Hello all,
And happy September.
Something a little different on The Wild Edge today.
One of the things I love finding about is the behind the scenes of other people’s creative process. What do their studios look like? What’s on their desk/ canvas/ sketchbook at the moment? What led them to the work that they are making? What insights are arriving from the messy middle of the creative cycle (which is often where some of the juicy bits really are!).
I was also reading back through a survey I sent out to readers of my newsletter before setting up The Wild Edge, and, no surprise, that is one of the things they were really curious about too.
So, welcome to my new, very occasional series on The Wild Edge, Field Notes. This will be where I share some behind the scenes work in progress, of the messy bits, the still unfinished, the inner workings from the field of creative practice. It’s not about sharing a particular practice, or tool, or resources. It’s really just waving from the wild edge of ‘here I am, still trying to figure all this out. How about you?’.
So today, I am sharing a very behind the scenes piece, about my turbulent relationship with fiction, via China, two deaths and the sea.
Welcome. And waving. Clare.
(Also, a reminder that Owl Hours, start again next Thursday, 11th Sept, 7-8pm Irish/UK time, our weekly hour of creative practice, together).
Our next Writing Sanctuary is Sunday 14th Sept (6-7pm Irish/UK time).
And, our next Seasonal Salon, The Autumn Equinox, is on Friday 19th Sept (7-8.30pm Irish/UK time). Tickets included in Gold Membership (Gold Members- I will email you a registration link), or can be purchased here.
Field Notes: Edition 1: September 2025
Like much of my writing, this one begins on the shore. The tide is slunked low, waves just tipping in the slow lunge of a breeze. When I left the house, the sun was beaming, but now it has run, rain gathering. A parting may soon arrive. Autumn has been like this: unpredictable. The weather Gods got their memo: certainty has been cancelled; you may commence.
Oh yes, those ancient tales of tides and time, not waiting. Sometimes I feel like I am running to keep up, shoelaces undone, scrambling for purchase on the grace of my expectations of what can be accomplished in a season. But the seasons are shifting, slipping, and so am I. But the thing is: maybe that is not a bad thing. Maybe it is helping me to notice what it is I need to pay attention to, how it might be wise to be.
I like to think of my spare room as my studio. ‘Office’ feel, well, too official, but studio has the permission slips of the creative process burnished right into it: create, experiment, prototype, fail, try again. The studio is a place to be messy, get ink on things, throw drafts on the floor, try again. It is a place of crafting, not just completing. It is a place to get your hands dirty.
After many years of writing with gel ink rollerball pens, I switched to fountain pen this summer (it’s so much easier on my wrist), but I seem to have permanent ink on my fingers. I can tell you this: it’s not the only thing that is messy. My laundry has been seriously neglected, dishes piling up, poor ‘ol Henry Hoover has barely seen the floor all summer. And guess what, it’s not all falling apart. It did before. And that is what I think I have been so afraid of.
To explain, let me bring you back in time, to China, and to my year of living…dangerously, maybe, creatively, definitely, ungrounded, absolutely. At 23, I was offered a prestigious teaching role for a year at one of China’s top universities, Peking University (locally known as Beida). I hadn’t even applied, but the job was offered and having never been there, curiosity took hold, and a yes. Why not? What was I to loose? My bearings it turned out.
It’s a longer story than the one I am about to share here (maybe for another time), but what is relevant for now is the ground. Or rather, my lack of it.
At Beida, the top students in the country vie for grades, achievement, better grades. I was supposed to guide them. But I had gone alone, not speaking any of the language, and with no support from other faculty or no curriculum, I was simple told, here are 250 undergraduate students, now, go teach them Contemporary English Literature. So I did. I was totally out of my depth. And, the next twist in the tale came three month in, when a story in me said to go too. So I did.
By day I prepared classes, taught classes, ran extra classes for students who needed them, ran a creative writing programme on the side, tried to learn some language, tried to find my bearings, was hired to write an English language textbook for the Chinese market, wrote it, got hired to read audio books, read them, cycled everywhere. Then in the evenings, I’d write. By hand. At speed. My first full length novel. The story took hold, and I gave myself to it. You can probably see where all this is heading. Yes, I crashed, big time.
The novel got written. The students almost chained me to my bicycle at the end of the year so I would not leave them. But my body was cracking, and behind it, my mental health was too.
Many of the comments when I got home were, ‘Oh my. You’ve lost so much weight. You look amazing’.
But my father knew. I’d told him what had happened, how I had been struggling and how I didn’t know what to do next.
He got me the number of a therapist, then he barely said a word.
Instead:
We spent a summer on his boat, watching swans, travelling the waters of the Shannon, forwards and back. I swam, everyday, watched the moon rise on deck, played cards. We sat together trying to spot kingfishers. Jumped in the lake.
He was dead less than twelve months later. He died just by that lake, doing exactly what he loved. Sometimes it is only in looking back do we realise the lessons.
My father’s ashes were scattered on the lake about a year after that. I would go to the shore and find him everywhere. There he was, in the whispers of the wind, stirring the shore. There he was in the waters, in the waves. He’s at my feet now as I write this. Or at least his lessons are. Tapping. Lapping.
In the space of the years, I’ve been learning to find my ground. I have written thousands of words since then too. Articles, posts, poems. But never fiction. Those frantic nights in Beijing, my body being wrung from itself, there was a legacy here. And a question: did I trust myself enough to give myself to it without loosing ground.
Then the story came knocking, loud, louder. It was one so wild and huge, that the only way through would be to head into the chaos. Louder. Louder. Then another close friend of mine died, and I realised that if I didn’t listen, life will be all wrung out, and time too. Louder. Louder. So I began. First the listening. Then the writing. But the difference now is the learning. The difference is the practice.
In writing, I also go to the yoga mat. I do a big grocery shop. I batch cook. I make sure to get to bed. I block in time. I say no to meetings. I use savings to pay my rent for the month. I connect with my coach. I call some friends. I walk the dog. I swim. The ground is in each one of them. I feel weighted there, like they have my back. Like I, finally, have my back.
The story on my desk now is coming to an end soon, the one I’ve been listening to in the waves and the rocks and the trees and the memories. I’m writing fast. By hand. The ink is all over my fingers. The dishes are undone. The floor is a mess. My hair is a mess. But the difference: I am not a mess.I feel more alive, aligned and inspired than I have done in ages. I have finally found my footing in the process. I still don’t know where it is all heading, but I know that the studio awaits, the meetings aren’t until next week, there is a meal I cooked last night, and the memory of those swans, gliding along, looking like they have it all sorted. We all know that below the surface there is a lot of kicking and webbed feet malarkey. But it is working.
The river is their ground.
The sea is mine, and I am about to swim in it. It turns out, the ink is water soluble. And thankfully, the story is not.
The next Celtic Seasonal Salon.
A night of poetry, journaling and seasonal ritual.
