When you’ve a roomful of babies, perhaps the only predictable thing is an element of unpredictability. Last week at Mothership we stopped in the middle of a poetry reading to watch one tot climb aboard another and then proceed to ride down the centre of the room: the poem never stood a chance amidst the laughter. But we’ve become deft at switching our attention, at refocusing (Mothership Writers: Never Not Juggling), and for all the unexpected happenings, our workshops do follow a set structure. While the first half of the sessions are focused on an element of the craft of writing, in the second half we specifically explore motherhood. And we always start off our motherhood writing with an exercise that we’ve come to call the Freewriting Jukebox.
Some years ago I had a short story published in a collection called Too Much Too Young; the anthology was the work of the ‘literary club night’ Book Slam, a place where literature and music have always shared a stage. The brief was to write a story inspired by a song title; a challenge that was inspiring, fun and succeeded in bringing clarification to the creative process; by focusing my thoughts on one track, I found that my ideas possessed an instant solidity and confidence. I loved writing that story – titled Me and Bobby McGee, it went on to be broadcast on Jarvis Cocker’s BBC 6 Music show: a career highlight, for sure. The experience of writing to music (the title at least, if not the tune) has stayed with me – and as a result the Mothership Writers Freewriting Jukebox was born.
Illustration by Esther Curtis
In our fourth workshop, all the way back in May, I asked the groups to offer up some song titles, and then we each selected one to use as a starting point for a piece of freewriting on the subject of motherhood. The topic of that workshop was ‘ideas and where they come from’, and song titles proved to be a rich seam of inspiration. In the fifth session I ran the exercise again, this time bringing some titles to the table: Born Slippy (Underworld), Teardrop (Massive Attack) and Total Eclipse of the Heart (Bonnie Tyler). Again, the groups could write about any aspect of motherhood – whether personal or fictionalised – and I was amazed at the directions that people went in. By the seventh session the name Freewriting Jukebox was coined, and the exercise had become a permanent fixture. Convinced of the agility and fluidity of the groups’ thought processes, the Jukebox has become yet more random. Instead of picking particularly emotive titles, I let the gods of radio show us the way. When planning workshops I zip online and tune into BBC 6 Music, then Radio 1, then Radio 2, I go to ‘now playing’ and, without hesitation or rumination, I note the track; in any given week we might be writing to tunes from The Corrs to The Kinks, from DJ Shadow to Skepta to Super Furry Animals. Whether people know the song or not doesn’t matter, all we need is the title; and it doesn’t seem to matter what the title is either. As you can see from the work below, people end up in some extraordinary places. And the babies? Oh they’re always along for the ride, of course. Figuratively, and – like the aforementioned comedy duo – sometimes literally.
Thanks to all the writers for letting me feature their writing here. All of the below pieces were written in the sessions and are unedited. And what’s our soundtrack for every exercise always? Babies, of course.
The Way (Rosie Lowe)
This is The Way to hold him,
That way is wrong.
This is The Way to latch him,
That way is wrong.
This is The Way to change a nappy,
Haven't you done it before?
This is The Way to dress him,
You'll be better when you've done it more.
This is The Way to make him sleep,
This is The Way to play,
These are the hours you should aim to keep,
You really should do it This Way.
The books write, the bloggers type, the experts
They all say.
But my boy and me,
On our little path,
We're forging our own way.
Lisa Griffiths
Extraordinary Being (Emelie Sandé).
How did you, my little one, come to be?
Those eyes that mirror mine
That smile that mimics mine
Those solid legs and chunky thighs
Your sturdy and self-contained self
You were in me and now we are apart
Did I make you or did you make yourself?
You are an extraordinary being
So familiar and so fresh
I have never loved like this
Studied every aspect, every angle
Watched every moment
Reflected on every motion
Exhausted myself in discovering you
I will never learn everything about you
But I will always be willing
Maria Hodson
Tired of Waiting for You (The Kinks)
So tired, tired of waiting for you... to go to sleep.
You are tired my baby boy, you keep telling me so with your cry, every moment longer that it goes on it feels like an eternity, I doubt myself. I wonder if I am offering you the correct thing you need, do you need more milk instead? A nappy change? Medicine? Play time?
