The Artist’s Way

Dating – Part Two 

farleyrose59 8 Comments

My last blog, Dating – Part One, was all about what to do when you come to the end of a big absorbing project and are not sure how to fill the new void. That’s where I found myself after finishing How I Learned to Stop Saluting Magpies, – in need of a break from writing, and a long think about what to write next. Even whether to write. 

This break has resulted in a surprisingly satisfying uncreative autumn and early winter. Except I suppose it hasn’t been uncreative really because that human drive to create is always there in all of us, even when it’s not actually producing anything that anyone else is aware of. And during these quiet months I’ve had Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way by my side. This 12-week programme claims to have helped millions to discover and recover their creative self, whether that’s writing, painting, photography, needlework, music, baking, gardening or any of the many other ways that humans express themselves and explore ideas. I came across it because many of my writing friends have, at some point, tried it. 

I didn’t follow all the suggestions but overall it’s been well worth doing, and I did practise the two main pillars of the programme. One is morning pages – free flow writing about whatever comes into your head. I don’t always have the time to do this but can see the benefit, as unexpected ideas and thoughts pop up, as if from nowhere. The other tool, artists’ dates, has gradually revealed its value. This is when you set aside a minimum of two hours, once a week, for doing something that feeds you. Julia Cameron describes it as an excursion or a play date that you preplan and the key thing is that you must do it on your own. ‘Resist all interlopers,’ she says. ‘And don’t worry if any of the dates seem silly. Creativity is a paradox. Serious art is born from serious play.’

In Dating – Part One I wrote about my first artist date, which was a delight. A slow, solo lunch in a French restaurant, that changed my attitude towards mussels. And now I’ve reached the end of the programme and so that means I have had twelve dates with myself. They’ve included a couple of amateur theatre outings, an exhibition about the background women in Jane Austen’s novels, a guided walk around Southampton, an art study day, a book launch in a Winchester bookshop, and some lunchtime folk music at the local university concert hall. That last one took me outside my comfort zone as I’ve never been into folk but I’m so glad I went, as I really enjoyed it. The only real disaster was a treasure hunt using an app on my phone. Boo to that one. Having paid my fee and got myself to the start of the trail, I couldn’t find the first clue and it refused to let me progress to the next one unless I took some selfies of myself ‘enjoying’ the wonderful app. Boo again to that one.

The ones I particularly enjoyed, were both in London. Neither was the main reason for being in the capital but they were each stimulating and added extra pleasure to a couple of days out.  One was a stroll around Marylebone with a London Walks book. It did an excellent job of guiding me towards charming Georgian squares and pointing out things of historic interest. The other took place on the South Bank. I headed for the BFI (British Film Institute) building and at the entrance I was greeted by a woman in a smart jacket, black trousers and a white shirt, carrying a short-wave radio and wearing an earpiece. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Are you here for the summit?’  I wasn’t but it was a reminder that this building is at the heart of the British film world. She directed me down a side road to the BFI cafe where I sipped my oat cappuccino and relished being in a place where everyone looked animated and interesting. But it was the Mediatheque I was there for and it didn’t disappoint. Anyone can just walk in and take a seat at one of the booths which each have comfortable seating, a screen and headphones. There you have a choice of 180,000 items in the BFI Archive and it’s all free. Where to start? I dabbled with the finale of the influential 1950’s science fiction saga, Quartermass and the Pit; a boundary-pushing episode of Armchair Theatre that explored racism in a white working-class family, and a docu-drama about Cromwell’s determination to kill King Charles I. It was wonderful but rather overwhelming so in the end I decided to search for the item that was closest to my birthdate in 1959. 

It turned out to be a documentary that was aired the day after I was born. Reporter, Michael Ingram joined a team of dustmen on their round in Westminster Public Cleansing and Transport Department. There were no wheelie bins then, just the round, dented metal dustbins I remember from childhood. No compressor on the lorry, and no safety gloves for the workers. They were all white, with bad teeth and they spoke deferentially to the posh presenter in his smart overcoat. ‘Yes sir.’ ‘No sir.’

