Amiss by Harriet Sandilands
Note from Valerie: I’ve known Harriet for many years, and always admired her writing a huge amount. I’m so delighted to share her book, Amiss here on palabrosa, and have the chance to talk about her process.
How did you come to write Amiss?
This project grew out of a feeling that I felt compelled to explore, initially because it was painful: this feeling that I have sometimes, that some unnameable thing is missing. It is akin to loneliness, I suppose, but in this instance, it was a very real sensation that something important was just out of my reach or sight. It was not a new feeling, but it presented itself to me in a new way, and I realised that the only way I might come closer to understanding this void would be to find some way of exploring it creatively.
What was your process?
I decided that I would write a series of pieces which omit the letter E - the most ubiquitous letter in the alphabet. It seemed an appropriate way into the feeling that I wanted to get acquainted with. Soon, I suppose, it became a kind of game. I could play with the feeling of something being amiss, which eased some of the weight of it; by engaging with it creatively, it almost became fun. Though I dredged up uncomfortable feelings and journeyed to unexpected places inside of myself, it was mostly a very enlivening experience. Frustrating at times too, in ways that were also significant. What did I do, for example, when the perfect word was not permitted (inside the rules I had created for myself)? How did I work around meanings or metaphors that seemed to fall short? All of this was part of the process. By prohibiting the use of that expansive, generous, omnipotent E, I found myself drawn to words less familiar to me, honing in on stranger symbols and the significance of things that had hitherto lurked in the shadows, eluding me. Sometimes, I would write intuitively and then go back, weeding out Es as though sieving lumps out of a white sauce. Sometimes I would collect E-less words like a builder assembling the necessary materials for construction. The process of constructing a poem which makes an important omission becomes inextricably part of the final product too.
What were the specific challenges of this project and how did you deal with them?
Specifically, an awful lot of words in the English language have Es in them! And barring them from my writing was a challenge. But I think the biggest challenge was knowing when the project was finished. Did I suddenly feel complete? Had I found what I was looking for? Was I fixed now? New aspects of the void kept revealing themselves and this meant there were ever more areas for me to explore. Finishing the project was a challenge which is why I settled on an “ending” entitled mid-point conclusion; this kind of work is never completely done. Then, the usual challenge for me with writing is finding a way to hold onto the project loosely enough so that my unconscious and imagination still have free reign, but tightly enough to get the work done, so that I can take myself seriously as a writer, rather than simply indulging myself as I would an enthusiastic child. It’s a hard balance to strike. I trust my unconscious knows what needs to be written, but I need my conscious mind to help arrange things, put them in their rightful place. I am constantly trying to keep these two aspects of myself on good terms.
How do you work generally?
Ideally I write first thing in the morning and always by hand, as intuitively as I can allow myself, with coffee (if I am in Spain) or tea (if I am in England). I also often meet with other writers to write. I enjoy what I think of as “portals” - playful ways into writing that invite my critical mind to step aside while I cross the threshold, anything from other artforms (pieces of music, paintings, other books) to reading the work of others or Edward Smallfield’s ever giving postcards. If I am ever stuck, I write lists and inventories. My writing self is complex - sometimes she craves community, sometimes she needs solitude, so I need to be quite attuned to what it is that she is demanding of me. I often walk outside in nature or swim in cold water if I am trying to find clarity. If I am writing often, sooner or later a seed of an idea will come and then it needs teasing out. Once I have got something on paper, I tend to stay with it for a while; I keep returning to it, and try to let it unfold without too much intervention. Eventually, I will need to sit down at my computer, type it all up and see what I am working with. I also facilitate writing groups and being around other writers is an endless source of inspiration. And I read a lot.
Has your process changed over time?
