Going with the Grain

 On our recent travels my eye was caught by a small carving of a face on a mediaeval building in a Burgundy backwater.

The colour is visible, in spite of all the years which have passed, and the features and character are clearly discernible.  What I like about it is the way that the grain of the wood has become part of the image -- the texture of the painting is an integral part of the face.

It's a bit like that with writing: the texture of the words you choose - some guttural, some sibilant, some long, some short - plays a vital part in how your work will be experienced.  As Margaret Atwood once said, "Every poem has a texture of sound which is at least as important as the argument," but I think the same is equally true of good prose as well.

To put this to the test, write a poem or a piece of prose in which you concentrate on the texture and sound of the words that you are using, and how they relate with one another, working to see how  they compliment and contrast with each other.

Lost for Words?

I saw this on a wall in Charite sur Loire.  I think it roughly translates as a word separates and repairs; it signifies a loss and a return (with apologies to Patrick Granville).  Apart from being such a lovely thing to find on a wall -- so much better than No Turning or Garage in Constant Use - and sounding so poetic, I like it because it got me thinking about what I expect and want from words, both as a writer and a reader.

Perhaps words separate in the sense that they isolate meaning - as a writer, choosing the exact one is essential -- English being such a rich language the scope for  nuance is almost endless, so you need to be sure that the word you choose conveys precisely what you want it to and arriving at the right one can often take many drafts. And they repair -- Oh, how they repair -- because a beautiful phrase, an assembly of well-crafted words, consoles and uplifts and explains; it can reveal your sorrow to you and in doing so help you to overcome it.

A word signifying a loss? Hmm. A word, either written or spoken, is an intimate part of you, a thought, which you give away.  Perhaps every time you speak or write you lose something of yourself -- your mystery, your privacy, your inner self.  Certainly putting the final full stop on a novel feels closer to grief than joy; it's the end of a dream, and I guess handing your book over to somebody else is a bit like letting your child leave home: you want them to go and you want to them to stay with you. But perhaps if you don't lose anything, or give anything away, then you don't create a space for experience to fill.

Writing maybe an ambiguous experience, but reading! There is no debate about the return from a truly delicious read, and as for loss?  Who hasn't had the experience of losing themself in a good book...