Scribbling

In an effort to become more organised (fat chance, if I’m honest) and more tidy (even fatter chance!) I’m going through the mountains of paper, notebooks, pads, jotters – some of which are completely empty (save or give to friends) some of which have writing in, some of which have whole chapters from various stories I’ve been working on. I find it so difficult to throw anything away, even rubbish stories I’ve written, I suppose because even in the poorest examples, there’s sometimes some germ of an idea which might be develop into something else.

I have begun to transcribe some of them onto docs here, and then throw the notebook away – which is still hard having been brought up not to waste anything. Maybe I’ll use some of these scribbles – some of the descriptions I’ve found of our travels in Tasmania, literal scribbles, have sparked memories which had been stored deep in mental filing cabinets. Some are random observations of people or places, or tiny experiences of walking in woods, waiting on a railway station, being in a bar/pub/café/club, seeing potential characters, or overhear snatches of conversation. This might delay the actual chucking out of stuff, but it will be chucked into the paper recycling, and maybe I’ll have some inspiration for my flagging imagination.

This is one of the pieces I found:

I’d had a particularly trying meeting with a client which hd gone on far longer than it should have. I passed a sign which said – CAVE – coffee, tea, breakfast, lunch, high tea – and feeling in need of refreshment and reward, I circled back and turned up a rough track, avoiding potholes and dog walkers. There was a patch of land where others had parked against wild hedges and tall trees.
Taking care not to catch my foot on the uneven surface, I headed over to the café, a double fronted place with a door between two enormous picture windows. I noticed that they could be folded back so in more clement weather the window would be completely open. How nice, I thought, on a summer’s day.
In fact it was a day in summer but grey, and overcast, a sharp wind coming off the sea. The sea was hidden behind hedges of buckthorn and spindly trees, but I knew it was there, could fancy I heard it slapping the beach, and it’s tang was in the air. The windows of the café were shut, far too cold to be open, and I entered a warm coffee-scented fug. There was a barrage of noise of people chatting, the clatter of crockery and cutlery, and the impressive sounds of coffee being made.

– and there it ended! It’s not so much the potential story-line, but a scene I could use and develop in another piece. I’m going to try and do this with the other scraps I find as certainly writing a few lines on here takes up far less room than a whole notebook or writing pad.

I was partly inspired to do this by a fellow blogger – just look at this and see a really good scribbler, in a visual rather than wordy way, but the principle applies:

https://scribblah.co.uk/2024/10/30/live-at-the-boxing-club-1/

and this:

https://scribblah.co.uk/2024/10/29/short-pants-long-pants/

and who is she? This is what she says about herself:

“I am Rosie Scribblah aka Rose Davies and I’m an Artist – Scribbler, Printmaker, Painter – Ageing-Headbanger, Working-Class, Mad-Cat-Woman,  Wild , Welsh and Opinionated. I work directly from life, carrying a sketchbook at all times looking for any opportunity to have a scribble.”  https://scribblah.co.uk/about-2/