Participant Blog by Margaret Benson
All my life I’ve been writing, poems, short stories, plays and even thirty thousand words of a novel and cruelly abandoned the main protagonist going round and round a roundabout trying to decide which way to go. She’s still there, just as almost everything I’ve ever written is stuffed in a drawer, or stored on a memory stick; there are even a couple of floppy discs somewhere – I’d probably need the help the of Science Museum to access those now.
Why was all this stuff tucked away and forgotten? Because I was scared. There is something so exposing about writing, especially poetry. The work is a piece of you and often a piece that’s wounded and tender to touch. The fear is not just that the work won’t be liked or thought not very good, but that you will be mocked. Over the years I got a bit braver, sent in the odd piece to a small magazine or competition – felt like every rejection, or more likely empty silence, chipped a piece off my soul. I went to a few creative writing classes, but it seems the world was full of people ready to tell you how to write, but not what to do with the stuff you’ve written.
Then one day I picked up a leaflet in my local vape shop, for The Old Electric, and after much agonising, I joined a playwriting class. At this point I had pretty much given up on writing – really what was the point? In my mid-fifties, I was sure I’d long since missed the creative boat. There was another part of me that just thought sod it, now or never, and most importantly, why do I give a flying fandango what other people think? At first, it just seemed nice to be in a room with other creative people who cared about what they were doing. One thing has led to another and since then I’ve done things I never imagined.
The latest thing is Performing Poetry Skills. This workshop lead by the fabulous Liz Wilkinson, has been a revelation. I do worry that the title of this workshop sounds very serious and a bit stuffy, but it is anything but that. The purpose is serious, to get the participants to a point where they have the skills and the confidence to present the work they have sweated blood over, in the very best light. This doesn’t mean we can’t have fun while we are acquiring those skills. Voice exercises and tongue twisters are a bit like I imagine learning yoga is. The point is to become linguistically lithe and limber and to have a voice that will do what you want and be in your control, to use it as a dancer uses their body, as a medium of expression.
Of course, using the body is at the heart of it, which surprised me a bit. How you move and how you stand are important and not things I’ve ever thought about before. I’d always seen myself as a person who’s all up in their head and drags a body round with them under protest. Doing the exercises in the workshops has revised my opinion on that, now I see that if I want to put my thoughts in other people’s heads then the body has got to get with the program too. The workshop is not about judging your poetry, it’s not about judging your ability to perform. There is no gatekeeper telling you you’re not good enough. You may not be the best there is, but it helps you to be the best version of yourself. Now when I find a few lines on a yellow piece of paper that’s been folded up to use as a bookmark or buried in a pile of ancient bank statements, I find myself thinking, what can I do with this? Is this worth dusting off and polishing up? How could I perform this?
Meeting and working with a group of people who have the same aspirations has been another incredibly positive experience. Writers work alone most of the time, and some may not need to be with others. I’ve found being with other people who write and want to share what they write, is nourishing to my own creativity. Even if what they are doing is entirely different from my own work, I find I get home charged up, sometimes positively giddy and full of ideas I didn’t have when I dragged myself out of the house on a wet and windy Monday night in November. I could have been at home watching Mastermind under a fleecy blanket, but I’d hate myself by eight o’clock for letting the opportunity to grow slip through my fingers. Well very soon, I’m off to my workshop and I’m excited and enthusiastic. I can feel my skills getting better, my reading clearer and more expressive. I’ve stopped worrying about all the stupid stuff, “I don’t look like a poet.”, “I don’t dress like a poet”, “I don’t sound like a poet,” all that tosh is banished. By playing, laughing and working with Liz and the other participants, I’ve got myself to a place where I’m ready to stand in front of a room full (well your average poetry reading a third to a half full) of people and put my words out there.
I had my flu jab today. It occurred to me when I’d watched the helpful little videos on the display cycle round twice that the workshops are also inoculating me. Acquiring the skills to read well and the support of Liz and the other open and generous people in the group has strengthened me and provided defence against the fear of making a fool of myself, that has kept me silent far too long.
Time to get brave.
Performing Poetry Skills, every Monday evening 6.30-8pm at our temporary pop-up space at 4 Edward Street, Blackpool, FY1 1BA. Get booked on using the link below!