I finished off with a documentary that was shown at the end of 1959. It was an overview of that decade when I was born and which I’m fascinated by – perhaps because I’d been on earth for less than a year when it ended and so I don’t have any of memories of it. Made by Granada TV, it was hosted by Ian Carmichael with shiny Brylcreemed hair and a perfectly knotted tie, and interspersed with upbeat jazzy music. He delivered the good news that for the first time in many years there was nowhere on earth where British soldiers were fighting, and then noted the rise of various personalities through the fifties – Kenneth More, Pat Smythe, Tommy Steele, Stanley Matthews and Princess Grace of Monaco. He called Khrushchev, ‘a dictator with the face of a children’s party balloon.’ ‘We became more real about ourselves during this decade.’ breezed Carmichael, contrasting clips from two films. Spring in Park Lane at the start of the decade – all careful manners and romantic lighting – with rough-edged, sexy Room at the Top in 1959. It was The Dull Decade according to Nancy Mitford, while the Archbishop of Canterbury called it The Selfish Age. It was a fascinating insight into the history of the time but as I had a lunch date with my cousin, I tore myself away. 

The value of these solo expeditions is that they helped to clarify what I’m really interested in. It’s not writing fiction that makes me happy – at least not at the moment – but instead it’s a mix of social history, lots of walking, exploring new areas, and discovering unexpected curiosities and treasures. And where better to do that than London where I lived and studied for years, and which has a claim on my heart. I know I’m happiest when I have a project to get my teeth into. But I also want some balance in my life. So I have a plan. Thirty day trips on my own over the next couple of years. There is a unifying theme, and purpose to it all but I won’t know if that will work until I try it. I expect it will need to be tweaked and it might not turn out how I expect. In fact it almost certainly won’t. But that will be a story in itself. I start tomorrow. Nothing like a New Year for a new project. And I can’t wait. 

Wishing you many good things in 2026 and as always, thank you so much for reading this. 

Dating – Part One

farleyrose59 5 Comments

It’s a couple of months since I finished How I Learned to Stop Saluting Magpies and I’ve taken a break over the summer to mull over a new writing project and recharge my batteries. But it’s September now and I’m keen to get started.

As this next idea is different from what I’ve done before,  I’ve found myself searching around for ways to approach it, and one strategy has been to turn at last to a book that’s been sitting on my desk for several years. The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron was written in 1992 and comes highly recommended. Millions of people have done this 12-week programme that claims to help you discover and recover your creative self, whether that’s writing, painting, music, acting, photography, needlework, gardening or any of the multitude of other ways that humans express themselves and explore ideas.  

I read the introductory chapters of the book and although I couldn’t connect with everything the author was saying, I decided to try using the two key tools that she advocates and to see what happened. The first one – writing morning pages – requires you to fill three A4 pages at the start of each day. Just free flow writing about whatever comes into your head. I’ve now been doing that for two weeks and it’s been remarkably helpful and productive because once I’ve had a moan about who has annoyed me, and which bit of me is aching today, I’ve usually only filled half a page. It’s then that I start unpacking ideas, often surprising and random, and I can only be grateful and wonder where on earth they’ve come from.   

The other tool is to have an Artist Date once a week. This is when you set aside some time, perhaps two hours, for doing something that nurtures you. Julia Cameron describes it as an excursion or a play date that you preplan and the crucial thing is that you must do it on your own. ‘Resist all interlopers’ she instructs firmly.

Week One – and as I needed to be in Winchester for a meeting on Friday morning, I decided that my inaugural Artist Date would be to take myself out for lunch and to order something that I wouldn’t normally eat. 

I chose a French restaurant in the centre of town and when I entered, the waiter smiled expectantly. ‘What time is your reservation?’ he asked. I didn’t have one, and he looked dubious. Then he said, ‘I think we can squeeze you in,’ and took me to a small table by the window. It was perfect for dining alone and I settled down to read the menu. I’ve always been suspicious of mussels and so I challenged myself and ordered moules marinière. Frites might be the traditional accompaniment but as I don’t eat potatoes, I ordered bread and a green salad. A succession of servers arrived, each with a different job and a big smile, bringing sparkling water, a finger bowl, and a large empty dish for depositing the shells. Then eventually one of them placed a large plate of steaming mussels in front of me, adorned with finely chopped parsley and smelling of the sea. I took a slow breath in to savour the moment and as I took my first taste, I gave a spontaneous groan of pleasure and was grateful that the adjacent table was still empty. The salad came with small chunks of luscious avocado and a sharp, lemony vinaigrette and the bread was so good that it could have been baked in France that morning. It was the perfect dish for a solo lunch as each mussel has to be attended to individually and so you have no option but to eat slowly.  

