Sunday, June 8, 2008


whispering, whispering, I am searching for sleep, but there is all this whispering,
I am walking in the garden
surrounded by whispering, whispering
all this whispering,
it goes on and on till I grab my pen, pulling part of it down to page,
thus lightened the rest floats away,
but then
another line of whispering begins.

over and over
I must capture part of it, to release it, to release me
We must fully touch, before we can part

I haven't been working on writing Echo, well not directly, indirectly I most definitely have been, every sight and sound in the garden clamours to be put in, and everything leads to something else, or means something else, so my notebook and I have gotten quite chummy once more. So while I am not working on the part I feel I should be working on in the draft (the Letters), still I am sneaking up on all parts of it, surely closing in on it, though making quite a large circle around it first.

Thursday night.....I read a post by Vesper, about blooming lilacs
and off my mind went happily floating along in a dream of wearing a lilac gown, but then some swans swam by, got out of the water, and pushed their beaks through the center of the lilac bushes and as they did, the swans transformed into maidens, and the lilacs lifted up and settled down around them as lovely white ballgowns.

Then I decided to visit Minx just for a moment (because I've scarcely visited her in months), but I was so tired I could barely make out the post, there was a beautiful sad sculpture, and words about love, and loss, and the importance of love ( at least I think so). And then I went to bed. Only I didn't go to sleep, because of all the whispering, on and on the whimsical idea morphed, turning into a story, and soon revealing itself to have tones of sadness, an unexpected fairytale, a love story with a sad but loving and hopeful ever-after. Friday night when I went to bed, I bid my surroundings to be quiet and let me fall asleep and they did, but I woke up very early, and though fully intending to roll over and sleep more, the whispering started again, spinning its web on and on, I got my notebook out and started writing stuff down, and when the flow stopped, I put it down and rolled over to go to sleep, but then more would come, and I would get the notebook again. On and on this scenario went on, till finally I said, I am not getting that notebook again, I'll remember and put stuff in later, if a whisper could roll its eyes and tap its foot at me, this whispering surely did, it would have none of that, "Oh no. I know you, you'll forget. You'll do it now". So I never fell back to sleep. I have a page and a half typed from first night. And from second night/morning, counting each side of page, handwritten, I now have added 15 and half pages, (so 17) where several days ago there were none, there was no hint, no idea, no searching for an idea, and then two blog visits, and now I know this story that didn't exist Friday before 10 PM. I know how it starts, I know what happens in the middle, I know how it ends, I know characters, and meanings, and some stretches of dialogue, and scenes.
I have title-Fountain of Swans
I have age group-I know it is a young adult story ( that is a big deal for me, for usually I am unclear on the age group)
But quite honestly I am not at all sure what to do about it. I don't know why it came and plunked itself right down in the middle of my working on Echo's draft. (or more precisely my working on my garden and thinking about working on Echo's draft)

Still I like the whispering. This winter was quite silent. I didn't like the silence, the emptiness, the nothingness. I like the company of the whispering. helps me to believe, in me, in the idea of a writer me, in the idea of me as a writer. Because the whispering comes from elsewhere and requires listening, which is quite different (for me) from daydreaming (which I believe everyone can and does do), there is of course much work with writing, but that comes later, in the beginning, and tucked here and there through-out the writing, it is about listening. And I like to believe people who don't write are not tuned in to this whispering, can't hear it. That they aren't told stories, floating in, through the air of an open window, to land like a shower of cherry blossom petals before them on their desks. I like to believe this, because it helps me to believe that I hear the whispering for a reason, and that the reason is because I am meant to write them down, that I am meant to write.

Whether or not that is true, it seems to me, it must be true that they come to me for some reason, and if it isn't to share with others, well then at least they are meant to be shared with me (Or told to me, or discovered by me, from whence they came) , so I look to the meanings behind the stories, and find it interesting, Echo, Fresh Oranges, Fountain of Swans, the stories are different but the themes over-lap. What am I being told over and over? What am I telling me?


Bee said...

I often wish, when my mind is buzzing along and building up a story -- this usually happens when I am on a long walk or trying to sleep -- that I had some automatic writing tool that was recording all of the "whispering." It can be so hard to catch the words; to pin them down.

And I think you should consider your whispering mind as a sign of your writerly self! Good luck with your new story . . .

P.S. Which rose is pictured here?

Vesper said...

