crisis homeless shelter. He told The Sun July 15, 2011: ‘I wrote that song last year in a student flat in Guildford. I recorded it for less than £200 and made the video for under £20. In two weeks we’d sold 200,000 copies. I’ve made a song about a homeless prostitute who has been able to get on A-list radio.’

And the song hasn’t just touched moody-duckface-girl facebookers, but many parents as well. Sheeran told Q magazine: ‘After it got into the charts I got lots of messages from parents saying that something similar had happened to their daughters. When I wrote it I never thought that it would connect with so many people, but it’s great it has.’