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From a distance of 2.54cm

I heard an interesting phrase the other day and it’s been gliding around in my mind ever since. It was in a TED talk delivered by Elizabeth Gilbert. You know, the one who wrote Eat Pray Love.

As it happens, she wasn’t talking about eating, praying or loving. Rather, her topic was creativity, and in particular the correlation so often and so effortlessly made between artistry and anguish. She asked her audience if they were ok with the idea that creativity and suffering are inextricably linked. She invited them to consider that notion, even from an inch away.

Even from an inch away.

That’s the phrase I’ve been contemplating.

It is not that it’s an especially new idea. Nor is its expression in any way astonishing – although it’s true Liz Gilbert does have a lovely way of saying things. Nevertheless, for some reason it resonated with me and perhaps it will with you too.

An inch is not big. It’s 2.54 centimetres. Really not far at all. Even so, it can sometimes be difficult for us to shift even that small distance. And that’s a shame, because we all need to be able to view things anew.

The view of artists that Elizabeth Gilbert encouraged her listeners to examine, even from an inch away, is a troubling one. Yet implicit in her invitation lies a hint of liberation. For even the small distance of an inch affords space to observe and examine, to literally re-view a circumstance or situation, and thus to embrace a different outlook.

This potential exists in many areas of our lives. It applies to our writing too.

Sometimes the words we write are so precious to us, we see only how they glisten and not where they are flawed. Other times we wrestle so fiercely with forcing our ideas into language that we forget they need room to breathe.

In both cases, the ability to shift our perspective even a little is critical. Doing so may be as simple as setting your writing aside for a few days before revisiting and revising it. However, it can also be as demanding as questioning your topic, your writing process, your ability, and even your beliefs.

Editors and proofreaders intrinsically bring a professional distance to your text. It’s why we’re able to see what is vital in your writing and to smooth it so it flows. It’s how we spot the errors your brain persuades you are not there. (Also, we have superpowers. We’re handy that way.)

Whether the landscape you look upon is your own writing, a daily routine or some broader cultural assumption, it can be worthwhile trying to find even a small distance from which to reconsider it.

And if you’re struggling to shift your vision even an inch from your writing, you can always let me know.

Me and my superpowers are happy to help.

Now it’s your turn…

Do you have any techniques you use to help you shift your view? What have you observed about viewing your writing even from a small distance away?

An inspiring and beguiling writing tool (or why the Rogetsthesarus is my favourite dinosaur)

Picture of a toy dinosaur with a happy smile. It's a rogetsthesarus... get it? I choose my words carefully. It’s what I do. Whether I’m writing for a client, for publication or for my own inclination, I consider the words I use. I weigh each one in my mind, always aspiring to delight as well as enlighten my reader.

I could pretend these words ripple easily from me in a swirl of intrinsic brilliance, but writing like this takes effort. Not only that, it requires tools. And the one I reach for most when I write is the humble but judicious, inspiring and beguiling thesaurus.

It has become an instinctive part of my writing rhythm to use a thesaurus. I’ll be happily tapping away at my keyboard, tracing a thread of thought, when I will arrive at an idea for which I don’t quite have the right word. Without conscious direction, my fingers will flicker to a particular combination of keys and the thesaurus will appear.

And that’s when the fun begins.

Yes, it’s true. I do find it fun to drift through lists of synonyms, sifting their differing meanings, seeking the one that shines. You feel the same way. Right?

I’m not always sure what I’m looking for as I scan through alternative terms, but I know the right word when I see it. Sometimes it’s about the way it sounds in the overall flow of the sentence. Other times a certain word will conjure up a visual image that aptly captures the message I’m sending. Usually the chase involves appraising subtle shades of connotation.

Consider, for instance, the distinction between “modification” and “variance”, or “discrepancy” and “diversity”. All are synonyms for the word “difference”, yet each offers a shifting glimpse into what difference is all about.

Becoming attuned to these nuances and discovering new words to use enhances our ability to truly mean what we say. Thus, the rewards of the thesaurus are not to be found in picking the most pretentious term in an effort to impress your reader. Rather, they exist in the capacity to intentionally select the best words for your purpose.