This is what stories do, they just come out of nowhere and demand to be written.
Abandon yourself to it, it is such a pleasure...

And if the whisper rolls its eyes and taps its foot at you then what can you do... :-)

Taffiny said...


I so wish that too. I was looking over my notes the other day, searching for some part, and the handwriting is so dreadful, that if I do not type it all up within this week, I will no longer know what it says (for now I can probably remember enough to guess at words, for anyone who didn't know what it is trying to say could possibly actually read it).

:) Thanks

Glamis Castle (David Austin). It is a white rose. But sometimes has a hint of pink, or faint peachiness, at the center.


That is what they do. I wonder why? And do they chose us, or do we chose them?
I should abandon myself to it, you make it sound decadent. :)

Indeed. The whisper is all dreamy and soft, till I try to ignore her, then...

Bee said...


I was just outside, in the damp dusk, inspecting my roses. I have two beds, just in front of the house, with roses, lavender and herbs. I HAVE a Glamis Castle rose, but it doesn't look much like yours. I planted it last summer and it got hit hard by rain and wind. It looks a bit weedy now. Any advice for healthy roses? BTW, speaking of pale pink/white roses, do you have any of The Generous Gardener? I just planted three climbers of that variety, and one of the buds opened today. So gorgeous!

I'm sure I could find an analogy between cultivating the roses and the prose!

Mediterranean Views said...

First I loved the pictures, then I loved the first part of whisering like a poem, then I understood and envied that whispering, that has been absent from my senses for so long.
Listen, write, create, enjoy!
I've been busy then away for 5 days, will get to your meme this week...It will be revealing no doubt, to us both. Love from Spain,

JaneyV said...

I love the way you write about writing Taff. I wish my inspiration came to me in such a dreamy, poetic way. Your description of the swans in the lilacs was beautiful
the swans transformed into maidens, and the lilacs lifted up and settled down around them as lovely white ballgowns.

When I saw the pictures of your roses I thought of how Bee would love them - so I smiled a lot when I opened the comments page to find hers was the first one!
I envy you both your green thumbs!

Taffiny said...


I find the rose colors vary quite a bit.

I seriously thought about getting the generous gardener, in an Austen photo of opened blooms and unopened buds, it looked so lovely, so many shades, and variations. But then in another photo from web it just looked quite pale with no multi hues mixed in. I wish I didn't have to order them but could find them at local nurseries then I would be more sure of color, and get the ones I love best. It is all just quess work now. Glad yours are turning out gorgeous. :)

My glamis has taken a bad turn, a very bad turn, I've pruned it down a bit (it rained here for a long time, and then the following week or two was incredibly hot), and sprayed with fungacide, and insect stuff, and will see how it goes. I wish I did have a green thumb, and some rosely wisdom, but I do not have either. What I have is an affection for flowers, and a spirit and body willing to make the attempt at growing them, my mind however often gets daunted and confused when reading up on proper care. Is this plant under-watered, or over-watered? Did I add too much dehydrated cow manure et.cetera when I planted it, or is it suffering from not enough nutrients? Is the trouble the sodium in our water? Is it a fungus? Is it bugs? I see spots on glamis so I think some sort of fungus, but clearly also some of my plants are being eaten by bugs...ugh..I just don't know...I'll try this, then I will try that...but it is all a bit disheartening, as I can hear the clock ticking (loudly) down to the time when the Japanese Beetles arrive, and will ravish everything. (though the plants wont be carried off, just consumed). Honestly I am a bit frustrated at present, as despite my attempts at being informed, I feel clueless. (the information turns all vertigo and swirling in my mind, and I can't pinpoint the problem or the solution)

So there you are, the long way round of saying, I am of no help.

I am waist high in garedening metaphors, which clearly is how I like it best.

Med. Views,


That is the thing about whispering, it comes and goes. It can bombard you, or leave for months at a time. You probably are much better than I am, at working (writing) when not being whispered to. I know I am too dependent on it, not liking, to write just from me, but I will never finish anything, never be a writer, if I don't learn to make myself write, even if the starting center, is silence.

I look forward to reading the meme, whenever you get the chance.


Thank you.
Hmm...I am becoming concerned that I might be better at writing about wanting to write, than I am at actually writing what it is I hope to be writing.

:) I am afraid I do not have a green thumb. But a garden is a vast field of trial and error, and hopefully I am learning along the way. I am grateful for each blossom, and amazed when things (don't die, and) come back.