Roads to Joy

Over the past couple of months, we’ve had the opportunity of visiting both west and east coasts of the British Isles: west to the Mull of Galloway; east to Whitley Bay north of Newcastle upon Tyne. We went in our ancient motorhome, Harry Hymer by name. Of course, here in the UK, you’re never far from the coast, but especially in the north one can usually get to the sea within an hour or so of driving, no matter how far inland you start from.

It’s a bracing experience, viewing the breakers from the high cliffs on the shore. The presence of lighthouses on each side of the country gives ample warning of the coastal dangers. The shoreline, of course, embodies so much more than geography; symbolism and metaphor accumulate around the intersection of sea and land.

We (my beloved and I, at any rate) often feel, at this later stage of our lives, that we’re moving into a realm of odyssey that sometimes seems exalted, but often appears rather desperate. Not so much time left, and bodies are deteriorating, as new aches and pains accelerate. We need, somewhat acutely we otherwise intrepid life-sailors, a beacon to warn us of perilous shores ahead. But often it seems that instead of warnings, the first sign of peril is a kind of wrenching noise as our frail craft hits the hidden rocks near the shoreline.

But in an altogether casual way, heedless of the accumulating bumps and noises under, we also blithely pursue our normal interests. When we can, of course. Sometimes that need to embark upon a creative enterprise is almost physical — we simply have to do this, or that, because simply we must. John Masefield’s ‘I must go down to the sea again’ comes to mind when the need to create strikes. The writing of poetry, though I’ve not done much poeticising of a personal nature over the past few months, is one such creative compulsion that real poets will recognise. I imagine a similar compulsion overtakes those who love handwork: knitters and spinners for example simply must be doing something with their fingers, creating a piece of loveliness out of wisps of wool.

Instead of personal poetics, this past month I’ve been imbued with an overwhelming personal demand/need/compulsion to create a narrative out of phrases fitting a four bar sequence, as a kind of stimulus for a neigbour composer’s musical rendition of an ancient, even archetypal story. It’s been, frankly, a blast, an absolute joy, to embark upon this particular odyssey, that’s been so unexpected. It’s felt like a synergistic crescendo of creativity, especially when my ideas and tentative lyrics come back in musical clothes. Who knew this could happen, seemingly out of the blue?

Inevitably, however, coasts are also a good point at which to consider what direction one is going. Is this or that effort the best use of one’s time, especially this remaining time, this fragment on the cliff’s precipice as the land runs out, before the sea overwhelms? Personally, I might ask myself: is another novel effort the way to proceed, or have I run out of ideas? Or have I the stamina to continue to develop my craft, a novelist’s technique or voice, to carry me out of myself and into a narrative that sings? And where is the beacon, the lighthouse that will point me to danger, help me to avoid the rocky shore, and sail safely into harbour?

With any luck, I shall be accepted soon by a kind mentor who will be my lighthouse on my writerly travel, and perhaps together, over a short three month session ahead, we will share an epiphany or two as the written word develops.

My own job, I understand, is to proceed with an open mind, as captain of my ship, spy-glass in hand to monitor the horizon, and to sail along toward shores not yet imagined.