Commentary

Blowing in the wind

September 4, 2025   ·   0 Comments

By Constance Scrafield

There is a sort-of writing club that invites submissions as a competition to win some small sum or to have one’s effort published in their online magazine. The way it works is: a prompt is given, and we are encouraged to write about it within a specified word count – in this case, up to a maximum of 500 words. This week the prompt is to talk about the “story that follows you.”

There are no holds barred as to style or genre of writing – send them your thoughts in a poem, a collection of haikus, straight prose – whatever comes to you – stand on your head to write it if you like.

The points of the prompt are to promote the exercise of writing and to fill their space with interesting thoughts for others to read and presumably pay a subscription. Actually, there are plenty of these “clubs,” plenty of opportunities to stretch one’s mind and put pencil to paper.

I really like to see that idea promoted: putting pencil to paper. Not forgotten that old craft of using materials to create. Painting, yes, is about colours and shapes and how to put them in a frame. Entirely hands-on – feet, in some cases, a brush held by teeth, but in any case, as a non-virtual exercise.

All the visual arts demand hands (etc.) on execution, the use of tools, backs turned to our computers. In this, writers might forget to do as much, and it makes a difference to the process. The connection between pencil and paper can be cathartic, can bring out ideas and feelings that are spontaneous and surprising. Like doodling. Pencil on paper, mind adrift, even distracted, and something in us can lead us along a path we were not expecting.

For me, poetry is like sculpture; how it lays on the page seems to define the content, influences how one would read it out loud, and understand the music hidden within it. How flexible poetry is, how forgiving. It does not insist on rhyme, yet somehow the flow that arises from the writing of a poem grips our natural inclination for rhythm.

Writing poetry reminds us of our connection to ourselves; it can refresh our natural link to nature, to feeling what others feel, to experience a special moment coming out of the blue, and for no specific reason, very satisfied.

It is not about “talent;” it is about following your inner you.

During the many interviews I do with artists, with people who support them, and people who love the tremendous presence of art in this town, in the surrounding area, they talk about how fortunate we are to be in the middle of all this art that stretches to include all of it.

Quietly but right on Broadway is Readers’ Choice used books store, a land of discovery – so many books, yet meticulously recorded so that if you want a specific volume, if they have it, you will know it in a moment.

This is a long-standing and wonderful monument to books. The floors creak a little as one begins the journey of recognizing old friends and discovering books and authors long forgotten or not yet known. There are first editions with leather covers; there are serious dictionaries and travel stories, and the excitement of pages, of writing – chances to learn.

An excellent round of children’s books, board games, and small toys are part of the stock – a rack of T-shirts and other treasures to find.

A person could be a long time in the Readers’ Choice shop, and there are a couple of chairs, but be sure you purchase something to take with you. This shop is a real treasure, a profound tribute to the land of books and truly a compliment to the literacy of this town. Another reason to appreciate being and living in Orangeville.

If you have the notion to pick up that pencil, if you find yourself stalling and looking longingly at the blank page, hoping it will speak to you – that is normal. What helps, though, is to read. Read books of any ilk, stretch your own horizons of what you think you like.

A young woman of my acquaintance in her 20s told me straight-faced that she never tried anything new to eat. I was appalled.

“What day in your life did you come to such a conclusion?” I asked her, but she did not have an answer, only an idea that she had covered all that interested her.

So with reading. We get it stuck in our minds that we only like a certain kind of art, of books, or a style of painting, sculpture, music.

Yet, every once in a while, we should break free; we should scribble with our favourite pencil; we should wake up to a new day and see things differently- what colours are those flowers? What choice do I have for my breakfast? With whom will I laugh today? How can I be of help?

Anyone who is 90, 100 years old will still attest that life is short, is fleeting. While there is still time, be sure to “taste” something new whenever you can.

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