For this reason, it doesn’t matter if the thesaurus you use is online, in-built, a battered paperback or some swanky app. It makes no difference – or indeed variance – if you prefer to consult Collins, Roget’s or the Macquarie.

What is important is that a thesaurus is an excellent tool to improve your communication. It can give your language potency. It may also grant it poetry.

I choose my words carefully but I also choose them joyfully. I take pleasure and pride in finding words that can carry my meaning while simultaneously elevating the imagination.

I choose words astutely and I choose them jubilantly. I choose them exuberantly, and yes, I choose them artfully too. Do you?

Now it’s your turn…

Do you use a thesaurus when you write? What kind? What wonderful words have you found on your travels? Share your thesaurus stories below.

(By the way, you do get the dinosaur joke, don’t you? Roget’s Thesaurus. Rogetsthe-saurus. The most eloquent of all the dinosaurs.)

I just wanted to say thanks

That’s all. Just thanks.

Thanks for your interest. Thanks for your support. Thanks for reading these words and thanks for writing your own. Thanks for the effort and the difference you make. Thanks for being here and thanks for being you.

I mean it. I appreciate it. Thank you.

Today, 21 September, is World Gratitude Day. Yeah, I know, I know. There’s a World Significant Something Or Another Day every day of the week and often twice on Sundays. Most of these pass us harmlessly by but this is one that I think is worth observing.

We’ve all got a lot to be thankful for, but sometimes we forget to remember this. Some people make the practice of gratitude a regular activity, cheerily flouting the need for an official occasion. Many do this through writing gratitude lists on a daily, weekly or spontaneously blossoming basis. Others take delight in devising an abundance of creative ways to say thanks.

Finding words to express the immense depth and dimensions of our gratitude can be hard, and it may well be that this is one occasion when our actions can better convey our meaning. But perhaps the challenge of writing down clearly and honestly what we are most grateful for is one for all of us to embrace. Surely it is worth doing despite – or perhaps because of – the difficulty.

I don’t have any advice for you about how to do this, except to invite you to try it. Why not find out how artfully you can wrap your thanks in language, however simple or complex it seems?

And be grateful, whatever happens.

Now it’s your turn…

For who or what are you grateful? What words can best express your thanks?

Photo credit: The camellia mandala shown above was made and photographed by the marvellous Margot and is reproduced here with thanks. You can enjoy more of Margot’s mandalas and read her reflective ruminations here.

Murder, unkindness and storytelling

It began with ravens. A flurry of birds, persons and other wondrous beasties hurried thereafter. But it did begin with ravens. I read an interesting article about these sleek creatures and it led me to wonder. I was familiar with the expression “a murder of crows”, but what was the collective noun for ravens?

Turns out, it is also a murder of ravens, as well as an “unkindness” which equally applies to crows. But it was a third collective noun for ravens that really caught my attention. This was a “storytelling”. And at that point, my mind lifted its wings, flapped them a few times and went soaring off into the skies.

A storytelling of ravens. Isn’t that fabulous?

It’s almost a small story in itself. In just four words, a surprising world is glimpsed. You can picture the birds, gathered blackly on the grass, cawing their ravenish tales. What stories do you imagine they’d tell?

Off now on a jaunt, I started seeking out other collective nouns that offered equally intriguing impressions. And believe me, there are many!

Bears come in sleuths or sloths – perhaps depending on the season and how sleepy they’re feeling. It’s a passel of possums and a kettle of hawks, a pod of pelicans and a knot of frogs. An aurora of polar bears is nice, not least because it’s fun to say. I quite like a charm of hummingbirds, but it worries me that it’s also a “troubling” of them. Surely a “tremoring” or a “shimmering” would be more apt?

Even hermits get their own collective noun, as paradoxical as that sounds. Should you ever happen upon a gathering of them, please note that it’s an observance of hermits.

Some among these nifty nouns are considered to be official, in that they were written down centuries ago. Many of them show a distinct linguistic delight in their contrivance, just as those devised today do. It really is a fascination of boars, though I’m not so sure about a platter of platypuses. As for a committee of vultures… Well, I’m sure we can all understand that one.

