My work stinks.
It reeks, actually, of failure intermingled with
putrid pretensions of deeper knowledge.
It stenches of vain attempts to write
with the Walcotts, the Morrises, the Brathwiates,
and rots in a hole that is called
“the block.”
I wait, like the corbeaux for the line
that quivers slowly then drops on a
sandy page. I feed, like the
maggot on what is beyond
redemption, nourished,
to produce nothing
myself.
© Debra Providence 2013
St. Vincent,
sometimes,
is
an island
cut by
fire
capped with
mountains
draped by
mists
that
blanket
the sky,
filling
my heart
pulling
me in
to dash
my
bones
against
its rocks.
© Debra Providence 2013
I have an idea. Actually I have few ideas…about dreaming and what dreams mean. They are not founded in science, but don’t let that stop you from walking a little with me as I extrapolate.
I have been having some strange, lucid, dreams lately. Scratch that. I have been having some strange for as long as I can remember and they come in clusters, if that is the proper collective noun. They come in clusters around this time of year –March into April into May. The dreams come with my urge to write. Or is it the other way around?
I have been having strange dream clusters that feel so real that when I wake my body is tired from a long journey. I have dreamt of visiting Australia, of clearing Australian customs and immigration, of living in a house made of marble, with green columns and a giant aquarium in its living room. And in this marble living room I am wearing a glittering turquoise dress with emerald jewels. Everything is sleek and green …in Australia. Funny thing is I have never been to Australia. The closest I have come to being in Australia is watching the Mad Max movies and reading The Last Continent by Terry Pratchett ( I loved them both), but if you’ve read or seen any of these you could appreciate the distance between my dreams and the Australia in those worlds.
Or how about the one where I am a close-to-retirement white, middle-aged detective lady, who wears white cardigans with brightly colored appliqué flowers to work. She is working her last case with a partner who has a penchant collecting ceramic and porcelain fish ornaments (the kind with gaping mouths and perpetually stunned expression in their eyes) and arranges them, mostly white, on his desk. Theirs is a special branch that investigates cases outside the parameters of regular police work…like say corpses with unexplained puncture wounds to the neck…that sort of thing. In this dream, I am me, but I am also that white detective lady and I can hear the sounds of her office…the chatter of police speak, the noises of the city which is not in St. Vincent, and I can see the panes of glass that separate their desks.
And there is the one where I am on Sion Hill Bay, only it’s a much larger beach than Sion Hill Bay, and it has been sectioned into perfect squares. There is a red comet in the sky just above the bay, illuminating the Taurus constellation and the island of Bequia is much closer to the mainland than it actually is. In my dream and I have had this dream more than once, Bequia is just a short swim through shallow waters from the mainland. And I am always trying to solve a mystery in this dream, not literally me, but the person who is my proxy in the dreams.
Finally there is the one where I am visiting my parents in a house just like ours. I am an older version of myself in this dream. My mother is at the kitchen sink and my father is sitting on a stool and we are all chatting. I don’t remember what the conversation is about but I do recall the living room being in a different color than it is now. It’s our house but it isn’t really. In this dream I look at my watch and tell them that I have to leave and shortly after kissing and hugging them and saying goodbye I wake up. I wake up with the sensation of having actually visited another world where my father is still with us, like I was leaping through a Star Gate worm hole …or something.
I also have a bunch of other dreams where I have extended conversations with various iterations of my cat, who explains to me her technique for stalking, catching and skinning mice, rats and lizards. Yes, in my dreams, my cat can talk, change sex and pedigree, and she has opposable thumbs…what?
Like I said at the beginning of this post, I have a few ideas about dreaming that are fueled by my writer’s imagination and that I plan to mine for future stories. One is related to the many worlds theory that I talked about in my previous post. What if when we dream our consciousness, spirit, or what have you, visits these other worlds? What if they inhabit the bodies of other humans in other worlds, sort of what happens when Granny Weatherwax “borrows” the minds of various animals? (She never really lets them know that she is in there with them). That would explain why I feel so tired when I wake up, as though one part of me is moving in this world while the other part is playing catch up. The process of reentry, reconnection is quite taxing on the body and mind. Realignment is a delicate process. It takes its toll.
Or how about this: Terry Pratchett’s Discworld has something in it called L-Space. It’s a brilliant concept where books (library or bookshop) emit energy that builds up over time that eventually warps reality around them. I am currently sharing desk space with four book towers. Books are tucked away in cupboards, storage bins, glass cabinets, mahogany space savers and faux wood bookshelves in my house. Most of my books are by Caribbean authors and I have a lot Sci Fi works as well. I also have quite a few works on my tablet e-reader (currently reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman). What if my books are generating their own L-Space that my mind is able to access while I sleep? I have fallen asleep with my tablet on the bed beside me. Perhaps that L-Space takes on other dimensions in electronic devices; maybe my dreaming mind is picking up the talking ghosts in the shell? It would explain a lot actually. It might even explain Australia.