I think I have come to see less difference between the kind of writing that I do in my private notebook “just for myself” and the kind of writing I aim to share with others. I find this closing of the gap is the closest I have come to finding my voice. The quicker I can tell the truth, the better. But of course the truth is always changing and can be dressed in all kinds of strange outfits! I can’t let myself become too attached to the truth as a static, definite thing. Nowadays, I let everything into my notebook - which I see as a kind of landing pad for thoughts, fragments, ideas, poems, stories, whatever comes - and I don’t differentiate between my diary, my notebook, my morning pages, my Real Writing with capital letters. I do accumulate a lot of work this way and, though much of it won’t be “used”, I don’t discard it at the outset as one thing or another. I am sometimes surprised when revisiting it later. I still get lost and dispirited sometimes but, with the help of mentors and friends, I am usually able to write through those times. Something interesting almost always happens when I stay with the writing. Eventually I need some long, uninterrupted stretches of time alone with all the scribblings to sort, select and organise. When working on a project, I am a strong believer in having some smaller, side projects on the go. It’s like being allowed a minor flirtation when the monogamous life is clamouring for some romance.
Could you describe your work space(s) and what’s important about them for you?
I spend a lot of time readying my space, clearing the decks and organising my notebooks. As it happens I have a beautiful studio with views of a very iconic mountain and lots of trees. However in reality I write anywhere - and, most often, propped up in bed with a hot drink. I sometimes write in cafes and on trains. More than space, time of day is important. I write as early as possible in the morning. My thoughts are less cluttered and there is a sort of golden hour before the busy-ness of the day starts bustling in. If I can dedicate an hour or two to writing in the early morning, it is a good day. When I am sorting, editing or typing up work, I like to be in my (aforementioned) studio which has a log burner in the winter (very important) and stays cool in the summer. It is nice to be around books when writing. I like to be able to reach for something brilliant as a way of reminding myself what is possible with language.
You’re also a visual artist, art therapist and teacher of creative writing. Could you speak a bit about how you experience the different practices? How do you find them related/not related?
We all experience “art” differently. For me it is about how I experience and interact with the world, how I connect with others, how I record things and make them matter. In both collage and writing practices, I enjoy playing with fragments, moving things from one context to another, creating new meanings and metaphors and leaving a lot to the imagination. I find the dance between very specific and abstract to be quite pleasing.
When working with others, I am always trying to strengthen the relationship they have with themselves and their own creativity, while also allowing for the unconscious to speak, because the unconscious is infinitely wise. I am interested in the in-between spaces - where our inner and outer realities meet. Art gives us a doorway into these limbic spaces, I think. Writing and visuals are just mediums, ways to express something that probably exists beyond words.
I suppose that in all areas of my life and work what I value is meaningful relationships. Therapy is impossible without a strong alliance between therapist and patient and, ultimately, between patient and him/her self. I think writers also need to develop a relationship with their writing. When I am not “inspired”, it is usually because something in that relationship has broken down. For this reason, I don’t really believe in hard and fast rules or methods. Every writer needs to cultivate a relationship with their own creativity. And if we know anything for sure about relationships, it is that each one is unique and somewhat mysterious.
What are you working on right now?
In my writing life, I am exploring the possibilities of fiction. I am playing with that transitional space, and the arrangement of fragments, in the way I tell stories. Sometimes I think I am writing short stories, sometimes I think that I might be building something larger or much smaller! I am not sure yet. It feels new and exciting and I have that “robin’s egg feeling” that if I let someone else hold it, they might inadvertently break it, so I am keeping it in a safe and secret place for now. Fiction I am learning is a very fun medium for truth telling.
In parallel to that, I am writing an academic paper about my experience facilitating an online writing group called Wine & Words during the pandemic and I’m compiling a dictionary of words that only my family uses! I am also trying to find a publisher for a book I wrote many years ago about my friendship with an elderly Catalan lady.
What are you reading/listening to/interacting with?
I spend a lot of time collaborating with (and reading) American poet Emilie Delcourt. I love the way her work always touches on some new vein of our shared humanity. This week I am reading Miranda July, Claire Louise Bennett, Annie Ernaux. Last week Carmen Maria Machado, George Orwell’s essay on the perfect cup of tea and Rainer Maria Rilke. I have been listening to a Henry Hall record from the British dance band era and watching old clips of tap dancers Fred Astaire and Jimmy Slyde. And of course, I am always excited to read the latest words on Palabrosa.
Thank you so much, Harriet!
To explore more of Harriet’s writing:
“The Season of Dying Birds” on Porridge
Postcard Poems from Montserrat (Dia Internacional de Poesia, Manresa)