Surely not the last, you were rubbing your eyes and doing your classic start/stop cry that it's taken me months to decipher.
You are a cryptic crossword my friend, my rebel fighter, my son, my constant companion.
I drift off in my mind whilst shhh-ing and swaying you. Side-to-side, side-to-side, I need to eat, pee, drink water, sleep all at once. If you give me half an hour, maybe I can do some of those things.
Someone starts banging around in the street below, I sneer at the window.
I must relax, where is my special place again? A beach, my walled garden, I must find a somewhere for my mind to go, a meditation.
I look down at the cute, little cherub in my arms, sleeping soundly, growing heavy in my arms.
Rachel Dickens
Outnumbered - aka "Too Many, Man" (Dermot Kennedy)
Attached to me
Baby passed to dad
Another clambers on
both kids in bed
and then YOU need a hug
When's my body just for me?
Skin itches and crawls as each of you touch me.
"ask me before you climb on my lap!"
I snap
"Can you give me some space to lie by myself first?"
I spurt
but
Somehow I must ooze this cuddle-ness. as however much i push away, you keep coming.
you all need
touch.
I can hear the grime anthem ringing
Too many man too many many man
we need some more mums in here
we need some more mums in here
I need
touch
Last night when I was crying on the bathroom floor, you hugged me from behind. I needed that.
A few weeks ago, when I was crying on the stairs, our little boy hugged me without asking why I was crying. I needed that.
I see it now.
Touch is given, not taken.
Abi Lancaster
Teardrop (Massive Attack)
It’s a happy tear. That moment, when you realise that your life has changed forever. This little person is not going away. They are completely your responsibility and you will now respond to their every need. It is also, perhaps, a slight grieving tear, for the life you have so dramatically left behind. That for which you worked so hard. Just one tear, as you share that moment with your child; a moment of complete peace, where you are tangled up together, never to be alone again. And then, it is over. Only room for one teardrop. Now the nappy needs changing.
Liz Smith
Simmer (Mahalia – featuring Burna Boy)
(To B)
You are a little pot of love simmering away.
Your emotions are the twisted pasta strands bubbling and jumping and tangling in the pan.
It's hard for you being three, and sometimes the pan boils over. Do I turn you down?
No.
I don't want to deaden your precious emotions. I don't want to put a lid on you.
I want you to simmer and boil and spurt hot fiery water all over the stove that is my heart, scarring me forever with your three year old love.
It's painful but I wouldn't change it for the world.
Like the tattoos you draw on your delicate forearms with your pink and purple sparkly marker pens - your emotions, thoughts and outburst mark me and make me who I am.
So simmer away and don't be afraid to boil over.
Jan Bishop
And now for some bonus tracks…
Major Lazer’s Lean On: one of our writers wrote of the pressure she feels with everyone leaning on her: her son, her partner, her family. How everyone expects her to be the font of all knowledge when it comes to her baby but she doesn’t feel like she is. She wants someone to lean on, but who’s there for her?
Starship’s We Built This City: one writer’s thoughts turned straight away to her older son’s Lego obsession, and the brick building they do together.
Phil Collins’ Against All Odds: one of our writers wrote of her mother, a brave woman who’d suffered six miscarriages, before eventually conceiving while living in Iran – and while using birth control. Then her baby (our writer) was born, weighing just two pounds…
Sheryl Crow’s Prove You Wrong: one writer wrote of how an appointment with a foot doctor proved to be an unexpected place of reflection and resolution. ‘Whose voice tells you you’re not being a good enough mother?’ the podiatrist asked, while scraping dead skin. Our writer thinks on this, and while not quite coming to answer, is determined to prove that voice wrong. She feels a weight lifting.
The Isley Brothers’ Summer Breeze: one writer wrote of how motherhood can make her sweat and wilt, but then her baby’s smile comes along like a summer breeze, refreshing and restoring.
Thanks to Kimberly, Liz and Maria for the above contributions – and to all the Mothership Writers for your continued enthusiasm, dedication, honesty and warmth. Let’s always keep that jukebox playing!
