Wake up, writer!

I've been doing a daily exercise of late to improve my writing which I thought I'd share. It's called object writing. Here's the deal...

Pick an object at random and write about it. 10 minutes only. Very first thing in the morning... okay, you can make a coffee first.

Dive into your sense memories and associations surrounding the object. Anything goes, as long as it is sense-bound. Write freely. No rhythm, no rhyme. No need for complete sentences. Use all seven senses: sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, organic, and kinesthetic.

Organic sense is your awareness of inner bodily functions, for example, heartbeat, pulse, muscle tension, stomachaches, cramps, and breathing.

Kinesthestic sense is, roughly, your sense of relation to the world around you. When you get seasick or drunk, the world around you blurs — like blurred vision. When the train you're on is standing still and the one next to it moves, your kinesthetic sense goes crazy. Children spin, roll down hills, or ride on merry-go-rounds to stimulate this sense. Dancers and divers develop it most fully — they look onto a stage or down to the water and see spatial possibilities for their bodies.

A few examples...

Board game

Some love them. For some, a seemingly unbearable chore. But as the rain cascades down the window and with boredom setting in, out they come. The board games. Some initial debate as to which challenge to tackle — “not Monopoly. It takes too long.” So Monopoly it is. I’m not sure how many generations this iteration of the ‘classic family game’ has been in the family. But the smell of ancient paper and card that permeates as the lid is lifted tells me that this is some kind of antiquity that Arthur Negus might have an interest in. Choose a small pewter object to signify you on the board. I’m resigned to the idea now. I always like to be the little terrier dog thing. Not alpha male enough to choose the racing car. I’m handed a fistful of fake dosh and the first dice is thrown. A glance at the clock, a glance at the window. The rain still falls. Harder now it seems. A rumble of thunder in the distance. A board game day for sure.

Farmhouse

The journey wasn’t too long. Where we live you don’t have to travel far before you’re somewhere rural. We turn off the B-road onto a long gravel drive. Stones crunching like boiled sweets under the weight of our tyre tracks. The smell of ‘the countryside’ strong and vivid. This is a working dairy farm after all. We pass a small field scattered with playthings. Climbing frame, see-saw, slide, space hopper, football goal and an array of sports balls of all kinds. We drive up to the farmhouse and park. It’s a ramshackle affair. A dilapidated wooden porch at the front of house. Paint long since peeled away and the wooden frame weather-bleached to a neutral grey. A woman appears from a side entrance bouncy and smiling. She appears delighted to see us. I get the feeling this is her default demeanour. Infectiously happy and optimistic. You can just tell. She is clad in the typical country fatigues. A waterproof jacket, jodhpurs and the sort of ‘professional looking’ wellington boots you just don’t see in city shops. Everything worn to a shabby patina – but in a good way. She offers up a warm handshake for all of us and pays compliments to my wife and two daughters.

Tube

Off the street into the familiar tiled surroundings. Push the ticket into the slot and it re-emerges out of the top of the barrier as the gates clunk open. Down the escalators, the billboards shout to be heard. Stage plays and attractions and pharmaceuticals and whatever. All vying for our attention. At the bottom, the distant jangle of guitar strings. The busker plays standards to the commuting hordes, a few coins tossed into her guitar case. Does she need the money or is she simply honing her craft? Walking purposefully now the billboards are larger. Left turn, right turn. District Line this way. Onto the platform. Richmond 2 mins. 11.30am. The platform is quiet. Squeaks and screeches echo round the maze of tunnels. The handful of travellers transfixed by their devices. News, games, books, music. So many distractions from the familiarity of the Tube. Then, the draught. That blast of warmish air that can only mean one thing. “Stand clear of the doors please.”

Virus

The unseen shackle that binds us to our cosy prison cells. Holds us down, suffocating, isolating. The virus came from a foreign land but now knocks at every door. It preys on the frail like a bully who should pick on someone their own size. The most social of animals we now must keep our distance. Cover our face. Don’t sneeze, don’t cough. Am I sick? Am I immune? Can I survive? The virus comes and goes sometimes taking everything. But for those who are left, we must struggle. The papers tell us so. The TV tells us so. The government tells us so. Is it the virus or are we being brainwashed? Reprogramming a sedated society. Too scared to leave their houses for fear of… cough… sneeze… the virus has you. But now we are told we can leave our cosy home bubble. But there are rules. Lots of rules. What’s it like out there? Every step like a leap into the unknown. A step closer to the virus. My mask is on. I see people. They look normal enough. Not the zombie apocalypse after all?

Button

There’s a button in my head. A memory as indelible as any I’ve kept. A deep scar in my subconscious that will never heal. The button lived in my mother’s sewing box. She had 2. This one was where all the potentially useful items resided. Bits of cloth. Carefully harvested zips from clothes that had ceased to be wearable – for a very good reason obviously. And a colourful assortment of buttons of all sizes. As a small boy, I’d love to run my hands through this sea of radiant flecks. Then I’d find the one. One of the biggest in the box, this button was brown criss-cross leather on its surface, a metal loop on the reverse for attaching it to whatever donor garment it came from. I imagined the chunkiest of cardigans, with deep pockets for keeping the cold at bay. I’d pick and play and touch and feel this magical item for what seemed like hours and I’ve never ever let it slip from my mind. Why is anyone’s guess.

It's kinda like crunches for your brain. Get a new word every day at objectwriting.com