Entertaining as these explorations are in themselves, the realm of collective nouns in fact contains some valuable insights for aspiring writers.

First, there’s the pleasure of encountering such rarely heard words as “gam” (of whales), “skirl” (of pipers) and “clew” (of worms). Sure, you may not find a use for these neglected treasures in everyday conversation, but isn’t your vocabulary improved by their inclusion?

Next, there’s the rhetorical contrivance of collective nouns, many of which play around with alliteration, assonance and onomatopoeia. Not for nothing is it an armoury of aardvarks, a litter of kittens and a crash of rhinoceroses. The play of sounds in collective nouns is part of what makes them engaging and memorable. The same can be true of your writing too.

Then there’s the condensed richness of the image. The juxtaposition of the collective noun with the object it describes can be poetic, provocative, or purely incongruous. (Why, I can’t help wondering, is it a “troop” of mushrooms? And how on earth can it be a “walk” of snails?) In any case, an effective collective noun is an evocative gem.

Tighter than a haiku, it compels precision. It’s an exercise in finding that one right word which most potently and appropriately expresses some essential quality of the collection in question. And isn’t divining such perfectly pertinent words what the best writers successfully do?

This leads us to the greatest gift that collective nouns bestow, which is the ingenious joy in inventing your own. This particular party trick invites you to employ all your wit and skill with language to find that artfully astute term which captures an essence and conveys a whole story.

Messing around with collective nouns may seem like nothing more than an agreeable indulgence. But actually, it shows language at use in a deliberate and considered way. As such, it can be quite instructive, as well as being both amusing and diverting.

Oh, and just in case you were wondering. The collective noun for writers? That would be a “worship”. Of course.

Now it’s your turn…

What’s your favourite collective noun? It can be official, idiosyncratic or entirely imaginary. Or, what throng of things do you believe is in need of an inventive collective noun? Share your cleverness below.

Photo credit: That murderous looking raven (no doubt with a story or two to tell) was snapped by neeravbhatt and is used here via photopin under a Creative Commons licence.

Simple advice for becoming
a better writer

I’m curious. When was the last time you read a poem:

a) aloud
b) at all?

If your answer to the first question was “Umm…” and the second was “Does a Leunig cartoon count?” then I invite you give it a try. You may surprise yourself and you just might delight someone else.

I have a clear and cherished memory of an evening many years ago when my gorgeous friend sat me down and read T.S. Eliot’s The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock aloud. I can still recall the vigour in her voice as she began:

“Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table…”

Although she probably doesn’t realise it, I consider that act of reading to be one of the greatest gifts she’s ever given me.

Not only did she initiate a deeper relationship between me and T.S.E. which continues to this day, but by speaking the words of this poem to me, by giving them voice, she raised them from the page and brought them to life in a way that has itself brought unexpected gifts.

Since that night, I have often read poetry aloud. Mostly I read it to myself and to whichever ghosts happen to float in the quiet corners of my room. I do this because poems sound better aloud. I do it to experience the richness of language through sight, speech and sound. I do it because when I read aloud, I always find more, learn more, wonder more. And I do it for another reason too.

I may not be able to prove it, but here’s what I believe.

Reading poetry aloud makes me a better writer. And it can make you one too.

When you recite the lines of a poem, you tune in to the rhythm of language, its twists, its tangles, its unpredicted skips. You become aware of the way certain words rub or squeak against each other, while others nuzzle the mind into finding new allusions. It’s an experience that engages you, body and mind, spirit and grit. Just like writing itself.

Poems are enclosed explosions, condensing language while increasing meaning. In their density and complexity, they are alive with potential and rich in inspiration.

You just have to listen for it.

Now it’s your turn…

Find a poem. Find a friend. Read the poem to the friend, aloud and with as much gusto as you can muster.

Or find a different kind of poem. Find a quiet place. Read the poem aloud, just to yourself. Listen as you speak the words you need to hear.

Listen for the gifts poetry can bestow. And share your experience below.

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