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We are gathered in the Point Reyes studio of artist Susan Hall. “Clay is sensual, like skin,” she tells the group of writers and artists there. We’ve been writing all morning and now each of us stands before her own block of brown modeling clay, eight-inches square, preparing for a hands-on exercise. Susan espouses the virtues of clay: It is plastic. You can make mistakes and get rid of them.
Above all, she promises “working with clay gets you out of your head.”
She suggests we close our eyes and let our hands explore the clay. She gives us permission to do anything we like with it. As my fingers are about to push into the cold, sticky, slick, pliable block, I hear her say “and when we’re through, Laura will give us a writing prompt.” So much for getting out of my head.
My freewrite following the “clay play” relates to touch, but also to the thoughts that ran through my head.
I could not stop thinking.
Probing, squeezing, poking.
This clay is harder than I imagined.
I have no imagination.
I peek around the room. They’re all making such creative shapes.
Judging, comparing, criticizing.
I have to come up with a prompt. My mind is working. “Stop mind!” I want to command. But I am in charge of the next exercise. I am responsible. So in charge, so responsible, so not letting go.
My hands don’t know what to do.
They can hold a pen, tap on a keyboard, wash a dish. They like washing dishes. Warm water. A task completed, the sink is empty. A satisfying accomplishment.
But pushing clay around? I don’t know. So far I’ve made a ball and a turd. Not on purpose. I must be stuck in some therapeutic time warp. Let me work out what happened before I was 2.
If there were no others at this workshop, perhaps I would have thrown the clay hard against the table. The woman across from me did that with a satisfying thunk. Why didn’t I think of that?
I am a copycat. I could not let go because I felt “about to be in charge.”
I’m up next. That’s my M.O. Vigilant, ready for action.
“Take a deep breath and pause,” Allison has said in our cranial-sacral sessions. “Now fully exhale and pause. Ten minutes a day.”
Ah, I see, even as I write. I realize I am holding my breath. I never stop, never let down, never let go. Deep exhale. That feels so good.
The experience was visceral, and that’s exactly where one writer went with her freewrite. She begins with four adjectives that describe the clay, but then her musings go inward, from emotions to inner organs.
Cold, soft, pliable, heavy. My body, my organs, my ear, my inner cavities, my flesh, my fat, my roundness, my womanness, my fears, my desires, the inner recesses of nowhere. It feels smooth, cool. I want to lie down, take cover, and hide. Look out through the crevasse, lay back see the sky. Inward, outward, moseying along, taking refuge. Don’t want to look. I peek. My heart rises with liking. Don’t want to be interrupted. Close eyes. Keep going, ripples folding over like the folds of my ear. The lips don’t talk. What would it be like to put your hand inside your body and feel your liver, kidneys, ovaries, gall bladder, intestines. Sausage. Sausage. Polish sausage. Pat, pat, pat, coil around, lie down in your stomach. What was lunch? Poop de doop. Carrot soup. The clay was beautiful for a moment hanging in my hand then collapsing under its own weight. I wish I could suspend when I let go, see everywhere, under, over, no bottom, no top, all around. Walk away. Let it go.
Like me, she opened her eyes during the time we worked with the clay, though she comments on her own work (heart rising with liking), rather than comparing it to others. And like me, she wrote about letting go.
Sometimes a similar thread may run through people’s freewrites, a shared worldview that makes us feel connected. I wanted to edit “turd” out of my freewrite. It’s so inelegant, not my voice. A friend said, “Leave it in; it’s funny.” Then when I saw that another writer (equally elegant) had written about poop, I felt camaraderie.
On the other hand, sometimes each person’s freewrite is so different, one from the other, that our individual quirks of mind become our shared humanity.
You may be torn between thinking “I’m so weird, what will people think if I say this?” and “My life is so boring, I have nothing to say.” Don’t be afraid to go to the places that strike you as weird. It’s usually honest and great material, perhaps deep, funny or sad. You may make some amazing discoveries about yourself and the act of writing will often help you detach from a situation and see it with new eyes. Remember, you don’t have to show your writing to anyone. It’s up to you.
As for the idea that your life is boring, the ordinary can become extraordinary through the filter of your pen.
Prompt: If you don't have clay, use Play-Doh or dough made from flour and water.
Close your eyes and feel into it. What tactile sensations come up? What words would you use? Then do a freewrite, The Feel of the Clay.
Copyright © 2020 by Laura Deutsch.
