If you are new here, hello and welcome! I am Mel Parks and I have been running creative writing workshops in Sussex, UK for ten years while being a freelance writer, researcher and editor. I began this Substack, Awen, in 2022 as a gathering place for my thoughts about the writing process and to share some stories and creative inspiration along the way. Awen is free to read and share.
If you can’t join me in Sussex, I have a weekly guided creative writing Zoom hour on a Tuesday afternoon (2-3pm UK time; pay what you can).
This newsletter is number three of four updates on my Arts Council funded project, Moonpause. Number 1 is here and Number 2 is here.
Dear all
I am in the last quarter of Moonpause. I am so thankful for this year of focussing not only on my creative output, but my creative processes as well. The Developing Your Creative Practice Fund (DYCP) is available to artists, writers and other creative practitioners to take time to move to the next stage in your practice. It is a valuable opportunity. And while my proposal said that I would write eight lyric essays to mirror the phases of the moon, it also said that I would take time to reimagine the next phase of my creative life.
As an aside, because I am so grateful for the generosity of other artists who shared their applications, I’d like to share this link, which is an amazing resource. And while I’m not going to make my application publicly available on the internet, if you are interested in applying for the DYCP fund and want to see it, then please reply to this email and I’ll send you a copy.
Okay. So where have I got to?
First, I’ll share some things I’ve been practising:
Moon Notes
This is my name for them. Moon Notes are a bit like field notes. With my Moon Notes, I capture a moment. The moment I see the moon. I describe what I can see, hear, touch, taste, smell. I write what I’m doing at that moment and any thoughts or memories I have, together with a reflection. The connections come later.
I thought about calling the notes ‘moon writing’, in response to Margiad Evans’s earth writing in her book originally published in 1943, simply entitled Autobiography. She says:
All good, true and loving earth writing must be done first out of doors, either spontaneously in the brain or roughly and livingly with the hand, then afterwards, as swiftly translated to permanent wording as may be. Translated to permanence - ah, is there, can there be permanence? with life! The only chance is swiftness and intensity of feeling. Or else, as snow obliterates all movement and knowledge, time lightens the impression and the precious secrets discovered are hidden moment by moment in the day of ever fresh discoveries. [p.73/74]
But Moon Notes captures what the document is rather than the process of doing the writing. And what I’ve been looking for throughout all of this is a method for writing essays - I take my Moon Notes, my autobiographical pieces, memories or poems and my research and I weave them together with narrative, making connections as I go.
I finished a draft of my dandelion essay this week using this method and I am confident I can continue in this way.
Moon Notes
Here are a couple of examples of my Moon Notes:
5 May 2023
Full moon
River Itchen, Winchester
The sky is shifting greys. The trees a solid, steady black. I am waiting for the moon to rise. I can see the light beyond the trees. A glow. I see a swan drifting backwards down the fast flowing river in the rain. A singular insect flies towards my balcony light. The moon on the river is a thin thread of silver through the dark garden. I look up to see a star, then another, then another. And slowly the clouds part to make way for the moon.
Earlier, the church bells were chiming as I walked barefoot across the lawn in my swimming costume wrapped in a thin cartoon character towel headed for the unheated pool. Seed pods, catkins and leaves drifted on the water’s surface. It was so cold, that step by step as I lowered myself I thought about turning back. You don’t have to do this to yourself, no one is watching, what if you have a heart attack in the cold, it is so deep, this is your choice, you don’t have to do it, literally. But you’re halfway in now. You might as well. You can’t turn back. Go on. Shoulders under. And I swam six lengths before worrying about not being able to feel my fingers and toes.
30 August 2023
Supermoon, blue moon, full moon
I walk a labyrinth mown through grass and thistles. I pick up a white fluff feather in the round and round. Thistles burr the edge of my thoughts. I feel trapped in the middle path, I have no idea where I am or how long it will take. It feels like uncertainty though I know if I keep going, I will eventually get there and get out again. Lizards skittering on hot rocks in France come to mind. A pictorial memory link. The last time I felt nature, maybe. Only a few days ago, and yet.