I listened to the happy buzz of smartly-dressed Winchester ladies, out for lunch in twos and threes, and when all the shells had been transferred to the debris dish and I’d had enough bread, there was still plenty of the delicious creamy, briny juice. So I asked for a soup spoon. I finished up with a café gourmand – an excellent coffee with three mini-desserts. The only downside was lingering a little too long and having to run to the bus stop. Not comfortable after a good lunch.

I went home feeling thoroughly contented though still not quite sure why these dates might be good for me. But when I woke up the next morning I had a moment of clarity. I realised that during that lunch I’d felt fully alive – in a very different way from if I’d been chatting with someone because I’d paid attention to everything. The tastes, the smells, the service, the surroundings. Which is not only life-enhancing but helps to set off thoughts that feed creativity. I deemed it a success and started wondering what I might do in Week 2.

As it happened, I had to go to London on Friday and decided that when I’d finished, I would take advantage of the late opening at the National Portrait Gallery. I imagined myself wandering around contemplative and serene, as I got acquainted with some of the 11,000 Britons on the walls. 

Unfortunately I cut things a bit fine – when I got to my local station, the train was already in, and as I dashed onto the platform, the doors slid shut. I stood helplessly while it waited the standard humiliating thirty seconds and then glided off without me. This was going to mess up my commitments for the first part of the day, so I gave up on those and went back home to reconsider my Artist Date. 

‘I know,’ I thought. ‘I’ll take the Number 1 bus from the top of my road and that will drop me near Shawford.’ The village railway station has a cafe that’s been rescued and restored by a local heritage project and I’m curious to see it. I set off for the bus stop, imagining myself relaxing in charming surroundings with coffee, delicious cake and a book. Not quite as exciting as wandering around a London gallery after dark but after all, Artist Dates don’t need to be fancy. In fact I guess it’s important that they are not all fancy, otherwise they’d be both demanding and expensive. 

After my earlier public transport mishap I left plenty of time for the walk to the bus stop. But as I neared the top of the hill and the main road, I spotted a Number 1 bus whizzing past. It was followed shortly by another one. That didn’t bode at all well. They clearly weren’t running according to the timetable but I was determined to stay optimistic so I carried on to the bus stop and stood there patiently. Fifteen minutes passed and then I managed to get onto the website which informed me that the next Number 1 bus would be along in twenty-three minutes. By then I’d had enough of waiting so I had a rapid rethink and came up with Plan C. I’d downgrade yet again and walk to Costa Coffee on the nearby university campus. It should be quiet as the students were still on vacation. I set off briskly along The Avenue and three minutes after leaving the bus stop, a Number 1 rumbled past. It was followed two minutes later by another one. Maybe I was imagining it but as I walked along the road looking miserable and getting wet – because by now it was raining – the passengers on the lower deck looked particularly happy and pleased with themselves. 

A hundred yards past the next bus stop I spotted a blue double-decker in the distance, travelling in my direction. Another rapid change of plan. It was not too late to revert to Plan B so I started running as fast as I could back to the bus stop. As I got there, panting, the bus approached and I saw that it said Not in Service. That’s an awful lot of public transport misfortune for one day but I promise, dear reader, that I would not lie to you.  

In the end, I did walk to the campus Costa and spent a pleasant hour reading a novel that transported me to the 1930s and the mountains of Kentucky. All whilst nursing a latte and a slice of lemon drizzle cake. It wasn’t quite the date I’d planned but I wouldn’t normally have set aside that amount of time during the day just for myself, so it was worthwhile. We all know that dating is a risky and uncertain business and it seems that’s true even when you’re dating yourself. I’ve got another ten weeks of Artist Dates to go – I’ll let you know how I get on.