Joanna Barnard's Blog

I’m so glad you’re here

(After Nikita Gill)

One day you won’t be.

Sometimes it seems that others don’t think about that.

They imagine they’re immune from

the cold kiss of death; we know different.

Death lives with us.

It has a seat at our table, its name on the door.

That’s okay.

It has a job to do, to remind us

that everything moves, that life

is a river, unstoppable, fluid.

That present joys, present furies,

will one day be gone,

as will you, as will I.

Living with this means knowing

this is now, all there is,

really loving, really living.

On growing up

I used to think swimming was for indoor pools

And love was performed as high drama, top volume

I was costumed and chlorine and kept in my lane

And hotels and diamonds were the currency of the heart.

I used to think relationships were supposed to be hard.

I hated cold water, now I chase it, embrace it,

The sudden shock gasp of it, the proximity to fear,

Then the calming, the soothing, the eye of the coot

The rhythm, the crest of the grebe, the wave.

The lake ruined swimming pools for me.

I used to hate monogamy, the mono was not for me,

A monotone monolith I resisted, insisting I was free.

Then deep water found me. The blissful quiet, the ease

of being loved beyond things or appearance. No edifice, no artifice,

Only you, only me, coming up for air, coming home to breathe.

Comfort Food

When my dad died, I made myself a bowl of mashed potato, dotted with puddles of melting butter.

It was all I could think to make, all I could face to eat.

I was alone. Too far away, too impractical to get to him now, and what for? I’d missed his last moments. 

I sat on my sofa as Sunday night ticked into Monday morning, spooning mash into my orphaned mouth.

I thought about telling my son, when he woke up.

I rang my oldest friend, never mind the hour.

I would tell her, later, at a train station, how lonely I was. She would tell me don’t ever feel you’re alone, you’re not.

Those words were so kind, even though or perhaps because they weren’t true. I carry them still, little pearls pursed away in my tinpot heart.

Quiet Music

Come to the window,

let me show you the ocean, the moon.

Where have you been, closed off in your room?

What are you missing, encased in the gloom,

headphones on, neck bent, nodding in time

while life rushes on outside.

Was it ever my place

To draw you out, to tease water and fruit

from a dry well, a barren branch?

Still, I never quite leave half-drawn curtains

and nicotine walls. All my wishing

falling on tone-deaf ears.

Solstice Swim

They watched us, the birds: the slow-gliding swan, the dipping, hungry grebe, 

while we swam and bobbed. We all whooped and gasped as a flaming globe 

nudged itself out from the trees, and spilled like an egg yolk over the water.

The goose called out, the coot busied itself on its floating nest as though to say, Well. 

It is here every day. The mist rises off the surface, the light dances on the lake, the world wakes up. 

Where are you?

photo credit: Viki King

Shell on the shelf

A tiny shell left for tiny hands to pick up and carry, with such delicacy, back to the cottage.

Then to transport hime, tucked in a rucksack, a week later, and be kept when the sand has long been shaken from his clothes and the salt washed from his hair.

Such a small thing, it could be an eye, en elf hat, a button. Zebra stripes in a spiral, once it housed a living creature. Now it sits on a shelf, occasionally touched, pressed and worried by a growing boy with exams to take and girlfriends to meet.

In its curls and lines it holds the memory of a quay-jumping, rock-hopping, crab-chasing summer.

The boy stretches and the shell seems to contract, still as it watches, this unblinking eye on the shelf, a miniature camera, silently capturing a legacy, a lifetime.

created during a mindful writing workshop

The particular magic of Lumb Bank

It is a truth universally acknowledged that to knuckle down and write a novel, a gruelling and often thankless undertaking, the novelist ideally needs a room of one’s own.

Apologies for mixing my literary references there. I’ve just returned from an Arvon tutored residential week at Lumb Bank in Yorkshire, one-time home of former Poet Laureate Ted Hughes. Nestled in the spectacular Calder Valley, the cosy and characterful house enjoys stunning views and, a half mile from the nearest village, just the right degree of ‘away from it all’ ambience to enable a true retreat.

I have been curious about Arvon courses for years and am not sure exactly what has prevented me from going until now. The twin scourges of time and money, of course (never seeming to have enough of either), but maybe something else, too, was holding me back: the belief that I couldn’t justify such an investment in my writing, such an investment in myself?

I know from the writers I speak to that this kind of ‘impostor syndrome’ is all too common and hope that this blog encourages anyone who might feel similarly, who gets this opportunity, to seize it. 

I’m incredibly fortunate and grateful that with support from Artful Scribe and Arts Council England, South West, I was able to stay at Lumb Bank for five nights on a retreat named ‘Strengthening Your Novel’. 

It couldn’t have come at a better time for me: I have two published novels under my belt but indulged in some wound-licking after my third novel failed to sell. I’ve felt pretty energised about my fourth novel but had recently hit the 20,000 word ‘wall’ and was starting to let the self-doubt demons creep in. What’s more, although I’d recently shifted work around to make more time and headspace for writing, the demands of that work coupled with a busy homelife meant that I still wasn’t fully connecting with the book.