Later, the moon full and round appears low in the sky. As I drive home the thin black clouds threaten to smother the moon, but first they frame it, then they drift away to be followed by white gauze, shielding the light with a shimmery haze. A veil. As if to say, the moon is too beautiful for your eyes. Do not try to make sense of it. I look away. I keep driving as a fox crosses the road, bushy tail down, stops at the verge for a moment, eyes glinting. As if to say, what are you doing here in the night in your loud smell of a car? You don’t belong.
Letters from the moon
Inspired by Elizabeth Gilbert’s Letters From Love, a week ago, I began a practice of writing myself a letter from the moon before I go to sleep. I LOVE THIS. I have long used letters in workshops - to and from objects or things in nature or unsent letters in journalling. But this is new to me. With this practice, I don’t have to tell the moon everything that is wrong or ask questions or any of that stuff. I simply need to listen to the moon’s benevolent wisdom.
In 18th Century China, astronomer, mathematician and poet, Wang Zhenyi wrote in her Journal of Listening to the Moon Pavilion (cited in Book of the Moon by Dr Maggie Aderin-Pocock, 2018, p. 72) ‘Some would say, “the Moon cannot be heard.” Alas, honestly, it cannot be heard. Yet something at its centre may enlighten its listeners. Therefore, the Moon can be listened to.’
When I look back on my journals and morning pages, it is often full of stress and worry. And I really appreciate this private space for getting everything out on the page. But lately it has felt too much. I have been going over the same old ground and not sure if it is helping at all. I have a strong inner critical voice and I quickly go into busy overdrive mode when stressed and my journal fuels this. During my 12-week course of CBT this summer, I realised I needed to practice an inner compassionate voice. I decided that since I have spent most of my life without the kind words of a father or father figure, I wanted to cultivate for myself what I imagine an ideal, supportive, wise paternal voice would say to me. I have given the moon this role! I am really enjoying this boost as I reflect on the day before I go to sleep. I am not ready to share these yet, but a dialogue with the moon has found its way into my dandelion essay.
Planning creative projects
One practice I have been doing since the beginning of this project and which I want to carry forward is the planning of creative time at new moon. This separates my creative work from other commitments and gives me space for reflection. I don’t think I’ve noticed my creative energy wax and wane with the moon because there are so many other factors at play. But I have definitely appreciated the cyclical nature of creativity even more.
Unless you are just writing one book and that is all you ever want to write, then being a writer or having writing as part of your life is a cyclical process. It is not linear, which would be writing 1000 words a day until the book is done and that’s that. It is more about always having something on the go. Capturing thoughts and notes as we are out and about or researching or inventing scenes and characters, writing these up, storing them. Then gathering into a project, writing draft after draft until the shape of it becomes clear. Sending off or printing out and repeating the process. All these steps can happen simultaneously. I can be gathering memories or notes without any idea of where they will fit, while sending off a story I wrote a while back. This is the life of a writer.
The most valuable gift you can give your creativity is time and attention. Word count goals or numbers of poems or sentences or letters can be helpful if you need to get into the swing of things, but without noticing as you are going about your daily life (both your thoughts and your surroundings) and without time (even five minutes here and there or two hours on a Sunday), the metrics are going to fizzle out.
Writing Invitation
If you would like a writing invitation this week, then try writing your own letter from the moon. If this feels weird, then write one to the moon first, ask it questions, then have the moon respond. You can do this with anything in your life - objects, trees, ancestors, mythical creatures!! It is a brilliant tool for getting to the heart of what you want to say.
If you’d like something more down to earth, then this week in workshops, we are writing about shoes. My first job was fitting children’s shoes in Clarks. After that, I worked in Saxone on Oxford Street and then an independent shoe shop in Enfield Town. All of that shoe experience and I have never written a story about them. I’m sure there’s one bubbling up somewhere. In the meantime, I loved hearing Odes to Shoes from my Tuesday Zoom group this week and I’ll be looking forward to what my Thursday morning group come up with next week!
This newsletter was created by Mel Parks, a writer, researcher and workshop facilitator based in Sussex, UK. Mel runs writing workshops locally and on Zoom and researches creativity in midlife as well as her personal connection to nature. She has been widely published and is currently working on a series of moon and plant-inspired essays.