10 min Writing Workshop Exercise

We’ve recently started an IRL writing workshop fortnightly meetup in Worthing. We’re using a community cafe space and spending two hours together doing some fast scribbles, sharing our recent work, helping each other to expand our aspirations and hone our craft.

Couple of weeks ago, we brought in some objects and each of us took one as a prompt. Here’s my object - and what I did with it in ten mins. I’m putting it here raw and unedited, because I believe in being honest and vulnerable around the process. (Dear God, it makes me feel pompous when I say that phrase; no amount of hanging out with artists, theatre people or live art friends will ever make me feel less of a dick when I say ‘the process’).

Also - no psychoanalytic interpretations needed, ta. I seem doomed to drag towards whimsy, and the Rabelaisian in me just won’t sit down and behave.

Declan considered the seven brushes carefully. They looked a bit long, but Freya had promised him that they’d work just fine. She’d brought them back from her overland trip, and she’d done the treatment several times. Of course, it could be weird the first time you did it - but afterwards, you felt so good!

Declan wished he hadn’t made the decision to do this privately at home, alone: the privacy issue felt less important now. I mean, Freya had done it, and she wasn’t embarrassed. And then - she’d bought them for him, as a gift, so she obviously thought this was an absolutely normal thing to be doing.

To be honest, Declan was a bit scared. Freya had said something about choosing the right size very carefully, about it being important, and Declan was regretting not having paid more attention to her explanation of how to choose the right one.

He wondered if there was a YouTube video about how to do it. Picked up his phone. Yeah, maybe this was just procrastination, but he wanted to get it right, didn’t want to hurt himself. He scrolled, typed, searched - nothing.

Declan put his phone down and took a deep breath. He’d just have to use his common-sense. But that wasn’t something he was particularly blessed with - and he knew that about himself.

He lined them up, in order of thickness.

Definitely not the largest one. He discounted that one immediately. The smallest? Would it be one of those things where you should start small, and work up to it?

He wondered if he should message Freya. Call her, do it online - get a talk-though from her?

He frowned at himself, losing patience. This was daft. He’d better just get on with it. Then he could feel the results and phone Freya. She’d be happy to know that he’d done it. It was two weeks since she’d bought the thing back and gifted it to him, with what (he now realised) was a too-brief explanation of the process - mostly enthusiasm for the after-feelings.

Slowly, Declan picked up the middle brush, and inserted it, as deep as it would go …