Edinburgh International Book Festival 2018. Part 1

David Napthine writes

Writers’ Inner Voices were at this year’s festival along with all those other writers, in and out of the yurt, with their own (sometimes inner) voices jumbling away. Our workshops took place in one half of the Festival Bookshop on George Street. It was safe there. Venture out into the city beyond and you’d return knackered from side-stepping avid pursuers of cultural encounters hunting in packs.

Did I say George Street? One workshop took place here.

ShottsPrisonFront

SAY THAT AGAIN

HMP SHOTTS is a maximum security prison in the unprepossessing Lanarkshire countryside and a million fish suppers from The People’s Friend and Monarch of the Glen. There a bunch of blokes you’d pass by in the street gathered for a writing workshop. There were questions and banter. And then stories. In one, a man wakes up in a graveyard, tired and hungover. His first thought is “Oh no, not again”. So we talked about where the story can go from this point and I mentioned how writers often use classic story structures (e.g. folktales and myths). I asked them to choose a folk tale to frame this story. They chose Snow White. So now the man in the graveyard with a remorseful hangover was now a Snow White. Where are the seven dwarfs someone asked? An anarchic riff discovered that Happy had scored and Grumpy had piles. I asked them to imagine our Snow White hearing a voice. What does the voice say? It says “it’s happening again, isn’t it?” But who does the voice belong to? They each tried different ways of saying the words out loud and the character changed accordingly – a polis, a social worker, Doc, Rumpelstiltskin who had wandered in from a different story. Then someone spoke the words quietly and the voice moved into Snow White’s head. And it didn’t bode well.

The character’s voice is the totality of that voice; it is the when and where, the pitch and the tone, the speed and the volume. So when participants read the same character’s words out loud but with a different emphasis on any of the above, it changed our understanding of that character.

Playwrights know this. They have the voice of a character in their head. Then the actor employs different expressive values that can usurp the story. Sometimes this (interpretation of the text) is supported by the Director. At that point the writer and their voices are diminished. That can be fine. The writer doesn’t always know what they have written, its value and its intention, and insights of colleagues can prevent an unfortunate production. At other times it can make for a very emotionally messy rehearsal room where far from any voices being diminished or disappearing, more voices appear speaking louder and often at the same time. In that cacophony, where some sort of compromise has to emerge before the opening night, the writer’s (inner) is lost. And I often wonder what the consequences are.

PLAYING NICE WITH THE OTHER KIDS

Are writing workshops about writing or story? Perhaps the word “writing” makes us think about the mechanics – format, structure, getting published, handy hints etc. whereas “story” is about imagination and creating a relationship with the reader/listener. So with a workshop entitled “creating a character map” what would you expect? This is what you got.

Edin 2

We ran interactive workshops entitled “creating a character map” with children and with teachers (separate workshops) using maps, dice, and playing cards to create a story-world and characters, and placing the character within that story-world to illustrate how characters evolve through their encounters and experiences within that story-world. Such playful techniques develop the imagination by breaking the fear of the blank page (and how to begin writing), the technical expectations (e.g. spelling and grammar), underdeveloped motor skills (particularly with young children) that can block any creative flow. Out of the random and discursive, the visual jottings and jostling thoughts, story and characters emerge. These can then be fashioned into a finished work and in that re-writing (where “writing” builds upon “story”) the writer develops an intimacy with both the story-world and the characters. It is that intimacy, emerging from the random and shaped into the coherent, that lets the reader in.

Now Mary had found a company in Barcelona that produced blank maps that can be folded down like a street map and put in your pocket. I was impressed. So were the participants who happily drew the their story-world on these maps then took them away to continue at home or with their friends, or in school with their pupils. Perhaps the success of the workshop can be seen in this desire to continue, do more, and share with others.

Story Map 2

 

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