I was joined for the week by two terrific tutors, Cesca Major and Ayisha Malik, and eleven other writers, all at varying stages of their writing journeys and indeed their books. The week comprised a mix of workshopping, guest speakers, one-on-one tutorials, and a lot of free time for working on our novels. 

Meals were provided and part of the ‘Arvon Experience’ is that one evening you cook alongside some of your fellow writers (ably supported by the wonderful Arvon staff), providing the opportunity for additional bonding as well as a welcome break from the sometimes overly cerebral practice of novel writing. There’s also the benefit of being in beautiful surroundings which, even in the autumn mizzle, afforded some lovely walks. 

On the last night of the retreat each of us read from our work. The quality of what I heard was extremely high. I can speak for myself but also got the sense from others that the work was stronger, and read with greater self-belief, than it would have been at the start of the week – which is, after all, what it’s all about.

What Arvon gave me and how any of us might try to replicate at home:

Time & Space

Most, if not all, of us in the group had commitments at home that necessarily kept us away from writing. Day jobs, caring responsibilities, domestic duties. These things don’t just take up time, they take up energy and sometimes sap creativity. Here for a few precious days we were able to truly prioritise the activity we all cared about so much, yet which so often gets relegated to the bottom of the list.

Of course, we can’t take a week out every month to go to Hebden Bridge (though some of us joked wistfully about it more than once). But the truth is, for myself at least, most of the work was done in short, focused bursts; so, if I can carve out the time at home, and make writing a priority instead of the nice thing to do once all ‘duties’ are out of the way, perhaps I can replicate the productivity I experienced there.

The company of other writers

There are two key pieces of advice I always give to budding and beginning writers: (1) read a lot, and (2) find your tribe. There was plenty of opportunity for the first part, thanks to Lumb Bank’s considerable library, but the second part is what made the week special. Hanging out with other people who also do this weird thing that you do, of dreaming up stories, creating characters and making them do stuff, is so good for the soul – and for the writing brain. Having people to talk to about writing, people who ‘get it’, is so important. It’s a lonely business, otherwise.

Nourishment – figuratively and literally

Hopefully by now you’re getting a sense of the figurative nurturing that goes on at Lumb Bank, but oh my word, I have to mention the food. Each day’s menus promised fresh, flavoursome food that managed to be both healthy and indulgent. There was also a lot of cake (again freshly baked). The Yorkshire tea flowed. Even speaking as someone who enjoys cooking, having the mental load of shopping for and preparing meals lifted was incredibly freeing, and the dinner table provided a great space to come together and discuss our progress. 

Hope!

The overwhelming feeling I left Lumb Bank with was positivity and hopefulness for the future of my book, and of my writing career. My foundering confidence has been bolstered; the way seems clearer than it has in years. I have fallen back in love with writing.

For this I need to thank all the staff at Lumb Bank, our amazing tutors Cesca and Ayisha, Artful Scribe and ACE South West, and my fellow travellers on this transformative journey: the novelists who, when I came out of that room of my own, were there with smiles, tea, and encouragement.

I’ll miss you – and look forward to reading your books one day!

The Fall

How heavy my mind is,

ready to shed, to fall

onto the page.

Thoughts crumple and fade.

Ideas shrivel and age.

So much mulch underfoot,

Overgrowth to be burned,

Ground to be razed.

Now only the night grows,

Now only the crow calls, yet

Somewhere in this harvest there is fruit.

Somewhere in the darkness there is gold.

Somewhere in the fall there is fire.

When you leave, I will send you

Dinner table chatter, chilli and nachos,

extra cheese. Clean washing. A lift home,

a laugh, my dance moves, cringe,

kitchen disco, karaoke, a wall full of books

to remind you to read. Comfort.

A barrel of pride. Football trophies,

Her pawprints. A painting. Apple juice,

your favourite. Ted Lasso, your pillow,

The ceramic house where the biscuits live briefly,

The secret tin where the good ones hide.

Water: sea swim, quay jump, river splash,

bubble bath. Sun and snow.

Wellied footprints. Halloween.

Captain Barnacle. The school run gorilla, a song

we made up, a bombshell, a tear.

This is no box, no square package,

this care package is squashy,

the shape of a hug.

Imperfectly round and unstill,

a beating heart, no sharp edges or ending,

a pregnant womb, warm and watery,

safe. Never filled, but whole. You can always

come home.

When the sky is dark

Looking at it now, it is hard to imagine

the sky turned to black, the clouds grey and pendulous, pregnant

with cold, unfriendly rain.

Looking at sun-dappled wisps of white

across an overarching sheet of baby blue, it is impossible to believe

that on another day this benevolent ceiling will crack and roar,

throwing down balls of ice, for innocent walkers to dodge.

Looking at you now, the heavy clouds on your brow,

the rain in your eyes, the frost on your lips;

feeling your stillness and hearing your storms,

it is hard to imagine

that tomorrow the fog will clear,

the light will break through, and everything

will grow again, stronger than ever.