These are some ideas that I am toying with for future storytelling. My influences are plain, but my dreams assume some extra vivid dimensions that stick with me well after I am awake…days, months, years actually. I know there are probably loads of perfectly logical scientific and psychological explanation for these dreams of mine, but where’s the fun in that, really?
I like indulging my dream walking writerly imagination.
So how have you been dreaming lately?
Peace
“D”
One of the challenges of writing is finding and mining inspiration. Writers often use their lived experiences or that of their family and friends. However, sometimes even then it may be difficult to mine ideas because being close to an experience might warp perspective or it might just be too personal. So you are back to square one. What should you write about?
I have been toying with the idea of multiple universes as a source of inspiration. According to the many worlds interpretation all possible alternative histories and futures are real each representing an actual “world” or (“universe”). In this theory, “reality has a many-branched tree wherein every possible quantum outcome is realized.” It is much more complex than these bits I’ve nicked from Wikipedia but the essence of the theory was my aim. While it is a disputed theory many writers before me have used it in their works, so much so that it has become a staple trope in science fiction and popular culture.
For instance, in the DC Universe there are 52 Earths and different versions of the Earths finest heroes. Marvel’s New Avengers are currently tackling an entity that is forcing multiple Earths to collide in what is called an incursion event. Phillip K. Dick’s Man in the High Castle presents an alternative history where the Axis won World War 2 and the globe is divided amongst Japan, Germany and Fascist Italy.
The “What if?”appeal of the many worlds theory is undeniable. In my case I was thinking of bringing it home a couple of ways. I plan to use it as a means of getting around the writing from experience trap, by imagining what life is like for the alternate versions of me. Mining the alternative “me’s” would allow me to create characters under different life circumstances, opening up many possibilities for character and plot development. For instance, there is a version of me that went to Cuba to study Information Technology. She speaks fluid Spanish, is married to a Dominican architect whom she met while they were both students. They live in Dominica and they have two children who speak Spanish, Vincy Creole, Dominican Creole and she runs the IT department at a Community College in Dominica.
Or there is another version of me who never entered the teaching service but became an insurance salesperson. She’s working on commission and knows how to smile, and persuade people who don’t need insurance to buy it anyway because she has mastered the art of BS very well. At night she listens to self-empowerment mp3s that tell her she can have anything she puts her mind to and she is eyeing the supervisor post at her job, as she delicately maneuvers the minefield of office politics.
Fringe TV Series
There is another world where that me had parents who didn’t really care much about reading so didn’t take the time to introduce their daughter to reading so she never develops a love of reading, or an imagination. She is a social flower who coasts through life making herself pretty, and visible at all the popular social events of a particular class, so that she can catch the eye of the man who has just the right pedigree. She has three older sisters with whom she grew up, and with whom she competed for the attention of the boys at their school, at the fairs, in general.
It doesn’t stay there. The “Many worlds” theory allows for multiple ways of mining inspiration. Looking at my country’s history I have wondered what if Paramount Chief Joseph Chatoyer had defeated the British invaders. What if the Garifuna were not exiled to Central America? We in St. Vincent would be closer to our Garifuna heritage for one. We would be able to communicate in a language that is currently alien to us. We would have had an even shorter period of slavery and colonialism and we would certainly be more grounded in our own culture as a people.
But that is just one possible world. It is something to think about and to explore. The prospect is exciting.
I think I have made my point. If ever you get stuck, feeling sucked dry of inspiration, trying not to get too personal in using your own life as a source, mine the other “yous”, and “hers” and “thems”. You get the idea… or, at least, some version of you will. 
Peace
Earth
shudders
winds
rise
rivers
swell
then
burst.
Silence
Shattered:
a tiny
voice
screams
howls
whimpers
murmurs,
hush.
A girl
Tears
Cruel
insertion
harsh
initiation
The shape of things to come.
(a girl!)
(pity)
Writhing
howling
gruesome
thing ,
unloved
in truest form,
left
cold and whimpering
at the
bottom
of the steps
of this house.
# I wrote this a while ago as a means of introducing the Unwoman, a central figure in a collection of poems that I am patiently putting together. It may well need revision but I am giving it a little air.
It’s been a while, I know. Life is currently challenging my time management skills. There are so many things that I want to do, that I need to do, that spin around me, like a vortex. There are so many things vying for my attention and time, but there little time or attention to be given. Sometimes I feel energized by the idea that I have assigned myself several projects, personal interest projects that will bring satisfaction once I have completed them. They are like plants, newly bought seedlings that require a great care for their early stages. You start caring for them early on. Then you lapse, and then you forget. Your reminder comes when you notice your seedlings are drooping and yellowing in parched soil. You are shocked at how much you have neglected your own projects.
This blog fits the category of neglected things. I started it as a means of sharing thoughts on one of my passions and while the passion is still there, the time is not. I have been writing in private. I’ve written things I am keeping close to my heart – things that I am not yet ready to share and I am not sure if I will ever share. And I have been writing in other ways too.
