On writing prompts and wine
I attend a poetry group in the town where I live; a group
made up of people from diverse backgrounds and skills who share a love of
poetry and a desire to improve their knowledge and writing. A most talented mix
that every month, without fail, produce beautifully crafted and insightful
poems on a pre-set subject – the writing prompt.
At each meeting, members are given a word or theme prompt to
write to before the next meeting. I’ve never been too fond of themed writing,
actively shying away from it in groups I’ve been associated with in the past, although
I’m not sure why I adopted this attitude in the past – perhaps it’s related to
those early school essay writing prompts when my brain refused to think outside
the square – who knows?
What is more important is that I can certainly see the value
in it now. I have become an ardent devotee of writing to prompts and the creative
challenge this offers. As a procrastinator of the highest order, I can while
away the day/s with writing-related tasks, but doing little to no writing, so
the first benefit to me is the discipline of the monthly writing prompt. I have
the ‘word’, therefore I must write to it. Some prompts are easier than others
are, yet all require deep thought and reflection before I even begin to put
words down. This is the planning stage, when ideas are floated, lines tried on
for size and the theme determined.
We can all suffer from writer’s block from time to time and,
while I have developed strategies to move beyond the empty screen in front of
me, this is so much easier when I have a word to begin with as this tends to stir
and inactive brain to action.
Prompts are the inspiration for an absent muse, the wide
angle lens of vision, and the key to releasing the teacher within. They give us
freedom to write beyond what we know, to explore genres beyond our comfort
zones and wander in to unfamiliar territory.
I have found writing to prompts encourages free writing,
squashing the inner editor that sometimes smothers the best ideas, metaphors and
creativity.
The prompt for this month is wine. Easy, I hear some of you
saying, with Bacchanalian visions already running to couplets, however, what is easy
for some may prove more difficult for others.
And, digressing again and thinking of wine, I was
reminded of a vignette I wrote a few years ago for Spectrum Magazine and later reprinted in On the Tide.
Perpetual Endurance
The Tamar River winds its way from Bass Strait to
Launceston, through a valley of scenic pastures, forests, diminishing orchards
and high-yielding vineyards. It flows past small villages nestled on the
riverbank; brings life force to picnic areas and water bird and wildlife
sanctuaries; and meanders inquisitively into coves and inlets on its twice
daily tidal journey.
Fifty years ago our parents packed us into the back seat of
the family car and embarked on a Sunday drive down the Tamar Valley in search
of fresh fruit. Suntanned children with sandaled feet, we fought in silence for
the privilege of sitting in the window seat, standing back from the door to
allow our siblings to enter first, fearful of becoming trapped in the middle of
the rear bench seat. Our parents
allocated window seats using a rotation system, in which each child took turns
in occupying these valued spaces, but all too often the equity in allotment was
at the mercy of easily distracted parental memory and manipulated by an older
sibling who could state with veracity that it was their turn. Protests from a
displaced child were ignored and, smarting from the victorious smirks of their
victors, they would cross their arms in disgust and slump in feigned defeat.
From this vantage point, below the range of the rear vision mirror the
conquered became the conqueror, using sharp elbows for shoe horn effect, spearing
them into the ribs of their siblings while moving rapidly from side to side to
mark their middle seat territory. The seating arrangements settled, the family
would venture forth, the obligatory car sickness strap bouncing optimistically
off the sun-softened tar of the highway.
The West Tamar valley was a Mecca for apple and pear
connoisseurs in those far-off days, with orchards abounding from Legana to
Rosevears to Beauty Point. Our parents would chat idly about the merits of Jonathons and Granny Smiths, Ladies in the
Snow and Red and Golden Delicious; mentally window shopping
at passing orchards. We passed the time playing 'I spy' or some other similar
game, until someone cheated, and we were told to keep quiet in the back. Then
we would slump into our seats, arms akimbo, and resume the rib poking until the
next diversion. Thirty miles in the back of a stuffy car is a long way,
particularly when each breath is accompanied by a jab from a brother’s elbow,
so it was fortunate that our family had a child who suffered from carsickness,
as this brought forced a break in the journey. We would stop at Beaconsfield to
visit our grandparents and to clean up the bilious child while the car aired
out, before we carried on to our destination; an orchard between Beaconsfield
and Beauty Point.
Although it was only a short drive from Beaconsfield to the
orchard of choice, our excitement would rise when we turned off the highway to
drive up the long dusty lane, pitted and rutted from tractors and trailers;
past rows of apple and pear trees and brown grass thick with windfalls, to the
grey walled packing shed beyond. A last warning from our mother to behave
ourselves and not to act like hillbillies, dissolved in the cidery air as we
fell over ourselves to be the first out of the car.
Our father always asked how much half a case of apples would
be, in a voice that hinted he would buy a full case if the price was right. The
orchardist would give us an apple to taste, and we would polish them vigorously
against our clothes, competing for the highest gloss, until our mother noticed
and gave us the look. She had this knack of being able to frown with one side
of her face, the side we could see, while she smiled at the rest of the world
from the other side. It was a look that meant ‘stop what you’re doing right now
and I’ll deal with you later’, and we were immediately subdued.
Of course no drive down the Tamar was complete without a
visit to the Beauty Point and Inspection Head wharves to see what ships were in
and what they were loading. There was an exotic appeal to the towering steel
hulls, words on their bows written in a language foreign to us, and we would
watch in mesmerised fascination as men and cranes worked in unison to load
immense wooden crates onto the ships.
There was less gusto in the fight for the window seat for
the return trip and the drive home was a more sombre affair. We nodded off to
the drone of the engine and our parent’s quiet conversation, our elbows rested
in an unspoken truce, put aside for another Sunday.
The passing years have brought changes to the valley, the
orchards have been replaced by vineyards and wineries, centres for local
produce and wine excellence. Families on Sunday drives now seek the best cellar
door sales instead of orchards. They visit galleries and studios, to admire the
work of local artists and artisans, and woodworkers, potters and artists have
replaced fruit packers and packing case makers of days gone by.
I visited a winery recently and as I watched the enduring
travel of the Tamar from the fashionable deck of the restaurant, I pondered the
changes half a century had wrought. I had almost reached the conclusion that
the only thing that hadn’t changed was the river, when I was distracted by the
chatter of children spilling from the back seat of a car parked nearby. Their
mother alighted in perfectly groomed poise and looked towards her children and,
although the profile presented to me showed a pleasant smile, I could tell by the
children’s sudden silence that there were some things that would never change.