I hope to be active this year, which is already in its third month. I am reading new works from Nalo Hopkinson, Karen Lorde and Nnedi Okorafor. I’ve also been reading works from KurtVonnegut, James Tiptree Jr. and Joanna Russ. These works are re-energizing my imagination and that is a good thing. I will commit to the watering this green space and with my thoughts on my love for the written word, especially when it comes from else-worlds. And every now and then I will glance at my thumb to ensure that it is not turning into an odd shade of green.
On Monday
My sister was
slaughtered
and all the people
watched.
Grief flowed
like a thick grey
soul-stealing fog
through every voice
that stopped to tell.
I stepped off a bus
and hesitated,
then walked to
buy my bread.
On Tuesday
I wrote a letter
and reported to Central,
then completed paperwork
for a Smith and Wesson.
Tomorrow I will
call all my girl-friends,
it’s been a while.
© Debra Providence 2006
So this week’s prompt from Lillie McFerrin is Explosive. This is somewhat timely as this month, on Friday the 13th to be specific, our little island marked the 33rd Anniversary of the eruption of our resident fire goddess, also known as the La Soufrière volcano. She’s still pretty active by volcano standards and I have actually made the journey to the mountain. It was draped in mists like the long grey hairs of old ladies. When I saw the prompt the mountain, and this story, came immediately to mind. Enjoy!
Carrots
Daughter, on the morning you were born the mountain heaved and spat columns of ash thousands of feet into the air.
Your mother wrenched my arm as bolts of lightning ripped through black clouds and thundercracks shook the earth.
The Rabacca Dry River became a stream of molten rock, its meeting with the surf exploding in bursts of salty steam.
I understand all of this in some way shaped your disposition and frames your current outburst.
But if you don’t eat these damned carrots, that your mother planted and washed and cooked, you and me, we are going to have real problems.
©Debra Providence 2012
1812 Eruption of La Soufriere by JMW Turner
Last year around this time I came to the realization that I didn’t want to write prose about myself and or my life experiences. It was at one of the writing workshops at the Bocas Litfest in Trinidad, facilitated by Lorna Goodison, one of my favorite Caribbean writers. We were looking at ways to write an outstanding opening for a story, a real attention grabber and, while sharing our respective works, I noted that most of the participants took inspiration from their life experiences or based their characters on someone they knew, a relative or friend. I felt a little weird for two reasons; firstly, my little opening was the offspring of cyber-punk and Caribbean folklore (currently in development and code-named VDHO) and secondly, it was not based on anyone I knew personally. The other participants were leaning towards memoire while I was on another planet, sort of.
It wasn’t just at that one workshop either. After Bocas, feeling shook out of an uncreative writing haze I revisited some story ideas from an old file, and saw conclusively that none of the ideas that I had in that file, none of the projects started, none of the ones I am currently cultivating are drawn from my life experiences. I have been encouraging a colleague of mine to write her memoir because she has lived a pretty extraordinary life so far, and I am always enthralled by her story telling chops whenever she recounts one of her experiences. At the same time, recently, whenever I think of writing stories my life isn’t the first thing that comes to my mind. I have used life experiences in the past, but lately they’re not the first sources of inspiration. I have been wondering what that means, if it means anything at all.
These thoughts came to mind yesterday after I was rummaging through my book cupboards trying to find resource material for a course. I found two diaries that I kept as a teenager in the Girls’ High School and as an A-Level student and began flipping through them.
Chronicles of a Vincy Nerd
I found myself laughing and shaking my head at the things I wrote back then. There was a Sade song for every hurt and disappointment brought on by an unrequited crush. There was a poem for every spontaneous overflow of emotion and there were these imaginary speeches, or speeches I would write to address someone who I couldn’t directly confront for whatever reason. Sort of like those letters to your ex that you write but never post. There were the occasional beefs with the parents, high brow sort of thing, Marxist vs. Capitalists, especially when I got to A-level and started doing Sociology. There were also “story arcs” that read like scenes from The Bold and the Beautiful, well maybe not as dramatic, but you get the idea. The public library was a sanctuary in the city, and I read where I was once discombobulated when I went to the library and found this guy there who was the villain for an extended story arc (he was a villain of the unrequited crush sort) and was all upset and thought seriously about finding a new sanctuary. I was especially upset because he wasn’t doing any work he was just there chilling with his friend. The library was not a place for “liming”, not for me anyway.
I didn’t actually abandon the library though.
There was also a lot of talk about becoming hardened by life (all 17 years of it at the time), being a hard-lined moralist , always knowing what was best for my friends, a tri-part new year’s resolution that involved losing as much weight as possible, being patient with parents and ignoring trouble makers. And there was once an expressed desire to go stand in the middle of playing field during a thunderstorm, just to see what would happen.
My reactions to seventeen year old me include smiling the knowing way adults do when they, having lived a little longer, hear teenagers complain about how hard life is, wanting to hug her for cultivating the habit of writing her thoughts and wanting to hug her generally.
I am missing Bocas this year. If I were able to attend any of the workshops, I still feel that I would want to totally make stuff up. But at least 17-year-old me has given me the option of a memoir if I chose to go in that direction, or at least some ideas to work into my make-believe stories.
Make-believe is always good.
